Tarzan never came back from Balboa Island

A few weeks ago I said that as a young man living in Balboa, I

viewed Balboa Island as a pretty poky place. That jaundiced

perspective may have been colored by an earlier incident.

As a child, all I knew about Balboa Island was that it was across

the bay, and that on the Fourth of July everyone on the Balboa side

where I lived shot skyrockets over there trying to burn the place

down. That was the extent of my consideration. Then, something

happened that colored my thinking about the place.

I was going through my Tarzan stage. I had thought playing Tarzan

was tough in Wyoming, where I had lived before coming to Balboa.

There, I had only sagebrush to climb while waiting to pounce on Numa

the lion.

In Balboa, it was even more difficult. There was not even any

sagebrush, just a lot of sand, so I resorted to the rooftops, running

over the roofs of the houses of the summer visitors. That was all

right during the winter, but when summer came, the visitors proved to

be real spoilsports, taking a dim view of some kid running over their

roofs.

I thought those summer visitors were pretty unreasonable, although

in retrospect, I suppose it was a little disconcerting to be having

lunch with the family and hear some 10-year-old kid clatter over the

roof and leap down on the family cat screaming, “Numa! You die!”

Finally, after several complaints to my parents, I was banned from

the roofs. It was a sad day. As I was moping down Central Avenue near

the library, a big car pulled up and stopped. A voice said, “Son, can

you direct me to the Balboa Island ferry?”

I looked up and my heart almost stopped. It was Elmo Lincoln! For

the uninitiated, Elmo Lincoln was the first movie Tarzan. Lincoln was

a rather rotund man who stalked around on the screen wearing a lion

skin cape and carrying a spear. With that spear, he killed countless

natives while saving Jane.

Since these were silent films, we never heard him let out the kind

of scream made famous by a later Tarzan, one Johnny Weissmuller.

Nor did Lincoln dive in the water and wrestle with crocodiles.

Lincoln was no Olympic champion like Weissmuller, and I’m not sure he

could even swim.

Neither did he swing from handy vines on jungle trees. I’ll

venture a guess that Lincoln couldn’t even climb a tree.

Actually, all I can remember him doing was stalking -- almost

strutting -- around in that lion skin cape carrying that spear. Be

that as it may, he was Tarzan and, thus, my boyhood hero.

In reply to his question, I stammered out directions. Lincoln

thanked me and took off. I raced after him as fast as my spindly legs

would carry me. Alas, I got there too late. The ferry was just

pulling out with Elmo Lincoln’s car as its only passenger.

I waited all day there at the ferry landing for Lincoln to return.

He never did. I didn’t know at the time that there was a bridge on

the other side of the island over which Lincoln had undoubtedly

escaped. Be that as it may, he didn’t return on the ferry, and I

cursed Balboa Island for swallowing my hero.

With all the determination of a thwarted 10-year-old, I made a

particular effort with my fireworks that Fourth of July to burn the

place down -- to no avail -- and the incident undoubtedly contributed

to my later condescending attitude toward the place.

* ROBERT GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and a former judge.

His column runs Tuesdays.