That night I dreamed I was sailing alone across Toronto’s frozen bay on a huge iceboat that, instead of a mast, had a huge Christmas tree bending into the breeze. Porcupines and German sausages swung in the branches. And somewhere in the breeze a Christmas chorus of Kellys went “Aww-waww-waaaw!”
3 Boxing Day
December 26, 1906
It was a fine, bright winter day when I arrived at the foot of York Street where Tommy and Ed had said they parked their iceboat. The harbour ice was packed with people.
Every early December, as the temperature dropped below freezing, ice started forming on Toronto Bay. By late December, the ice was thick enough for fully loaded horse wagons to drive from shore to the Toronto Islands. Almost overnight the waterfront was transformed from a deserted wasteland into a bustling winter playground. Along the shoreline an official promenade was marked out that ran parallel to Front Street. Here warmly dressed pleasure walkers strolled arm in arm, tipping their hats to friends and acquaintances. Taxi drivers hitched up their horses to old-fashioned sleighs and offered rides to tourists. Even the occasional horseless carriage was spotted chugging along the promenade, horns honking in greeting. Food vendors quickly followed, setting up booths offering hot drinks, popcorn, sausage sandwiches, and roasted chestnuts.
A short way out young boys earned a fast nickel by shovelling snow to create curling rinks for older people or skating circles where young couples slowly skated in circles together or single young men showed off their skating skills for admiring girls to watch. Farther from shore small armies of other young men cleared off large squares of ice to play hockey games that lasted a whole day, with scores running into triple digits.
Amid all that hubbub, iceboats scudded back and forth like swordfish among small fry. When they weren’t racing, many iceboat crews earned a quarter or two giving one-way rides to and from the Toronto Islands or tours around the harbour in their craft. The islands were about a half-mile from the foot of York Street, the place where the iceboats usually parked. If the wind was right, the iceboaters wagered with their customers that they could carry them to the islands in less than a minute or the ride was free. For the family-minded, iceboats offered slower full circles around the harbour for ten cents a passenger, five passengers minimum.
The ice south of York Street was crowded with boat masts and sailing crews all waiting for fares. The sailors sat around bonfires built on scraps of iron to keep warm. I didn’t see the Marinion parked with the other boats, then I spied Tommy and Ed slowly zigzagging around the ice with four delighted, screaming children and two nervous parents onboard.
“Looking for a ride, son?” an elderly man asked hopefully.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ve got one already.”
The man nodded and returned to chatting with his friends.
Eventually, the Marinion returned to the iceboat anchorage and gracefully coasted to a halt. Climbing out, the mother began counting out sixty cents in dimes, nickels, and pennies into Tommy’s hand. Both adults seemed grateful to be standing on ice again, but there was a mutiny on the Marinion when the four children were informed that the ride was over. Their screams of protest drowned out the seagulls competing for sausage scraps from the nearby garbage cans.
“Sorry, kids, ride’s over,” Ed said, trying to help the father lift the children out of the cockpit. The two oldest were twins, set apart only by the fact that each had identical snot trails running down their chins from opposite nostrils. When lifted out of the Marinion, they wailed in unison and kicked snow at their father and Ed. As soon as the third child’s feet touched the snow, he threw himself onto the ice and began spinning like a pinwheel as he threw a tantrum.
“Yipes!” Ed yelped.
The last child clamped both his arms and leg around Ed’s right arm. “I wanna ’nother ride!” he shrieked.
“Watch out!” the father warned, trying to pick the pinwheel kid out of the snow. “That one’s a biter.”
“A biter?” Ed repeated, genuinely frightened. “Ouch! He is biting.”
“Naw, he’s just pinching, mister,” one of the smirking twins said.
“Ouch!” Ed shouted. “I don’t care. Hey, Bertie! Get this lobster off me! Ouch!”
The other twin laughed. “Now he’s gonna bite.”
The mother was still counting out sixty cents in nickels and pennies into Tommy’s hand while I tried to pry Lobster Brat off Ed’s arm. Just as I got both hands loose, he lunged with his teeth and snagged Ed’s jacket just above the elbow. “Hey, that’s new!” Ed protested.
“Har-Arrrrrrrrrrr,” the kid snarled through clenched teeth. “Woof! Woof! Woof!”
“He’s playing woof-woof now,” one of the twins said.
“Woof-woof?” Ed questioned.
“Woof-Woof is our bulldog,” the first twin said. “He bites mailmen.”
“Har-Arrrrrrrrrrr,” the kid growled.
“And milkmen,” the other twin said. “He even bit a policeman once, and then he died.”
“Who?” Ed rasped. “The policeman?”
“No, Woof-Woof!” the twins said together.
For a little guy the kid was really strong. It was all I could do to keep him from getting more than just a piece of Ed’s coat.
“Eliot, let go of the nice man’s arm and I promise we’ll come back sometime for another ride!” the father said, struggling to stand the pinwheel child upright. But the kid kept flopping over and spinning his feet.
“Woof! Woof!”
“Eliot!” the father screamed.
“Woof! Woof! Woof!”
The woman finished counting the money. She glanced over at Eliot and snapped her purse shut. Suddenly, the whole bay seemed to go quiet.
“Eliot, let go of that man’s arm right now,” she said in a barely audible voice.
Eliot immediately let go of Ed’s arm. I put him down in the snow, and he stood there, spitting brown bits of coat fluff out of his mouth.
“Say thank you to the nice men for the ride,” the mother commanded.
“Thank you,” the four boys and the father said in unison.
“We hope to see you again,” the woman said sweetly as they walked away.
“Not if we see you first,” Ed said under his breath as he tried to rub the teeth marks out of his coat.
“Wow!” I said. “You get many fares like that?”
Ed scowled. “No. Some are worse.”
“Ready for your first sailing lesson?” Tommy asked me.
“Can’t wait.”
“Then your chariot awaits, m’lord,” Ed said with a bow and a wave of his arm.
We turned the Marinion around. Following Ed’s example, I stood behind the right runner while Tommy positioned himself at the back of the boat. On Tommy’s command all three of us pushed the craft forward. Once we got the boat moving, Tommy jumped in and pulled on the rope that raised the sail.
“Okay, Bertie, here we go,” Ed said, leaping in as the boat moved forward under its own power.
The sun was shining and the wind was strong, so we were able to put in two hours of sailing where I literally learned “the ropes” of iceboat racing. The first thing I found out was that ropes were called