Breastwork Blues

By Ben Robicheau ~ brobicheau@cogeco.ca

Every time I visit Westport I think of it the way it used to be before the Groundhog Day storm forever rearranged the waterfront. One of the major changes resulting from that event was the loss of nearly all of the old wooden breastwork. Running pretty well the whole length of the village, it gave a solid and unified look to the community. Varying from a couple of feet in height in some places to close to ten feet or so in others, it was constructed of a crib-work of big square timbers, presenting a solid face to the sometimes-violent sea. I always felt protected by the breastwork, it was a sort of barricade to the elements, a defence against the eroding force of the ocean. I remember walking along the waterfront during big storms or hurricanes and seeing waves shooting straight up into the air after crashing into the immovable breastwork wall.
For a small child, the breastwork could be a little bit scary, it looked like a long way to the beach when you peered over the edge, there was always the possibility of falling off it, and it was usually too high and too difficult to climb up and down. The timbers were stepped back slightly as they were stacked on top of each other, so every eight inches or so there was a little ledge to give you a bit of a toe-hold. As soon as we were able to master scaling the wall, going over the breastwork became second nature and we were always going up and down to the beach. In those days before garbage collection and before we all became more environmentally conscious, “throw it off the breastwork” was a commonly heard phrase, so for us kids, the beach was a wealth of interesting cast-offs. Some kids had a habit of going about their daily travels using the beach instead of the road, just in case something good had been thrown away that day.
Now that I think about it, the breastwork back then more or less took the place of a Jungle Gym today. You could walk along it, like on a balance beam, climb up and down it, jump off it if it wasn’t too high; onto the beach if the tide was down or into the water if the tide was up. My sisters used to play house on the beach, setting the table on top of the breastwork with shells and tin cans and decorating the “walls” with beach glass and pretty rocks. The wooden timbers also provided hours of entertainment for older kids who chiselled their initials into them. And I know of at least one teen-ager who carved an anchor into the top of the wall, then built a fire on the beach, melted some scrap lead, and used the breastwork to mould little lead anchors. The breastwork had other attractions too. It conveniently blocked the view of anyone on the road side of it, so you could sit on the beach right in front of your own house and nobody could see what you were doing. And when it went under a building, it provided an even more secure hiding place, I remember finding a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches hidden on a beam under a wharf one day, obviously someone had been doing some secret smoking hidden behind the breastwork.
The breastwork was more or less level with the road and, as I have mentioned in previous stories, this sometimes was a problem, what with cars, trucks and sleds occasionally ending up on the wrong side of it. It also could be an obstacle for anyone trying to get off the beach. There were a few places where there was no breastwork, providing a place for fishermen to haul up their boats or pull something down onto the beach. Just about every wharf had a ramp beside it, going from the beach to the top of the breastwork, so a punt could be hauled up to safety in case of bad weather.
The breastwork wasn’t an obstacle only for people. We had a pet seagull at one time, named Charles DeGull. Since he was raised by humans, Charlie didn’t know how to fly and he was also afraid of water! My sister Virginia taught him to fly by coasting him off a small hill in our front yard and to swim by floating him out in the water on a board and then yanking it out from under him. After swimming back to shore a few times, he realised he liked the water and he would walk down to the breastwork, jump off and glide to the beach. After enjoying his swim he would walk back up the beach to the breastwork and yell until someone came and lifted him up to the road. Eventually he figured out that he could fly up as well as down!
One of the things I always enjoyed was the times when we got extra high tides. The water would be nearly level with the road and you could walk along on the breastwork, the ocean only inches away on one side and the road on the other, the breastwork dividing the two, a clear line separating the land from the sea. The breastwork was fun in other ways too, I remember one time when we nearly gave Madeline Lent a heart attack! Ed Pugh had been cutting the long grass along the side of the road and all this cut grass had been gathered up and dumped in one spot over the breastwork. Roger Denton and I had been jumping off into this mound when we noticed Madeline coming up the road. We knew that she couldn’t see the hay pile from the road, so when she got close we stood on the breastwork, pretended to lose our balance, screamed and fell over. She came rushing over to the breastwork only to see us lying on a pile of hay a couple of feet below. We thought it was hilarious at the time!
I believe that there are still a few remnants of the old breastwork left, I don’t know if it is being maintained or just replaced with rock as it deteriorates. And I realise that at the time, dumping rock was a fast and efficient way to protect the road and shoreline from the ravages of the storm, but it sure doesn’t have the look or the history of the old breastwork.