With perils like these, you had to be a real tough guy to jump feet first in for a swim. Actually no one went there to have a good time or to catch a tan. You went there, heart in hand, to jump off the ledges. As soon as you hit the water you pulled yourself out. Rumor had it that if sunken debris didn’t knock you unconscious, huge, flesh eating fish lurking  in the deep, waited to tear you apart. I can vouch for the rumor. One hot summer afternoon my friend and I spied a four-foot beast sunning on the surface. 

Quincy was dotted with more than 50 abandoned quarries like the one in my neighborhood. Between 1750 and 1962 Swedish, Finnish, Scottish, and Irish immigrant workers used cranes, gin poles, and other rigging to lift monstrous granite slabs out of deep holes hundreds of feet below the surface. Several of the sites had been filled in as a precaution against drowning. Not so with my quarry. Located in the southern corner of the park, right across the Braintree line, it served as a magnet to every boy who dared to become a man. 

The quarry had been cut into a hill more than 100 years ago. It was about 300 feet in diameter; underground springs and rainwater fed it. The southerly side  opened to the water. Rust colored, granite walls rose in a circular loop until the sides merged more than 100 feet above the water. 

The east side was too slanted for jumping. The west side shot up in jagged ledges. That is where the jump spots were located. You had to crawl down from the top to get to them. Each one had its own name. The shortest one, Betsy, was 15 feet above the water.  Lowery was 25 feet high. The third one tilted in the wrong direction, 40 feet up. The ledge called Suicide stood atop the rim at 100 feet. Kids like me got dizzy peering down from it into the icy-dark water below. 

Jumping off Suicide was not easy because tree limbs and sharp outcroppings shot out from the ragged wall. To clear the obstacles, jumpers had to take a running start.  Only a handful of guys ever made it. My second cousin, the legendary Frankie C, was one of them. He did it the summer of '56, his first day back from reform school. They called him Brickhead because he hit the water head first rather than feet first. Word was that a sailor stationed at the shipyard jumped when he was drunk. He was ripped apart by the trees before he made it to the water. Part of his underwear could be seen dangling from a snapped birch limb that summer. 

One July afternoon,soon after my 13th birthday, one of my friends asked me to join him for a swim at the quarry. He was two years older than me. When he was younger, he had lived in the second floor apartment of our house. His father had built the first house up at Penn's Hill, next to Faxon Park.

Norman was a gifted kid. He was the only one from the neighborhood who took Latin in junior high school. Although he didn't play organized sports, he was a good athlete. He was one of the regulars, a reliable first baseman and lead off hitter who played every day up at Faxon in the summer. 

He could see I was uncertain about joining him.  On one hand I imagined a horrible death, slipping on my takeoff and smashing into the side of the ledge before I made it to the water. On the other hand I was the only kid left on the block who hadn't tested my manhood at the quarry. My cowardliness embarrassed me because I was the star running back on the 7th grade football team. 

Sensing my fear Norman said, "Henry, my brother Roger is going to be with us. He's home from summer camp. He's a sophomore at Norwich University and he knows a lot about swimming. Just tell your mother that Roger is going to be with us." 

That convinced me. I walked confidently into the kitchen to ask her for permission. She was sitting at the table pealing the blackened skins off of roasted peppers. "Mom," I said, "Norman McCloud is out on the front porch. He wants to know if I can go swimming at the quarry."

She looked at me kindly and replied, "Isn't that dangerous Henry?"

"I'll be ok", I replied. "Roger is going to be with us. He goes to a military college in Vermont. I will be fine."

 She knew I could get into a lot of trouble at the quarry but she hid her fear. She looked up and with confidence in her eyes said, "Well I guess it is ok. Just remember to be careful."

I knew at that moment I had grown up. 

I ran into the bathroom, grabbed a towel and shot out the door. I didn't bother hunting for my bathing suit because you didn't wear one at the quarry. Norman and I walked up to the entrance of Faxon Park and took the shortcut next to Mrs. Console’s house. Five minutes later we passed the ball field, and headed for the water fountain near the parking area. We knew the quarry path started over by the pile of disgarded gravel. I turned around to see if my brother was following me. I didn't want him along. If word got back to my father, both my mother and I would be in big trouble. 

We pushed the briars back carefully, and eased onto moss-covered rocks. We inched our way over them until we were on solid ground. The path was a familiar one. I must have walked it 100 times. Enormous granite boulders, worn with age, stood opposite each other along the path. Their rounded, somnolent shadows mixed with those from the old oak trees to block out the afternoon sun. The trail sloped to the right for about 300 feet until it ran into the old stone wall that cut through the park. For the most part, the wall was in good shape. It was about three feet high and seemed as thick. Youth Corps Workers had built it in 1938 with rust colored rocks from the quarry. They had rounded its top to prevent rain erosion and capped it with a thin layer of spicy brown cement. Unfortunately their design had not protected it from vandals. One of the games we used to play as youngsters was to see who could walk the farthest on it leaping over the smashed sections. 

Norman and I straddled the loose rocks that spotted the trail. An occasional sock or empty bag of Wise Potato Chips or a Coke bottle littered the ground. Sharp pickers and dandy grass mixed with the trash.Tiny green berries grew along the trail. In another month we would return to snack on ripened blueberries. Using our caps as pails, we would pick just enough for our mothers to make sweet muffins and pancakes for breakfast. 

The smell of the earth was clean and the woods were quiet. We were alone with our thoughts. The trail continued its decent to the right. After walking briskly for five minutes, we reached the clearing that overlooked the shipyard. Enormous black girders framed the skyline. We stopped to look at the destroyer being built in the second bay. It was too far off to spy the men at work. Before leaving, we turned to the right to salute the wealthy owners of the white tiled house that stood above the tree line. We shook our heads in disgust as we pointed our middle fingers skyward, knowing that they  had invaded our secret world. 

There was absolute quietness in the woods except for a squirrel that scampered across the dried oak leaves or an occasional hawk that circled overhead. Massive outcroppings of pale-green rock were everywhere. We paused at the latest graffiti-- Buddy "53" wondering who he was. Norman imagined he was Italian. " Ya, I know him. He’s Tommie Marino’s cousin.  He went in the Navy because he got kicked out of Quincy High." 

We fell silent as we neared the quarry, slowing our pace like Indians passing through the forest. Older teenagers were known to ambush kids, and throw them into the abyss. Before long we reached the clearing. Norman and I stood on Suicide to watch Roger leap into the water. We felt the thrill of his performance. He yelled up to us as soon as he saw us. We waved, and backed onto the trail slowly. We followed it around the rim until we reached the far side. The last 50 feet was a blur as we dashed across loose gravel not five feet from the edge of the precipice. We crawled down to Betsy, stripped off our clothes, grabbed our crotches, and shouting "Oh, shit!" jumped into the cold, deep water below.