Dateline: Chicago on the river, July
“We’re just tourists,” Max offered, “from Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin.”
“Why were you photographing that bridge? Convince me you’re not a terrorist! You can’t go around photographing bridges.”
“I’m a retired photographer. I wasn’t photographing the bridge—I was just using it to frame my photos of those boats. And see how the blue reflects off the girders on the bridge—that makes for a great shot.”
The Cop studied the offered credit card, since Max hadn’t thought to bring his driver’s license. “What’s your address?”
Max dutifully rattled off the address on his credit card, while John offered his identification and some explanations about their jaunt on the river. As the cop began to relax, his gorilla arms no longer bulged so much to the sides, like a sheriff ready for a quick draw at OK Corral, and his voice softened:
“Let me give you some advice. That was private property back there. You can’t climb out on private property. And don’t go taking pictures of bridges, or those sewer outfalls. It’s a changed world, since 9/11? You understand?”
“Oh, perfectly,” Max cooed. “We understand. I’m glad you guys are doing your job, protecting us.”
The cop continued, in a more friendly tone: “The captains of those tour boats, they see you photographing a bridge, they call us. If you keep it up, you’ll get picked up again in 20 minutes. You’ll get picked up ten times a day.”
The cop was droning on, still towering over Max, head next to the gleaming skyscraper—the black angel, and the white angel—like a great arch over the river. It reminded Max of the great arch at St. Louis. He couldn’t resist. It was a once in a lifetime chance for a great photo, so he said: “Mind if I take your picture?”
“Whoa—you gotta be kidding? Here I am making a terrorist search, and YOU wanna take MY picture? I don’t’ think so!”
“That’s OK. I understand. Well, we’ll be getting on, if that’s all right. “
“OK, here’s your rope. And try to stay out of trouble. Stay on the river, and you’ll be all right.”
When they got a ways away, Max felt a rush of relief and an urge to joke about their little adventure. He turned back to John in the stern, and said: “Hey Mohammed, we sure fooled that cop, didn’t we?” But John looked funny, and shook his head, looking to the left. Max followed his gaze to see a worker on a nearby pier, probably within earshot, who was looking at them intently while dialing on his cell phone.
“Oh shit!” Max thought, “Another trip to the Police Boat. This time it’s going to be harder to explain.”
Travel tip by Max: Keep your identification handy while paddling under bridges in Chicago. If you're name is Mohammed, try paddling on Lake Geneva instead.
Max and John paddled along the waterfront, with Max gawking at the tall buildings, and taking quick photos of their silhouettes against the clouds, and reflections of the skyline on the brilliant facades of glass and metal.
There were almost no places to haul out and rest, but after a while, they found a good one—a small floating dock about 12 feet long by 3 feet wide, next to a large tour boat, parked off-duty, and—this was the best part—in the shade of a nearby bridge. They hauled out for lunch, and Max sat comfortably on their cooler, after extracting a cold beer for himself and John.
There were almost no places to haul out and rest, but after a while, they found a good one—a small floating dock about 12 feet long by 3 feet wide, next to a large tour boat, parked off-duty, and—this was the best part—in the shade of a nearby bridge. They hauled out for lunch, and Max sat comfortably on their cooler, after extracting a cold beer for himself and John.
The deli sandwiches were delicious, but Max was careful to eat it protruding from the wrapper, since his hands were soiled with the filthy water (and he had forgotten to bring hand sanitizer). Only a little ways back, they’d seen a large rat floating belly up in the company of other unsavory items. When tour boats passed, Max was afraid their wake would wash over the tiny dock, but his fears soon proved unfounded, as it just bobbed up and over the next boat’s wake.
The infamous lunch pier is just to the left of the tied-up tour boat
They watched the tour boats and water taxis go back and forth--the tour boats droning the tour of the day from speakers. The water taxis (really busses with a capacity of about 20) were mostly empty. Some of the tour boats were modern, like the streamlined, giant yellow “Waterdog,” which looked like a hotdog doused in mustard, and other--very classic old wooden belles from the first half of the 20th century. Max tried to photograph the boats as they passed under the bridge, framing the boat with the arch of the bridge.
They finished up and got back into the canoe, then pushed out around the parked tour boat and headed towards the mouth of the river. Just ahead, Max noticed a large police boat tied to the opposite shore, not that far away. Then he spotted a burly officer beckoning them over.
They watched the tour boats and water taxis go back and forth--the tour boats droning the tour of the day from speakers. The water taxis (really busses with a capacity of about 20) were mostly empty. Some of the tour boats were modern, like the streamlined, giant yellow “Waterdog,” which looked like a hotdog doused in mustard, and other--very classic old wooden belles from the first half of the 20th century. Max tried to photograph the boats as they passed under the bridge, framing the boat with the arch of the bridge.
