Memory Lane PT 3: ‘Navy Days’ have more meaning now

While reading an article recently written by my father entitled “Down Memory Lane: Navy Days” (Nov. 1992, Norwich Gazette) I learned for the first time that my dad developed a taste for oysters while stationed in barracks at ‘The Spit’, offshore opposite Comox and near Courtenay, on Vancouver Island, B.C. in 1944.

Occasionally he’d go to a dance and drink a beer at the Sons of Freedom Hall.

Once in awhile he’d handle the oars on the captain’s dinghy while someone else sat in the stern and trawled for salmon, or stand “amazed on the bridge over the river in spawning season and watch the salmon.” (Memory Lane PT 2)

Now, about the oysters mentioned earlier.

Dad writes:

“At Comox, right close to our barracks was a government breeding ground for oysters. I never knew of such a thing and didn’t care particularly as all I had eyes for was the those monstrous oysters which showed up when the tide went out. I wasn’t alone, believe me.”


["A banner kept at the Naval Museum in Esquimalt, B.C. D. Harrison is listed"]

Dad lived his life in Oxford County (the western edge is not far from London; it’s bisects the gravel pit between Putnam and Ingersoll) and though you’ll find significant bodies of water in the county, e.g., the Gordon Pittock Dam north of Woodstock, there is not one monstrous oyster to be found. Sorry, I digress.

Dad continues:

“As the tide ebbed at night we once again borrowed the Captain’s dinghy and a few burlap bags and rowed out to the oyster bed. We climbed out of the dinghy into the horrible muck, filled our burlap bags and paddled away before the tide left us aground. These choice oysters were dumped into the sea out of sight behind the barracks, thereby assuring us of our own private oyster supply.”

“We ate most of them raw; salt water and a bit of sand didn’t matter too much and a good slap on the back was required most times to help swallow them.

Wonderful!”

Wonderful adventure, I say, for the 24-year old man who eventually became father to five lively kids.

I enjoyed reading just a touch of a line; “salt water and a bit of sand didn’t matter too much.”

Dad felt no need to insist on absolute cleanliness; salt water, sand - that’s fine.

Total refinement wasn’t dad’s strong suit, as I recall. Hard work, raw hands, shoulder to the wheel - that’s the fellow I remember.

I notice it’s time to leave the house, meet a friend and walk to London’s cenotaph for the Remembrance Day service.

Lest we forget.

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Please click here to read Memory Lane PT 1.

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