The Lost Sister Reflections on the Christian Admiral

The Lost Sister

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THE FOLLOWING IS AN EXCERPT FROM THE CAPE MAY STAR AND WAVE, PUBLISHED AUGUST1996.

Long after its demise, the Chrisitian Admiral, Admiral Hotel or Hotel Cape May—call it what you will—will probably still endure in a historical sense because from its inception in the first years of the 20th century, the building was a phenomenon. And at this writing, several months after it was demolished and cleared from the lots fronting the Atlantic Ocean on Beach Drive between Pittsburgh and Baltimore avenues, it’s still spoken of emotionally, in terms of how it played a part in people’s lives.

Many of the memories we’ve read and heard over the years are not necessarily the turning points and milestones of people’s lives, but more in the sense of the regularity in lives, a source of stability, be those memories from the soldiers who convalesced at the hotel while it was a WWII hospital, the youths who gathered at the Christian Admiral in the 1960s as a place to hang out, or simply from those who looked forward to seeing the looming edifice framed by the expansive seashore sky as they drove into Cape May.

It’s those same people or those of that ilk who gathered around the hotel on cold days early in 1996 for several weeks to say good-bye to a mainstay in their lives.

Top Right An excerpt from the New York Times, dated c. 1915, detailing former U.S. President William Howard Taft’s unfortunate incident with a bathtub at the Hotel Cape May.

Both the first owner, Cape May Real Estate Company, and the last and longest owner, Rev. Carl McIntire, had grand visions for the use of the hotel. Originally intended as an anchor for the “New Newport,” Cape May Real Estate Company attempted to transform the image of Cape May and bring new wealth to the area. Rev. McIntire, popular in the 1950s and 1960s for his radio ministry, had visions of using the Christian Admiral, as he renamed it, for tending to the soul, using it both as a hotel and as a Christian conference center.

The decades between its tumultuous beginning and end were filled with bankruptcies, a stream of owners, festivities, formal balls, religious revivals, and other ups and downs of a hotel that seemed fated for failure, despite all the good intentions and glorious plans that went with them.

A New Newport

But the beginning of the Hotel Cape May caused as much flurry and excitement as the ending of the Christian Admiral, making the front page of local papers for weeks and months at a time, and stirring media coverage from far¬ther, larger markets, such as Philadelphia and New York and eliciting emotion and memories from the general public.

Greatly anticipated, the Hotel Cape May was welcomed at the genesis of Cape May as a type of “new Newport.” The Greater Cape May Historical Society’s 1996 summer

exhibit, “A Farewell Salute to the Admiral,” focused on the impact of the hotel and its role on the overall project of building a “resort to rival Newport, a seaport to rival Philadelphia . . . 5,400 acres, 7,500 building lots, dredging a 35-foot-deep harbor of 500 acres, filling wetlands from Sewell’s Point to Madison Avenue for a ‘a new city with splendid avenues and broad streets.’”

The hotel cost $1 million to build and was completed one year behind schedule, three years after its September 1905 groundbreaking by Peter Shields, president of Cape May Real Estate Co. Eventually, the scheme of the “New Cape May” failed. The plan, however, gave the city the Cape May Harbor, the Fun Factory, Marine Casino and the still-active Corinthian Yacht Club, entertainment centers that enhanced the quality of life in the pre-WWII community, and elegant beachfront homes that still stand.

A Spring Opening

The spring 1908 opening of the Hotel Cape May brought fifty to sixty guests and much eagerness for the future. The Cape May Star and Wave recorded the event in the Saturday, April 11, 1908 issue:

One of the greatest events which has ever occurred at Cape May is the formal opening of the million dollar Hotel Cape May with from 50–60 guests. It undoubtedly will stand in all future time as an incident marking the beginning of a Greater Cape May, which thus embarks upon a career of building and importance which will make all past history of the resort pale and insignificant. The distinguished guests from all parts of the country will enjoy the comforts of a hotel of the very highest-class having few equals in the world and will depart with the knowledge of Cape May and its prospects which will arouse their interest and enthusiasm. Many applicants for accommodations for summer have been received.

Over the next few months, the Hotel Cape May remained a busy place. In June 1908, it hosted three conventions: the International Association of Ticket Agents, the New Jersey Homeopathic Medical Society and the Pennsylvania Bar AssoxiRION, with the promise of additional conventions throughout the season. Due to the social prominence of its guests, the hotel continued to add amenities, according to the Saturday May 30, 1908, issues of the Star and Wave:

Much will be done to add to the establishment. A tennis court is being prepared and two small piers and pavilions have been contracted for. We are informed that work upon the large ocean pier will be begun very soon. A roller chair service has already begun. The grounds are growing in beauty as the season progresses and the artistically arranged lawns and parterres will be adorned with beautiful flowers. It would tac the vocabulary to adequately describe the interior, and the cuisine and service is perfection.

