The Dock

It isn't just the Dock anymore, it is Dobbins' Landing.  The Brig Niagara, of War of 1812 fame, no longer sits on State Street south of the Dock.  It has been refurbished and sets sail along the coast most summers now.  There are no more grain elevators where the cat-sized rats used to play (my dad would take his .22 pistol down there to shoot at them).  Instead there is a Maritime Museum and Blasco Library.  Where there was once a bait stand and a place for lovers to walk, there is a hotel and a convention center.  Hamot Hospital still looks over the domain like a king over his kingdom, but it is many times larger now and has a companion--a several-story office building that appears to be built of Construx toy building blocks.

At one time, the roof over the Dock covered it all.  Dances were held above, with live music.  Cabin cruisers would pull up and tether to the railings.  Now there is little shelter;  boats have become ships some of the time.  There was a tour boat then, lake rides for two hours when the water was calm and the moon was shining on it.  There is a tour boat now, a red-and-white paddle boat that has comfy seats instead of benches and serves dinner instead of bring-your-own-snack.  A tall, well-lit tower stands at the Dock now, like a beacon on the bay.  You can take its elevator to the top to the observation deck, or  walk out on what is left of the canopy if you are afraid of heights.

A ferry ran back then.  We would take the bus to the Dock, pay our fifty cents and take our blankets, towels and lunch to the beach across the way.  A day of sunburn and sand, cool water and friends--then head back from Waterworks Beach for home to start over the next day.  There is a water taxi now, not fifty cents anymore, but it still goes across the bay and picks up the visitors to Presque Isle.

This part of State Street, and along the bayfront for blocks east and west, houses several marinas where folks leave their boats most of the year. There are more now, some of them from Pittsburgh, others from Connecticut to the Carolinas.  Some are magnificent sailboats; there are speedboats and cruisers and party fishing boats.  The bigger ones go through the Channel into Lake Erie; the smaller ones play in the bay.  They cruise, they fish, they para-sail, they water-ski.

There are restaurants and bars, live music and free-flowing fun, just like there always was.  Grandmas and Grandpas still take their grandkids fishing off the piers. Seagulls, ducks and geese still stop traffic. Going for a ride "down the Dock" is still in every Erieite's language.  Some things don't change.

The best thing about the Dock when I was a teen, and now again in my almost-over fifties, was buggin' State Street.  We would drive, couples or a bunch of girls or guys, up and down the sacred street.  Some had hot rods, some Daddy's Buick.  It was part of being a teen in Erie, PA.  We raced from light to light if there were no cops around.  We gunned our engines to strut our stuff.  We parked at the Dock under the canopy or up State aways, laughing and flirting and  having the time of our lives.  Who cared if the heater in Debbie's Beetle didn't work?  It gave us an excuse to talk some cute fella into fixing it. Nobody minded if the music was too loud or the traffic too slow.  After all, it was Friday.

A few years back, Hubby bought a  midnight blue Trans Am, then a red WS6.  Now he drives a newer GTO.  We have rekindled those trips down State Street along with the other old folks who can now afford the hot rods and sports cars we were denied in our youth.  Every hot car there is spit-polished, every stereo blaring.  Engines roaring, exhaust systems rumbling, we take to the streets again.  Once again we are sixteen.  We still meet near the Dock--it will never be Dobbins' Landing to us..