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The Legend of Suicide Bridge
Secretary – The first victim of Suicide Bridge was a postmaster from Hurlock, who shot himself and then fell into the waters of Cabin Creek. The second victim was a farmer who also shot himself and fell from the bridge to the swirling waters of the Dorchester county creek. Next was a man who some say willfully drove off the 21-foot-high bridge, while others say he met with foul play.
Pete Moxey, a lifelong resident of the area was eight or nine years old when this incident happened. “It’s the first one I remember. A fellow who was short, stocky and black with the nickname of “Frog,” they say he jumped off the bridge and struck his head on one of the pilings. But the word was going around that there was foul play involved. I don’t know” Mr. Moxey said. He remembers that once the body was found, “they put him on a table over there in a picnic area and did an autopsy, right in the open.” Mr. Moxey was only a youngster then, so he was sent home before the autopsy was performed.
The original bridge was a wooden structure built around 1888. The second bridge, also wooden and only one lane, was built around 1910. The third bridge was also wooden but covered with asphalt, was built in 1967 and dedicated in 1968. (It was rebuilt again in 2005.) Locals apparently have always called it Suicide Bridge.
Mr. Moxey said he was surprised at how quickly another suicide occurred after the third bridge was built. “It was up for 6 months and then bingo, somebody went off,” he said. “I helped pull that guy out of the water. He had been a long-time employee of continental can in Hurlock, and was just coming off a long vacation,” Mr. Moxey said, “instead of going back to work he drove here, parked his car and jumped off the bridge.”
After rescuers located the body, Mr. Moxey said, the ropes got tangled and he got into his boat to help bring the body out. The body was then placed on the dock. “The blood soaked into the wood on the dock and it wouldn’t wash away,” said Moxey. “It was there for about five years until I tore it down and built another one.”
Another man who was born and raised within a half of a mile of the bridge, moved away for quite a few years, came back, parked his car by the foot of the bridge and shot himself. “I don’t think the bridge is jinxed. Maybe it’s just the name that brings them here,” Mr. Moxey said of the suicides.
In a more recent incident, Dave Nickerson, who lived across the creek next to the bridge, was awakened one morning by calls of “Help…Help.” Seeing a car parked on the bridge, he immediately got into his skiff and zoomed to the area where the calls were coming from. He pulled a woman from the icy waters who had apparently changed her mind about committing suicide. Nickerson immediately took her ashore, ran to her car, which was running and parked on the bridge and drove to the skiff. When he tried to get the woman into the warm car she replied, “I don’t want to get the seats wet – it’s a new car!”
The Ballad of Suicide Bridge
Glenn Whaley
The woman gazed at the swirl below,
her hands hard on the rail;
The futile kiss of wasted hope
framed eyes cast ghostly, pale.
Determined, tense, her course firm-set
on a final, bitter end;
She stood atop the trestle wood-
her lonely, last, cold friend.
The history of this storied bridge
hung heavy in the air:
Of the arching sweep ‘cross the cruel deep,
claiming lives by pain laid bare.
For tales and more from days of yore
became legends of a span
Whose timbers had trembled beneath the load
of many a tortured man.
She took a final lingering look
at the shore she’d left behind-
Preparing to leave a life she grieved,
of fears and fate unkind.
Then, with a whimper, she leaped and fell
in a desperate effort to seek
A solemn peace, a quick release
in the current of Cabin Creek.
The water closed above her head,
she sank beneath the flood;
She felt the grip of death’s foul whip
as she touched the creek’s soft mud.
It was then the cravings of her soul
reached out beyond the stream;
To savor life – that splendid place
where the spirit dares to dream!
She found her footing in the silt
below the bridge’s arch;
She thrust with the vigor of reborn hope,
for the chance to keep life’s march.
Her face broke free of the water’s clench,
she gasped a long, sweet breath;
In her peril she called to the pier near the shore,
and so cheated a dismal death.
For there, within hearing, a man on the beach
detected a voice calling out;
He ran for his skiff and made for the sound
of a woman’s desperate shout.
In safety the lady was borne to the reach
of the bridge’s nearest bank;
A blanket was brought and comfort sought
for a soul that almost sank.
The woman was cheered by helping hands
that surrounded her with love;
She was supported in strength by the timbers of
The watchful bridge above.
And with the dawn of that hopeful morn
a burden was borne away;
The bridge’s legacy of grim tragedy
was lifted on that day.
For a span long rendered notorious
by death and suicide
Now became known for new-found hope –
where life and peace abide…
A wholesome home, a community,
of life lived in earnest pledge
To blessed hope and charity –
a place called Suicide Bridge.