Another guest told her he’d like to be buried under the ginko tree in the motor court’s courtyard.
Then there was Julius, a baker from Washington, who came every year and often brought baked goods with him. He and his family loved their annual visits, and Ellie automatically reserved their same room for them at the beginning of the summer season, whether they’d called yet or not. Then one year his wife called to cancel. She told Ellie her husband had been very sick.
The next year Ellie didn’t record their reservation in advance. At the last minute the wife called to see if there was any way to get their usual room on such short notice. Ellie went to the person already staying in that room, explained the situation and, just as most people jump to do Ellie’s bidding, the guest gave up the room.
The family arrived and the husband was full of stories about all he’d noticed coming into town, the memories he had of all the vacations spent here.
Ellie left their room and was halfway across the courtyard when the son came to get her. “You need to call for help. Dad’s died.”
Julius had accomplished what he’d wanted. He’d come to the place he considered home to die.
Ellie has countless stories like that, of people who considered Doc’s home and her a beloved part of their family. It’s not at all hard to understand, but it is rare, and she knows it. Part of it may have to do with the lure of this small seaside town, but a lot has to do with Ellie herself.
“Nursing made her a good listener,” one friend commented.
It’s more than that, though. It’s the deep affection she clearly holds for Doc, for Colonial Beach, for the life she’s led and for the people who’ve enriched her days with their own stories.
“I think that’s so interesting,” she says time and again of what she’s learned from her guests and from living.
There’s a lesson in that, perhaps. That as long as you’re living and listening and learning, life is full. Ellie, ninety now and still active even without the demands of the motor court, would most certainly declare that hers is.
Ellie at her 90th birthday party
BY THE SEA, BY THE SEA…
Whether it’s because of my birth sign—Cancer—or for some other reason, I am happiest when I’m by the water. Big bodies of water. It doesn’t matter if it’s the wide sweep of the Potomac River in Colonial Beach just above where it empties into the Chesapeake Bay or the vastness of the ocean; the sea soothes my soul.
Jack Boykin, Colonial Beach ski club
Colonial Beach ski club
I lived for many years in Columbus, Ohio, and grumbled mightily about the lack of water. Rivers were proudly pointed out to me—the Scioto, the Olentangy. I always shook my head. “Nope, those are creeks.”
And yet despite that fondness for walking along the shore, for sitting on my porch with its view of the river or on my balcony in Florida with its view of the Atlantic, I’m a little less enthused about being on or especially in the water.
Despite having a mom who was a competitive swimmer back in the day, despite plenty of swimming lessons over the years, I am a terrible, terrible swimmer. I do all the right strokes—back stroke, side stroke, breast stroke. I stay afloat…for a time. But I forget to breathe. That is not a good trait when in a wide expanse of deep water.
My parents were well aware of my lack of skill. As a teen, I was forbidden from joining my friends at the beach when they built a questionably watertight rowboat or engaged in impromptu waterskiing competitions on the river. For once I didn’t argue.
Therefore a few years back when I was asked to be the grand marshal of the Potomac River Festival boat parade, I asked with a great deal of hope, “Can I do it from land?” Sadly, they assured me that wasn’t an option.
So, with the help and encouragement of several courtly men, I boarded a lovely boat, planted myself very securely in a seat in the stern of the boat and sat there for a couple of hours, waving dutifully to those on shore and aboard the many decorated boats, and watching nervously for even a hint of rough seas. As honored as I was, as kind as everyone was, it was the longest couple of hours of my life.
In Colonial Beach, being on or in the water is a way of life for many residents. Though it’s a slowly dying existence, there are still watermen in town who make their living crabbing or fishing. There are very few oystermen left because of the dwindling supplies in the river and the nearby Chesapeake. Curley’s Oyster Packing Plant, which once employed several dozen shuckers and shipped out truckloads of oysters in fancy tins that are now highly collectible, has shuttered its doors. The Big Dipper, once a charter fishing boat and tourist boat, is now in private hands. And while Clarence Stanford’s Marine Railway is now called the Boathouse Marina and still offers docking facilities and boat repair, it’s no longer in the boat-building business.
And, yet, this town still has its share of pleasure boats and marinas, which contribute greatly to the local economy. According to an estimate by Bill Bowman, who owns the Boathouse Marina, the various marinas in town—including the Colonial Beach Yacht Center and the Curleys’ Monroe Bay Marina—provide some six hundred slips, about two-thirds of which are leased out on an ongoing basis. The rest are leased to summer boaters who find Colonial Beach an accessible and desirable port between Washington and the Chesapeake Bay.
Colonial Beach
