Quincy Avenue is a beach where anything can happen. Without knowing its history, you might never guess this secret. Swimming on Quincy Avenue is officially prohibited by Margate City … at least during regular hours. It’s been that way my entire life. Instead, Quincy Avenue is the surfing beach, and also the spot where Hobie Cats and ocean rigs of more recent vintage like Windsurf boards, Paddle boards, and Kite boards are launched.
But harkening to my childhood, Quincy Avenue was the place where living legends roamed … these island folk were always doing “crazy” things as defined by most people. Joel Fogel and Chris Gilmore (along with Margot) come to mind, but there were others. These few stick, because from about the time when I was four years old and onward, I watched each summer as they lived life their way. Joel was always appearing like a bronzed native with only his “sock” to protect everyone else’s modesty. He would constantly venture into some new manner of craft to ride or sail above the waves. His ocean kayak skills were beyond everyone, and nobody can forget the flying boat! His exploits traveling the wilds of the world were inspirational, and it’s a safe bet that he still continues to seek such experiences.
Chris was tall, lean, gentle spoken, and with flowing locks (later gray) … and at first glance, he seemed like he would blow over in a stiff breeze. This fragile impression was obliterated once you saw him in action. Chris would pilot his Hobie Cat standing on the trampoline or the sidebar in most any wind, regardless of whether the boat was tipped on one pontoon. He was poetry in motion, shooting waves in and out of the surf with a casual mastery that I have yet to see repeated by anyone. Back then, I had just finished reading The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. I remember imagining Chris on his Hobie as Gandalf riding the skies on Gwaihir the Windlord, greatest of the Middle Earth eagles. Chris also served me my first Littleneck clam to taste; freshly harvested and cooked over a beach fire pit near the crumbling cement footers of the once-boardwalk on Quincy—remnants from the ’44 and ’62 storms. It might have been a Fourth of July, a Labor Day, or maybe he had just picked that day for a beach bonfire—I don’t remember. But I do recall the welcoming smile Chris broke into as he told me to try the clam and not to burn my mouth on the shell. It was salty, chewier than I expected, no butter, straight from the ocean … all good. I ate half-a-dozen more over the next hour.
These local legends all had an intangible quality … the “you know it when you see it” factor, and that was most evident when they interacted with the Atlantic. Chris, however, was also a writer. And in the summer of ’79—29 years to this very day—he presented my mom with a signed copy of his novel, Atlantic City Proof. Mom is not the easiest person to get along with for anyone outside our family. She is an introvert, old-fashioned, a gardener and not a fan of silliness that might lead to inner revelation. While Mom doesn’t always shine, I think over the years many people have pegged her wrong. Regardless, she always had an undeniable respect and an unspoken fondness for these Quincy Avenue denizens, and perhaps some of them knew this.
And so, we come to that day long ago, when a knock sounded on our front door in the midst of a cloudy summer day. It was Chris, and I recall Mom inviting him into the foyer. Dad was at the hospital making rounds on his patients. Chris had a book under his arm. I don’t know why he chose that particular day for his gift, but sitting in our living room he explained that Atlantic City Proof was a fictional adventure tale of two young characters—Minnie Creek and Garvey Leek—set during Absecon Island’s rumrunner past. He gave Mom the book, and she congratulated him. The inscription was: “Sweet sailing, Carol, I hope this book always brings fond memories – Love, Christopher Cook Gilmore, 10 July, 1979.”
As Chris left our house, it started to rain. Mom saw me at the dining room table, and immediately handed me the book. I flipped to its first page, and as I happened upon the mention of Lucy the Elephant, I was hooked. I finished the book two days later. For an island kid, whose babysitter was the back bay and the beach, and whose grandfather retold events from Atlantic City’s Prohibition Era, I related to almost every reference in the novel. From clam digging in the bay, to boat engines, to Captain Frye trying to arrest Minnie and Garvey, it all made sense. Heck, I often saw the real Captain Frye at the Margate City Yacht Club where I learned to sail—then a ramshackle bayfront home with docks, a crane, and a marsh-weed sandlot filled with dolly-tied Sunfish, Lasers, and GPs. Whether there was any truth to Captain Frye’s Coast Guard days patrolling for rumrunners, I cannot say, but this tanned, white-haired, suspender-wearing mariner had wrinkles in his wrinkles, and always kept a seafaring tool box nearby. Anyway, about a week after reading Chris’s book, I had the opportunity to tell Chris how much I loved it. The exchange was barely 30 seconds, as I had stopped him on the beach as he was headed to rig his Hobie. I remember his warmth and kindness, and the twinkle in his eyes when his long hair wasn’t blowing across his face.
As the years flew by, I had less encounters with Chris and the others as I became a beach lifeguard on Margate’s south end, and eventually disappeared to college and law school. Chris passed in 2004, and while as a child I sensed how unique he was, I never had the chance to talk with him as a man. I’m also a very different person now, at the beginning of my middle age, than I was as a younger man. I’m more open to life, to philosophy, and to dreams of a new reality. I often contemplate such matters as I sit with family on Quincy Avenue beach. I’ve also got a crew of friends who always return there, and it was an offhand remark at dinner with them this week regarding Chris’s book that awakened these memories. And so, I pulled Chris’s novel from Mom’s bookcase, and gave it a relook. For those of you who miss him or want to meet this Quincy Avenue legend, he’s alive in the pages of Atlantic City Proof. His book is a perfect choice for idle summer reading. Therein, you might also discover a bit of old-school Jersey Shore magic, as well as the invisible ties that unite my generation of island locals.
Good journey, Chris, and to others who have crossed. You too, Pop.
W.L. Hoffman
