by Diana Serbe
The year was 1931. The Great Depression gripped the nation, and prohibition was law. But the sun shone on the Jersey shore as it always had. The ocean waves licked the beach as they always had. Many in america suffered, but the Jersey shore in summer was a place not only for the lucky few who had money, but also for the more numerous poor who day-tripped to forget the troubles of their lives.
Among the many who came to the Jersey shore was a family named Farrell. This was my own family, headed in those years by my grandfather, a policeman in Newark New Jersey whose slight brogue gave evidence of the fact that he himself had immigrated as a child. He and my grandmother saved pennies in a jar all year for the privilege of bringing their children to the Jersey shore to vacation in Point Pleasant for one summer month. There were five children in all - my mother, her two sisters and two brothers.
As a policeman my grandfather had learned that evil is opportunistic, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on an unsuspecting victim. He had walked a beat and seen petty chicanery and domestic strife. As he rose in the ranks, he saw the greater evil inherent in gangsters, racketeers, and, yes, bootleggers for prohibition had created a new brand of illegal commerce. My grandfather had raised his fist in Al Capone's face and declared that "we will get you, someday we will get you." He knew that evil was everywhere. Everywhere but the Jersey shore. He could leave his family there while he stayed north to walk his beat and feel secure that warm seas and the wide beaches were there for his family. The Jersey shore was a haven.
Unknown to my grandfather, bootleggers had found a convenient home in the inlet on the Manasquan River. As if they were cruise ships, they came down from Canada, sailing the length of the Jersey shore to the Manasquan Inlet. They turned into, passing the expensive summer houses on the inlet, and, in brazen defiance of authority, they moored in the inlet. On board these boats were many brands of contraband, one of which was Log Cabin. Not the maple syrup known to all supermarket shoppers, this was the brand bootlegged by none other than the man my grandfather had sworn to get - Al Capone himself.
In time the bootleggers were discovered and the local constabulary knew they had to rise to the challenge to safeguard the Jersey shore and the fine tourist trade that sun and surf generated. They watched secretly and when the bootleggers boats arrived, they sent in the Coast Guard.
The bootleggers were watching as furtively as the law, and they heard that the Coast Guard was coming. Rather than be caught with Log Cabin on board the ships, the crews of the bootleg runner ships dumped their booty overboard. The hooch had been wrapped in straw to protect the bottles from breaking, but straw also made them buoyant. They did not sink to the bottom of the inlet, but floated with the tides across the width of the inlet, buoyant on gentle waves.
The townspeople looked across the inlet and saw emerald-like flashes of green glimmering under their straw covers. Lured by the illicit emerald bottles, the word went out that the inlet was filled with prohibited bottles of drink.
©
