My maternal grandparents lived on Bridgewaters Drive on the south side of the Shrewsbury River. Their home faced the Oceanport Bridge with Rumson and Sea Bright far off in the distance. They loved living on the water with the sunsets off to the west over the train bridge, making for some beautiful evenings.
A low tide reached sometime overnight meant there was a good chance my grandfather, Victor Terwilliger, would call and ask if I wanted to go jacking with him. These were the most memorable and the best of all my time spent on the water as a kid.
We attached a kerosine lamp to the front of the rowboat and headed out into the black of night. Only a small area ahead of the boat had any light. We spent a couple of hours creeping through the rivers’ inlets peering under seaweed looking for some portion of a crab hiding there. The net-less end of the pole propelled us through the night sky until we filled a peach basket or two with crabs. You had to be fast, and it was more than once that one of us tumbled overboard into the river’s silty mud. We laughed and cussed because we knew it would be cold the rest of the way, and there was no going back before the tide turned.
My grandmother would track us and the other jackers in the river from her kitchen window. She would watch the lanterns glow and move through the river. Her kitchen window being a perfect vantage point to keep an eye on an old man and his grandson in the middle of the night.
As I got older, my time on the river dwindled as I did what every teen does chasing girls and finding trouble that needed some help. My grandfather died in that house on the river quietly with my grandmother by his side. She had served him some tea as he was fighting an illness. He sipped some and declared “that tastes good,” closed his eyes, and passed. He was 88
My best, chris