Denying access to the Burlington canal piers? Why?
Dear politicians: Take a walk on the pier
The federal government is considering closing access for people to the piers at the Burlington canal.
I have no idea if this is based on a warning from some consultant, an overreaction to some incident I haven’t heard of, or just more random government meddling that nobody wanted. I honestly wonder if governments — all three levels — have people who sit down each day with a list called The
Biggest Problems We’re Facing, turn it over and write a new list called Stuff Nobody Cares About, and then proceed to tackle that list, instead.
Most people thunder past this concrete spit, high above it on the Skyway bridge with its bird’s eye view of the harbour on one side and the expanse of Lake Ontario on the other. Luckier people get to take the lift bridge, a deeply satisfying part of my childhood, its orange and green girders looming like some metal monster that once defied the physics my young brain could grasp.
My dad was not a gambler, but back when you had to pay a 15 cent toll to use the “big” bridge, you better believe he would take his chances on the lift bridge being in place. There were no electronic warnings back then; you’d squint to see if any big ships were on either side and hope the harbourmaster would time it so your car got across if there were.
Well, that’s what my dad thought. For the kids? The best thing in the world was rounding the last curve in the road and
seeing the arm coming down to signal the bridge was going up.
In all but the most inclement weather, this meant we got to go down on the pier. We would watch the old guys fishing for smelt, and dad would tell us we should have smelt for dinner and we’d screw up our noses. I’d stare into the deep water hoping to see anything but smelt. As the giant ships finally passed through, we’d line up and wave at the sailors like our lives depended on it. They always waved back. I wondered how they slept on those ships. I wondered who steered them into such a narrow opening. I wondered if pirates ever came through here at night.
There would be people on the other side, of course, equally disrupted by the bridge being up. We probably knew some of them at any given time, but the magic of the raised bridge meant we were in two worlds. It always ended the same way: the second the sailor waving started, my dad would race back to the station wagon and fire up the engine.
One after another, cars would start and kids would get called and we’d stare out the windshield as the bridge lowered itself one agonizing inch at a time. My dad was always impatient but he’d saved 15 cents. When our turn finally came, we’d lift our feet from the floor as we rumbled across the open metal deck and yell, “alligator bridge!” at the same time, something my kids did, and something I still do because it sounds like an alligator.
The beach strip, on both sides of the bridge, has changed a lot over the years. My mother would take us to the amusement park on the Hamilton side a couple of times each summer before it was shuttered for good, its tattered glory no match for the bigger, better shows that came to town and filled mall parking lots.
When ride coupons ran out, we’d walk along the pier, guessing if the sailboats that seemed so tiny offshore would eventually require the bridge to be lifted.
It was a good way to learn about perspective. Maybe some politicians could use a walk on the pier.