1: Paradise Found
Sandy Pond sits atop my list of favorite vacation places – a fact that inconvenienced two wives and puzzled friends and co-workers, particularly during the many years I lived in Rhode Island, which calls itself the Ocean State.
Swell, you say, but what and where is this . . . Sandy Pond? And what does any pond have to do with that photo (above) of two children playing in waves?
To locate Sandy Pond, you need a map of New York. Okay, now run a finger along the eastern shore of Lake Ontario. About 40 miles south of the St. Lawrence River you’ll come to a teeny-tiny version of North Carolina’s Outer Banks – a skinny peninsula that separates the Great Lake from a pale blue blot to the east. Welcome to Sandy Pond.
If your map is painstakingly accurate, it will show two blots – North Pond (or Big Sandy) and the much smaller South Pond – connected by an umbilical-shaped stream. Combined, they are known as Sandy Pond, more than four miles long and two miles wide. A channel splits the  peninsula and connects North Pond with Lake Ontario. I believe the first channel was dug by New York State in the late 1890s, but like all Sandy Pond channels since then, the original was not supported by steel or concrete and was at the mercy of the weather, which is particularly cruel in this area. During one horrific storm in the 1950s, rain, wind and Lake Ontario surf created its own channel (which at least one newspaper account described as an improvement over the first one dug by the state).
Until recently, boats on Sandy Pond were relatively small, but today's cottage owners could – theoretically – cast off from their docks in larger craft and sail around the world. More likely they visit the Thousand Islands to the north or fish the mouth of the Oswego River to the south. A familiar problem, however, is negotiating the Sandy Pond channel where the depth depends on the Lake Ontario water level, which goes up and down, bringing problems at either extreme.
Both North and South Ponds are rimmed by vacation cottages, trailers and a few year-round homes. There are a couple of small marinas and, I think, only one restaurant located along the shore of North Pond. There's still nothing fancy here. What you pay for a month’s vacation might get you a week in, say, Hilton Head. Sandy Pond is decidedly blue collar. It's also well-loved.
What’s to love?
Sandy Pond’s past. And, one hopes, its future.
MY FAMILY'S love affair with Sandy Pond began in the 1920s with a swimming date. The couple who would become my parents, Buster Major and Helen Smolinski, lived in Solvay, a Syracuse suburb about an hour’s drive from several fine Lake Ontario beaches, including Fair Haven and Selkirk Shores, two popular state parks. However, my father had heard about a gorgeous spot near the village of Pulaski. (And in New York, unlike other states that honor Polish patriot Casimir Pulaski, the last syllable is pronounced "sky," not "skee.")
Along with a few friends and relatives, my parents-to-be visited Sandy Pond and were not disappointed. I suspect they felt like 15th century explorers discovering a new land. Sandy Pond gave you that feeling. It would for many years.
Time out! I sense your confusion. Am I talking about the pond or the lake? Why say Sandy Pond if I mean Lake Ontario? Habit, I’m afraid. Old-time Pond people tend to refer to the whole area as Sandy Pond.
I hope this clears things up:
You do not swim in the pond. Oh, I’ve seen people try, but they’re probably still pulling seaweed off their legs.
I suspect the ponds were named not for a sandy bottom, which extends only so far, but because of the long, narrow and steep hill of soft sand that separates the ponds from Lake Ontario.
THERE ARE spots near the channel where a pond swim isn’t a bad idea, but as of my last visit – granted, that was 25 years ago – the pond was polluted and thick with weeds, the sand bottom buried beneath layers of muck. Back then it was necessary for an association of property owners to bring in a huge, riverboat-like thrasher every summer to run a Zamboni-like pattern through the pond, temporarily clearing paths for the assorted motorized watercraft turned loose each summer. In those days cottages disposed waste into the pond. That is no longer the case. The resulting change in the water chemistry apparently has the weeds under control, so the thrasher is no longer needed.
(Note: The pond also is popular during the long, cold Northern New York winters when the water freezes to a thickness that allows ice fishermen to drive to their favorite spots.)
WHEN I MENTION the beach at Sandy Pond I'm referring to the three-mile strip of sand south of the channel on the Lake Ontario side. In any mention of Sandy Pond there are certain words that make it easy to differentiate between lake and pond. “Beach” and “swimming” are two such words, obviously. So are “great waves,” “undertow,” “body surfing,” “sand castles” and “I could stay here forever.”
Other words just as obviously refer strictly to the pond, words such as “seaweed,” “cattails” and “that’s the smallest fish I’ve ever seen!” I must admit that remark about the smallest fish came from a member of my family. We are notoriously bad fisherpersons. Those who know how to fish often catch large bass and pike in the pond. (Just south of Sandy Pond is the Salmon River, one of the best fishing spots in the country.)
SO WHERE were we? Ah, yes, 15th century explorers. New lands. The thrill of discovery . . .
For many years after my parents stated going there, Sandy Pond’s beach wasn’t easily accessible. The inaccessibility insured a sense of privacy. It also required good conditioning and a sense of adventure.
Until the 1950s, the strip of sand between Sandy Pond and Lake Ontario could have been a site for TV's "Survivor." First off, the road to the beach – Oswego County Route 15 – didn’t actually go to the beach. From where the road ended, there was no beach in sight, only the sand dunes on the far side of a small, rickety bridge that spanned the narrow channel that connected North and South Ponds. When the lake was rough you could hear surf, but you didn’t know exactly where it was.
There was no parking lot; cars were left on the skinny road’s uncertain shoulders. The walk – half a mile or much longer, depending on where you parked – was unpleasant exercise on hot, superfine sand that collapsed under foot and filled your shoes.
(Yes, you've been to a beach, so you know the feeling, but Sandy Pond was a special test of patience and leg muscles. The difference between its sand and, say, what I encountered along the ocean in Rhode Island, was like the difference between Splenda and regular, granulated sugar.)
MEANWHILE, no concession stand awaited Sandy Pond visitors, no toilet facilities, no trash barrels. What was needed for a day at the beach had to be carried in – and out. People were responsible for their garbage. Maybe that's why a lot of people stayed away. (Many who came in the 1950s and '60s, when easy access was provided, turned out to be lazy and inconsiderate slobs. More on that later.)
In the meantime there was an endless, nearly deserted stretch of white sand and driftwood between white-capped blue-green water and tree-shaded dunes and 100-foot high sandhills that promised a thousand hiding places.
In short, Sandy Pond was paradise. |
