Harold Seavey had a dream, an unquenchable dream, to jump the school pond. It took on a life of its own back in 1975, and the whole island came out to partake of it. I was about 6 years old at the time, and I remember it vividly. Grades K-8 were released early from school, and we gathered pond-side to watch this monumental happening unfold before our eyes.
Harold idolized Evel Knievel and wanted to emulate him. He decided he must create a stunt of his own that would put his name on the map. Piece by piece, Harold gathered scraps of lumber to build a ramp. He measured and ciphered, cut and nailed that ramp together with some of the finest wood that had ever come out of Pierce and Hartung’s lumberyard. The angle of the ramp had to be just right to propel Harold over the pond and he knew it. He had seen the end result of several of Evel Knievel’s miscalculated stunts and didn’t want to end up in the hospital as he had.
You could feel the tension in the air the day of the big event. Word spread like wildfire throughout the island. A better part of the town’s population and a reporter from the Boothbay Register turned out to watch Harold make his historic jump.
The pond, 30′ x 40′, was normally used for frog catching, ice-skating, and the occasional fire, when Chief Thompson had to refill the pumper truck. There was standing room only that day. Housewives shut off their vacuums and brought their babies.
Lobstermen knocked off hauling early and tied their vessels to the dock, and carpenters laid down their hammers and nails, all to watch Harold make his jump.
Around 11:45 A.M., Harold made a few test runs. He started up by the firehouse and casually pedaled down the hill, toward the jump site. It was probably a distance of about 300 feet. You could see the concentration on his face and feel the excitement in the air. He’d bear down on the ramp, only to turn away just before his tires hit the plywood. There was a suppressed gasp in the air each time he approached, and I would hazard to say more than one autograph was given away that day between test runs.
The noon whistle blew, and there was noted hush in the crowd. It was time. The moment of truth. Would Harold make it against the odds or plunge into the depths of the school pond, accompanied by various weeds, reeds, and an assortment of cat o’nine tails? Standing proud as a peacock, feet planted firmly on the blacktop, Harold hesitated for only a minute to tighten the lacings of his Converse All Stars. Then it was time for the countdown: Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one … Hit it! The signal was given, and Harold pedaled like he had never pedaled before. The wind blew back his hair and just at the moment his bike hit the ramp, he sailed off it like Evel Knievel jumping the Snake River Canyon. For a split second, Harold and Evel Knievel were one in the same, indistinguishable. It is a moment I will never forget.
He held on tight to his handlebars, feet firmly braced on the pedals, and soared over the pond. Spectators cheered from all angles and Harold grinned from ear to ear. It was his moment in time, and no one could take that away from him. He was airborne for what seemed like minutes, although I realize now it was only a matter of seconds before he descended.
He landed in that body of water like a NASA space capsule splashing down in the Atlantic Ocean. It was magnificent and the crowd went wild! There was a deafening round of applause and whistles when Harold surfaced. He swam to shore with one hand and towed his bicycle behind him with the other, undaunted by the chilly plunge he had just endured.
What happened next is forever carved into the minds of the ’76 kindergarten. He was going to do it again! Harold stopped only long enough to wipe the water out of his eyes with a blue terry bath towel, and then he headed back up to the firehouse. We all stood in awe with our mouths wide open as our hero pedaled back up the hill with a gleam of determination in his eye.
“He’s going to make a second attempt,” yelled the school secretary, suddenly overcome with hysteria. Then, out of nowhere, it started. The Harold Cheer. It swelled up from the crowd like the rumbling of a herd of cattle stampeding through a desert canyon, “Harold, Harold, Harold, Harold!” My friends and I held our hands over our ears, unable to fathom the actions of what were normally “reasonable” adults.
Our eyes were glued on Harold as he made his second approach. He pedaled like a bat out of Hell. Pond water dripped from his faded Levi’s and t-shirt onto the blacktop at an alarming rate, leaving a glistening trail behind him. It was just as if Evel Knievel had strapped a rocket on his back, and a smoking contrail followed his jump. Then, before I knew it, he was airborne all over again, sailing through the sky before me and three quarters of Southport Island, like an eagle soaring on the westerly wind, completely untouchable. It was amazing.
Legend has it that his first jump was the real record breaker. Harold’s jumps were chewed over and analyzed at more coffee hours and mug ups than I care to count. For weeks and weeks to come, his aerodynamics and bicycle propulsion were the hot topic of conversation, island over.
In my mind, it was with the second attempt he made his mark. He showed an entire school – no, make that an entire community – what determination and guts were and what it was to live your dream. I can’t think of a better gift to bestow on anyone. Evel Knievel would be proud.