THE WOOL SWIM SUITS

I don’t like to swim in a pool, here at Smith Mountain Lake, or any beach no matter how wonderful it may be. It all goes back to my earliest childhood memories when I was totally brutalized by my parents. If that brutality were committed today to a child, the parents would have to serve a very long time in prison and deservedly so. The crime was The Wool Bathing Suit. There is no way to describe the pain of swimming in a wool suit in the surf or any place else. The wool suit was a major cause of death along with whooping cough, measles, and streptococcus of any thing, pneumonia, scarlet fever, infantile paralysis, TB, and all the other diseases of the day. Sunscreen had not been invented; we had Unguentine, a thick petroleum jelly to apply after burning.

Beaches were segregated in 1930s. Mayo Beach was a White beach next to Sparrow Beach for Coloreds. Blacks were called Colored in that part of Maryland in 1930.

My first remembered beach experience was when we went to Mayo Beach in Maryland on the Chesapeake Bay. We had a cabin on the beach that consisted of a wood frame shack with holes in the screen to let in mosquitoes and flies. We had an outhouse out back, too. We used a hand sprayer to wet down the cabin with Flit insecticide. (I wonder what was in Flit?)

I sat down in my wool suit on the sand as the tide was coming in and made holes in the sand to catch the waves in order to dry up the Bay. I would have done it, but the waves piled up so much sand into my seat that I could not move. I had to call for help to stand up. The pounds of sand stretched out the suit to the point Dad had to tie knots in the shoulder straps to raise the seat to its proper place. By the time I took it off for lunch, it had stretched twice its size. The sunburn prevented me from going out for three days.

One well remembered beach trip was when the family spent a week in a beachfront, three-story, bright yellow wood frame Hotel. Beach life had a routine as follows: Breakfast was at 5 AM for fishermen who could wear their fishing clothing. Breakfast at 7AM and noon lunch, men wore shirts, ties, and long pants, coat optional. Women and girls in dresses. Boys in starched shirts and pants. No one wore shorts to dine. Dinner was coats and ties regardless of the heat and we sat down at 6 PM. A black waiter would go through every floor of the hotel ringing the bell calling all to meals. There would be some kind of lard-fried fish at every meal along with potatoes. Vegetables were cooked in ham stock. Eggs were fried in bacon fat and were delicious. Maryland fried chicken and some kind of beef and ham served for dinner. This was in the days before cholesterol had been invented, so we were spared all the miseries of processed foods. The food was the best part of the shore.

After meals we had to wait two hours before we could go in the water. Everyone thought if a person ate and went into the water, he would get cramps and drown, die and be carried out to sea to be eaten by crabs and toothy fish. That would have been easier and a lot less painful than the next step of the day: To put on a very damp, cold, sandy, and larger wool suit. There was no good or safe way to put it on. By the second or third day, the skin was burned and raw from knees to shoulders, and the sand-clogged wool suit weighed a ton and had knots on knots. You had to pull the bottoms up and tighten the belt another notch over a raw skinless middle. That was when I knew I hated the beach.

You could swim or play till 11 AM, then off to your room-to change into lunch clothing. After lunch the old two-hour wait till you had to put on that suit which was wetter, bigger, colder, and sandier than before. Then back to the room to change for dinner by 4:30 since there was one bathroom per floor for all the guests. I do not remember how that worked. At this stage in life, I cannot even visualize how it could.

After dinner if the wind was off the ocean, it would be very pleasant and all would sit out on the large porch and smoke cigars. If the wind was off the land, all would have to stay inside or be carried away by the mosquitoes into their swamp where we would have our blood sucked out and then the sand crabs would pick our bones clean. At least that was how Bud and I had it figured.

By the time the week was over, that suit was so heavy with sand and water and stretched so big that I could not lift it off the floor by the shoulder strap and have the bottom clear the floor. I must have cried a lot that week. I am crying now as I remember the pain.

The year 1941 was and the last time we went to the shore as a family due to the coming war on December 7.

We started early in the morning on the first leg of our trip to the ferry at Annapolis, MD. There were no freeways or even three-lane highways in those days. We would have to drive through every city and town on a two lane road and stop for every left turn vehicle, stop signs, hay wagons, slow drivers and any other road hazards too numerous to mention. The ferry dock was where Sandy Hook State Park is now and close to the Bay Bridge at Annapolis. We always expected to drive right on the ferry without a wait, but usually that did not happen.

During the summer weekends, six ferry ships ran on a 15-minute schedule. Once on the ferry Bud and I would head for the bridge area and soak up the cool breeze. When the notice was given for all to go to their cars, I went. Bud would wait for the last minute, and I was sure he would be left behind and spend the rest of his life going aimlessly back and forth on the bay. He seemed to know how to pull my trigger, and I was always afraid for his life. He gave good reason for fear. Back in the car a new line was drawn on the seat for me not to cross less we touch.

I do not remember the beach or the water that time, but I remember the sunburn very well. I was a crispy fried untouchable. I could not sit or touch the car seat without pain. I remember the trip back on the ferry because the cool air felt good. What I did not know was how much the cool air dried out even more of my skin. I was very ill for a week and was a massive blister. Finally the pain left along with all my skin and any desire to go to the beach.

Ever since that trip, I NEVER went to the beach without a long sleeve shirt, long pants, hat and shoes and socks. Sunburn on the top of my feet was the last to heal.

I was grateful for the war years and gas ration, for that ended the beach trips.