Scope and Content"Douglas Beach in the Thirties" by Helen Gage DeSoto Lakeshore Drive runs far above the beach. The bluff it occupies is high enough that the summer houses built on the hillside, though only visible at roof and chimney levels, are still well above their private water frontage areas. Some have footbridges to provide access to the road. In the 1930s when I knew it best there was a small store near the entrance to the public park which sold the usual soft drinks and snacks, and, more importantly for us, rented beach umbrellas for 25 cents an hour. Flanking this was a rather casual parking area which consisted of a graveled widening of the road fenced along the edge of the bluff. A long stairway led down through the forest. The lake could only be glimpsed through the thick foliage of the trees on the hills, but the beach itself could not be seen, and we never knew until we got to the bottom just what kind of mood Lake Michigan might be in. About halfway down there was a wide landing where an attached wooden structure contained makeshift dressing stalls before the steps continued their descent. The entire arrangement gave the impression that it had seen better days a long time ago and received a lot of recent wear and tear. The beach itself was a wide stretch of beautiful, clean sand, scattered with random rocks and stones of every size. Finding a good place to enter the water could be difficult, as some innocently welcoming sections deceptively concealed piles of grapefruit- and melon-sized stones, impossible to step on without turning an ankle. In some places, however, the water rippled over rough gravel that was at least tolerable to tender feet. One never knew where the "good" places were, as even mild wind and waves would cause currents to change all of this overnight, and a real storm might rearrange even the boulders on the beach. I remember one enormous rock that stood just barely underwater at a depth of about six feet. It was always difficult to find under the two or three inches of water that concealed it. When located, it made a wonderful diving stand and "King-of-the-Mountain" play area. Squarish and only slightly irregular on top, it was possible for three cooperative people to stand on its surface, although generally the joy was in challenging and being challenged for possession. From the beach it was always amazing to look out over the lake and see someone standing only ankle deep while surrounded by people who were obviously swimming in serious depths. In the summer of 1935 -- I'm fairly sure of the year -- there appeared a real, solidly constructed diving platform out in the real deep water. Although the structure looked flimsy, it had to be very firmly put together because it withstood a lot of punishment that season. It consisted of three long poles supporting a roughly triangular platform six or seven feet above the surface of the water. The poles were firmly seated in the sand of the bottom and were reinforced about halfway to the top by a couple of connecting scrap boards. A sturdy rope ladder with wooden rungs provided access to an elevated standing surface where there was little room for one or two. No one tried to linger aloft, as it was a popular place where, on good days, a steady stream of young teens could be seen swarming up the rope ladder to dive or cannonball off the deepest side of the triangle. Most of the performers were boys, partly because they were truly aggressive in taking possession of the rope ladder, and partly because many of the girls were content to stay in the water admiring the male prowess. Most of the performances were standard kid show-off, but Johnny Fox made even the adults sitting on the sand take pleasure in watching him pause on the edge of the platform, stand tall, and plunge neatly into the water with hardly a splash. One day in August that summer our family arrived at the beach early and, when my cousins and I had clattered down those splintery steps, we found the place practically deserted. Although the air was clear and windless, waves were rolling in, the legacy of a storm the night before. We knew that the undertow on such a day would prevent any diving, but we longed to climb up and possess, if only temporarily, that towering perch above the waves. It looked easy, but the swim took longer than we had anticipated, up one mountainous wave after another. Finally we reach the goal, only a little tired. The rope ladder, however, unanchored by the weight of other climbers proved to be almost impossible to negotiate. It swung madly back and forth with every wave. With me as ballast, my cousin made it to the top, but I had to be content to remain standing on the lowest rung, clinging to one of the support poles. Fortunately the structure itself was so professionally built that it didn't even quiver. When we swam back (much faster than outward bound, I might add) we found that the adults in our party had been suffering agonies of anxiety and no descriptions of an easy though up-and-down swim could convince them that we hadn't been in danger and daring fate. For some reason, we didn't go back to Douglas again that summer. We finished out the season swimming in Ox-Bow lagoon or at Goshorn Lake, so I never saw that diving stand or anything like it again. I always hoped that whoever had constructed it would get inspired again, but it never happened. A one-time wonder, its background is still a mystery to me. The big "diving boulder" though pushed into new locations each winter, a real challenge to find in July, still provided a center of fun before we abandoned Douglas beach for the newly-opened Oval in Saugatuck. An interesting footnote: About 30 years later some friends and I, strolling south along the water's edge past Camp Gray and some hillside beach houses, found ourselves at a deserted but identifiable Douglas Beach. A convenient bench-size rock offered a place to sit comfortably before turning back. Its surface seemed strangely familiar and I suddenly recognized my old deep water play place, now beached and half buried in sand.