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| Memorial Bridge. JayDuck Photo |
It would be neat to have been on hand Wednesday night when they lowered the center span of the Memorial Bridge between Kittery and Portsmouth onto a barge and floated it off. That old bridge has seen a lot of comings and goings during the last 90 years. It was the bridge of choice for many of us until they opened the Piscataqua River Bridge in 1972; the Interstate Bridge (since renamed for the bridge authority's Sarah Mildred Long) cost a dime to cross.
Six lanes wide, 4,500 feet long and 135 feet off the water, the new bridge solved the problem of getting traffic on I-95 traffic around Portsmouth without impeding mariners. Indeed, it's high enough that the crew that originally painted it should have allowed for the effects of wind at altitude. But they did not, much to the amusement of locals who were not parked to leeward. Imagine the outrage that would have provoked in today's green times.
In another demonstration of the effects of wind at altitude, a friend once abandoned his vehicle at top dead center on the bridge when he broke down during a gale. In truth, it was not so much the nor'wester that was at fault as his ride, a once-comely Oldsmobile the rear half of which someone looking to get his own page on a redneck calendar had replaced with a plywood box eight feet long and every bit as high.
I has a close call under the gaze of the Memorial Bridge on a winter night in the mid-1980s. I had the old eastern rig dragger Princess and we tied up in Newington. This was far enough upriver that we would time our return to port to catch the incoming tide. Fair tide, we could get from the mouth of the river to the dock (about even with the last entrance to the Fox Run Mall) in about 30 minutes. If we were bucking the tide it was nearly an hour's steam.
On the night I'm thinking of the tide was with us and the moon was full as we made our way upriver by the shipyard. If I could find the river's sweet spot the Princess would be making 14 knots in the narrows just above the high span; we could not otherwise coax nine out of the old girl. It's great fun to watch the speed over ground ticking up on the Loran when the tide is sweeping you along — until you have a sudden need to stop.
Abeam the shipyard I radioed the crew on the Memorial Bridge to lift 65 feet, as I always did; they told me to stand by. This was normal; in an airplane it would be like being cleared for the approach as opposed to being cleared to land. They needed a few minutes to lower the gates and stop traffic.
I knew that in short order the gates would come down and I'd see the flashing red lights and hear the siren wail. They'd radio us, "Come along sir," and the center span would labor its way upward.
So I steamed along for a minute or two before the headlights that continued to dance across the bridge got my attention. I'd always figured there was a point of no return at which a 180-degree turn downriver, should the bridge jam or otherwise fail to lift, would no longer be an option. I was pretty sure I'd passed it. I grabbed the mic: "Memorial Bridge, Princess."
"Go ahead."
"We're fair tide here; we need a lift right away."
"Well, I've got a man... I've got a man indisposed here."
Going into reverse would be an empty gesture. Worse, we'd get sideways to the current and lose all control. If we tried to turn under full power and claw our way into the tide, we'd most likely be side-to the bridge when we got swept into it. This was the least desirable outcome. The tide would push the hull under the bridge but the mast would prevent it from going through. The Princess would lever itself onto its side and me and my crew would be swimming.
But not for long, not in this river.
I was about to go below to get the guys on deck when I thought I saw a man climbing down from the bridge operators' cab, and then I saw flashing lights and heard the siren. In a few moments the center span began to lift. The Princess swept ahead, the engine at idle. As we slid toward the maw of the bridge I wasn't sure we would clear. What kind of a mess would it be if the top of the mast hung up?
It did not, but the antenna scraped across the underside of the bridge like the sword of Zorro.
I hoped the guy had enjoyed his bowel movement. I'd almost had one of my own.
For me, the Interstate Bridge has been much more the source of local legend. One night a lobsterman from Ogunquit pulled up to the tollbooth, which was on the Portsmouth side, with a half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey between his legs and no money in his pockets. He offered the sentry his watch in lieu of a dime. Or so he told me, at which time he was also drunk. As he spoke, he took his watch from his wrist and extended it in my direction, nodding gravely. But the sentry declined the timepiece, so my friend sped away in his red Chevy truck. "Jerry," he said, "that goddamn toll-taker reached up over his head and threw a switch and every goddamn traffic light in Portsmouth turned red. They had me."
A horseplayer friend use to take the bridge daily on his way a construction job in Massachusetts. We'll call him John. One day John didn't have any change and handed the sentry a $100 bill. The sentry handed it back and waved him through. The next day John pulled up to the tollbooth and whipped out the C-note, and once again the sentry waved him through. Inspiration took root. On the third day, John never came to a stop.
On day four the sentry held up his hand cop-style when he saw John coming. He snatched the hundred dollar bill and reached down in the tollbooth and with two hands hoisted a heavy cloth sack. It was full of pennies and it was all he could to to pass it over to John. "Set 'er on the seat," he told him, "You got another one comin'." Before hoisting the second bag he unlaced the top and counted out 10 cents.
"You're all set," he said. "Have a nice day."
Raising the wooden walkway was a bit of a job for nine and 10-year-olds, but we came running. The span was heavy enough — it must have strained old Harold a little bit — and the crank lost its mechanical advantage as cable built up on the winch. Fortunately, the cove wasn’t very deep, so most sailboats shallow enough to get in could be accommodated by raising a single span. Occasionally one arrived with a tall mast and spreaders and both sides of the bridge would have to be raised.
Raising the bridge wasn't dangerous, but it was not without risk. You dogged the winch to hold the bridge up; when lowering the bridge you used a hand brake to prevent its crashing down and if you didn’t take the crank out, it could whiz through your arm or anything else you put in its arc. Fortunately, our freedom to hang around the cove was predicated on our parents’ expectations that we were of a sort bright enough (albeit just barely) not to stick their feet in a lawn mower, and we lowered the bridge cautiously (for the most part) and stayed out of the way of the crank.
When the tide was high, teenage guys who worked at Barnacle Billy's would dive from the bridge on their breaks to cool off.
By the time we cove rats were teenagers, the town had removed the hand winch and replaced it with an electric motor. Soon enough, we outgrew the thrill of pushing the up button and left it to tourists, who to this day never seem to tire of it.
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