If I had a second home as a child, it was my aunt and uncle’s house on Balboa Island.
My mother’s older sister was named Evelyn. An English girl on a trip to the United States, she met a young American doctor named Philip Woodworth and married him. They ended up in Sierra Madre, a suburb of Los Angeles at the foot of the San Gabriel Mountains, living in a large home that doubled as medical office for Phil’s practice. At one point they bought a weekend home on Balboa Island in Newport Bay.
Once the home of the “Tongva” Native Americans, the Newport Bay estuary — located on the Orange County coast south of Los Angeles — was too shallow to ever become a true harbor. But an ocean pier built on its peninsula in the 1870s made it a successful fishing and commercial port until the end of the 19th century, when it was eclipsed by San Pedro as the region’s primary harbor. At this point the bay was developed as a residential resort. In partnership with Henry E. Huntington and his Pacific Electric Railway (which began service to Newport in 1905), its owners dredged the bay, piling sand and silt onto peninsula and tidal islets to create the extensive small craft harbor it is still today. The largest island in that harbor, Balboa is actually two islands – “Little” and “Big” — separated by the not-so “Grand Canal.” Backing on alleys, the residential lots are short and narrow, which is why most of the homes built on them were two stories. The most admirable attribute of the island is the sidewalk that rings it. Built atop the concrete seawall that prevents ocean erosion and keeps the islands intact, this public walkway allows unimpeded views of the bay and all the island’s beaches. The owners of the grander homes facing the water may have private boat piers, but they have to cross a public pedestrian thoroughfare to get to them.
Phil and Evelyn’s home — 122 Crystal Avenue — was on the “Little Island.” Probably built sometime in the 1920s, it was cheaply constructed beach house in which, from downstairs, you could hear the squeak of every footstep in the bedrooms above. Accessed by an exterior staircase, there was a separate apartment above the garage that opened onto the alley. The backyard consisted of a small patio off the living room and along the garage. The stucco exterior was a distinctive pink with white trim. The fact it was a beach house was acknowledged by an exterior door that opened right into the shower of the downstairs bathroom, allowing one to wash off sand without ever having to track it through the house.
When Phil ended his practice and semi-retired, he and Evelyn sold their house in Sierra Madre and made 122 Crystal their only home. On one of the piers a few short blocks away, they moored their sailboat, a blue 20-foot sloop appropriately named “The Blue Lucy.” While they would sail it to Catalina Island and down to Ensenada, the sloop was mostly used for day excursions, out through the breakwaters of harbor entrance and into the open ocean.
While it had its rich and famous residents (movie star John Wayne had a palatial home and large yacht on tiny “Bay Island”), Newport Beach in the 1960s was, for the most part, a modest, upper middle-class community. While residents were well-off, many enough so to own boats, there was not yet any sense of ostentatious wealth. There were retirees like my aunt and uncle, weekenders, professionals with families, and young people renting the studio apartments like the one above Phil and Evelyn’s garage.
My mother and her sister were close and we spent a lot of time there. Before the 405 (the “San Diego Freeway”) was opened in the mid-1960s, we’d take the “Ventura Fwy (U.S. 101) from our Encino home to downtown LA, from there traveling on the “Santa Ana Freeway” (now Interstate 5) to Orange County. We’d exit at Jamboree Boulevard, which ran all the way to Newport and the bridge that connected Balboa with the mainland. As this was before the massive development of the Irvine Ranch, there was virtually nothing but grassland and scrub brush between the freeway and the ocean, this giving the beach community an aura of exotic remove.
My sisters and I knew Evelyn as “Auntie.” Phil was “Uncle Phil.” A great deal of tradition grew up around visits to their home, i.e. obligatory activities done daily or at least once during the stay. We always went to the same beach – the one next to the Blue Lucy’s pier. And a visit to the beach was not complete without a swim across “the channel: ” the stretch of water — about a 100 yards wide – that ran between that side of the island and the mainland. As there was nothing but boats in slips on the mainland side, there wasn’t anything to actually swim to. We’d mark our arrival by hanging onto a slip or a mooring rope to rest before turning around and swimming back.
(English as they were, Evelyn and my mother were avid swimmers unfazed by water temperature. Evelyn swam this channel every day, even in the dead of winter. As Rudyard Kipling said and Noel Coward made famous: “Only mad dogs and Englishman go out in the midday sun.” The same might be said of the English and cold water!)
After dinner there was the obligatory walk around the small island. The wonderful thing about the island-circling sidewalk was that it allowed you to peer into the front rooms of houses as much look out over the harbor. It was always fun to see what people were eating at their dining room tables or were watching on TV. An alternative walk was across the short bridge over the “Grand Canal” to the “Big Island” and the shops on “Main Street.” This road – a continuation of the bridge from the mainland – was the only commercial one on the island. Interspersed between gift shops, a few restaurants and an inordinate number of realtor offices were a plethora of ice cream or sweet shops. Soft ice cream (a la Foster’s Freeze) was popular, as were frozen bananas. We’d get cones and walk up and down Main Street before heading back to Crystal. (Never an aesthetic I appreciated, not once did I get a frozen banana in all the times I visited.)
A grander evening outing required a long walk down to the ferry that ran back and forth between the Big Island and the Newport Peninsula across the Main Channel. While it had a valid transportation purpose – a motorist shortcut whereby one could avoid the long drive around the harbor – the ferry felt more like a Disneyland ride. The flat, barge-like boats carried three to four cars at a time. Pedestrians sat on the benches that lined both sides and, if I remember correctly, paid only a nickel for a one-way trip. Adjacent to the ferry terminal on the Peninsula was the “Fun Zone,” an aging arcade with game booths, a small Ferris wheel and a few other cheap rides. Next to it was the “Pavilion,” a once grand ballroom that, with its distinctive tower, was the harbor’s architectural landmark. From the ferry it was only a short walk across the narrow peninsula to the ocean and a real beach with waves.
(Next to the harbor jetty at the tip of the peninsula is “The Wedge,” the famous – and often infamous – surfing and bodysurfing spot where the unique juxtaposition of breakwater and shore can produce waves up to 30 feet high.)
There was, of course, ocean sailing on the Blue Lucy. As I was prone to sea-sickness, these were never excursions to which I looked forward. Once we got beyond the jetty into open water and deep swells, I’d inevitably be hanging over the side barfing up my last meal. Sometimes, however, I miraculously didn’t get sick and I’d have a grand time. Uncle Phil would get out his fishing rod and run a line behind the boat, the catch almost always being “bonito,” a feisty, 12-18 inch predator fish related to tuna that, once hooked, would put up a good fight. There is a photo of me with the first bonito catch I could call my own.
I remember one time out in the ocean on the Blue Lucy when, after I had been especially sick, I curled up in my mother’s arms, she holding me until we got back into the harbor. My mother wasn’t that particularly cuddly, so this moment of physical tenderness has always stayed with me…
This, I hope, provides you with an introduction to the Balboa Island of the 1960s. More memories to come…