They finished up and got back into the canoe, then pushed out around the parked tour boat and headed towards the mouth of the river. Just ahead, Max noticed a large police boat tied to the opposite shore, not that far away. Then he spotted a burly officer beckoning them over.
Max quickly grabbed his PFD and tried to squirm into it without untying it first, without removing his floppy sun hat--but the PFD rammed the hat down tight over his eyes, then got caught on his camera, still only halfway on. For a long moment, Max was blind and in a straightjacket, drifting ever closer to the Police boat somewhere ahead. Max thought: “Well, so much for my quick change. I’ll probably get a ticket for not wearing the PFD. That must be why they called us over,” Finally, he squeezed it all the way on as they came up to the boat. The officer loomed over them as Max handed up their bow line.
Max looked up, apprehensively. The sideboard of the Police boat was an ample 4 feet high. And there, towering over them, just a silhouette really against the bright blue sky, was an immense officer, built like a gorilla, thick arms bulging outward, with a large gun protruding from his waist. He seemed as large as a skyscraper—and as if to match, on the other side of the river was a huge skyscraper, reaching for the sky, seeming to lean towards the officer, till the officer’s head and the building’s top nearly touched. Together they formed a gigantic arch over the river, and over the canoe. In the tiny canoe, Max felt like a cockroach on the pavement before an oncoming bus.
“Hand up your identification. And open your bags for inspection. NOW! What’s your business here, and why were you photographing that bridge?”
Max looked up, apprehensively. The sideboard of the Police boat was an ample 4 feet high. And there, towering over them, just a silhouette really against the bright blue sky, was an immense officer, built like a gorilla, thick arms bulging outward, with a large gun protruding from his waist. He seemed as large as a skyscraper—and as if to match, on the other side of the river was a huge skyscraper, reaching for the sky, seeming to lean towards the officer, till the officer’s head and the building’s top nearly touched. Together they formed a gigantic arch over the river, and over the canoe. In the tiny canoe, Max felt like a cockroach on the pavement before an oncoming bus.
“Hand up your identification. And open your bags for inspection. NOW! What’s your business here, and why were you photographing that bridge?”
“We’re just tourists,” Max offered, “from Wisconsin. Madison, Wisconsin.”
“Why were you photographing that bridge? Convince me you’re not a terrorist! You can’t go around photographing bridges.”
“I’m a retired photographer. I wasn’t photographing the bridge—I was just using it to frame my photos of those boats. And see how the blue reflects off the girders on the bridge—that makes for a great shot.”
The Cop studied the offered credit card, since Max hadn’t thought to bring his driver’s license. “What’s your address?”
Max dutifully rattled off the address on his credit card, while John offered his identification and some explanations about their jaunt on the river. As the cop began to relax, his gorilla arms no longer bulged so much to the sides, like a sheriff ready for a quick draw at OK Corral, and his voice softened:
“Let me give you some advice. That was private property back there. You can’t climb out on private property. And don’t go taking pictures of bridges, or those sewer outfalls. It’s a changed world, since 9/11? You understand?”
“Oh, perfectly,” Max cooed. “We understand. I’m glad you guys are doing your job, protecting us.”
The cop continued, in a more friendly tone: “The captains of those tour boats, they see you photographing a bridge, they call us. If you keep it up, you’ll get picked up again in 20 minutes. You’ll get picked up ten times a day.”
The cop was droning on, still towering over Max, head next to the gleaming skyscraper—the black angel, and the white angel—like a great arch over the river. It reminded Max of the great arch at St. Louis. He couldn’t resist. It was a once in a lifetime chance for a great photo, so he said: “Mind if I take your picture?”
“Whoa—you gotta be kidding? Here I am making a terrorist search, and YOU wanna take MY picture? I don’t’ think so!”
“That’s OK. I understand. Well, we’ll be getting on, if that’s all right. “
“OK, here’s your rope. And try to stay out of trouble. Stay on the river, and you’ll be all right.”
When they got a ways away, Max felt a rush of relief and an urge to joke about their little adventure. He turned back to John in the stern, and said: “Hey Mohammed, we sure fooled that cop, didn’t we?” But John looked funny, and shook his head, looking to the left. Max followed his gaze to see a worker on a nearby pier, probably within earshot, who was looking at them intently while dialing on his cell phone.
“Oh shit!” Max thought, “Another trip to the Police Boat. This time it’s going to be harder to explain.”
Travel tip by Max: Keep your identification handy while paddling under bridges in Chicago. If you're name is Mohammed, try paddling on Lake Geneva instead.
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