New York people of the highest class have been attracted and they will form a large contingent in the quota of summer guests. Reservations of rooms for the summer are steadily

being made, and the house will be completely filled by June 15th, and continue all summer. Cape May is proud of the accession of this great hotel and rejoices that its desire for the class of accommodations has been so thoroughly realized.

Glory Days End

The glory days of the Hotel Cape May were to end about three years later when it lapsed into insolvency and embarked on a succession of public and private commercial failures. By 1911, it had a new owner, Cape May Realty, headed by Nelson Graves, a Philadelphia developer. One year later, Realty Corp. of Cape May leased the hotel to a variety of tenants, including the U.S. Army from 1917–1919, which used the hotel as a soldiers’ hospital. The building was vacant during the 1920s, and eventually taken by the city for taxes.

Once again, in 1931, the property was purchased, this time at a tax sale. The new owner, Greater Cape May Inc., leased the hotel to the U.S. Navy, and it was used for a second time as a military hospital. The Navy also refurbished the hotel and built the swimming pool. In 1951, Murrey Realty Co. became the new purchaser and in 1962, First Pennsylvania Banking & Trust bought it at a tax sale, possibly to protect its lien. Christian Beacon Press, headed by Dr. Carl McIntire, took over as owner in 1963 and had it until 1995 when Admiral Realty Partners, LLC bought it prior to demolition as part of the bankruptcy resolution. As several have said, in different ways, the Admiral lives on in people’s memories. What we’ve presented here, although of great import in terms of preservation, is merely a drop of memories in the ocean of the hotel’s legacy. — Mary Keely, Editor, August 1996

Reminiscences of Growing Up in the Christian Admiral

BY CURTIS BASHAW

It was 1963. The breeze was blowing steadily, as it always did at the Admiral. I’m in bed in room 508 listening to the ocean break against the seawall, thankful for the shaft of hallway light that blew in through the transom with the slightly damp air. I was awake, listening, a small child, safe but insignificant in that big building. The sound of the channel buoy could be heard in the darkness, proof that there were in fact dreadful things lurking in the night. I was waiting to hear the organ strains waft up from Gardner Hall signaling the closing hymn of the evening Bible conference meeting and my parents imminent return to room 507 next door.

Youth

Sometimes, if I had trouble falling asleep, my parents would take me down to the huge verandah and we would sit rocking, listening to the waves, almost feeling the spray in the moist summer air. The air and that spot were intoxicating, and sleep was never long in coming. The sun woke us in the mornings—the large east facing open windows and screens sparkling with the dew left by the night breezes. Room 508 was connected to 509 by a small hallway and a shared bathroom. Most mornings I could hear my grandfather conducting his morning 7:30am radio broadcast from the phone by his bed. He was a preacher and had purchased the Admiral to be a Bible conference and religious retreat center in 1962. It seemed strange at times, him sitting on his bedside in his light blue cotton PJ’s, a Bible and the daily papers strewn around, talking non-stop about “God and Country” for half an hour.

“Folks, it’s Carl McIntire, broadcasting from the Christian Admiral in Cape May, New Jersey. My, what a sight the Atlantic Ocean is today...” I remember wondering if the people listening around the country could picture what I saw every morning.

By 8:15 we were dressed for breakfast and by 9:30 we were having the usual negotiation over whether we had to go to the 10 a.m. conference meeting or could we “please go to the beach”? The collective pleading voices of myself, my sister Lynette and my two cousins, Norris and Gordon usually prevailed.

After the beach, whenever we got there, we would go back to room 508, sneaking in the back door—because my mother always hated for the conference people to see us all bedraggled and sandy—and take those wonderful baths. The tubs were huge, extra long, and deep. They were made before the days of safety drains and could be filled to the very brim. Without showers, we bathed every afternoon after the beach, before dinner.

Summers

And so, my summers developed a rhythm. I grew up in the Admiral with my grandparents, my mom, my aunts, and my cousins. Our fathers would come down on weekends. As I got older, I more or less had the run of the place, as long as I fulfilled my required duties. When I turned seven, I had to attend the “children’s meetings” held in the kids room across from the bowling alleys, and then by 11or12, it was the full-fledged Gardner Hall adult services. I still waited for those closing hymn organ strains, but now they meant I could get out of my marginally uncomfortable Gardner Hall chair and go to the snack shop for ice cream, another Bible Conference meeting having ended.

Every summer there was a group of us, kids whose dads or moms for granddads worked at the conference as preachers, music directors, pianists, or musicians. On Sunday we’d play hide-and-go-seek. Because Sunday was “the day of rest” we were not allowed to go to the beach. The Admiral pool was, of course, closed. There was Sunday school at 9:30 and then church at 11 and then the Sunday smorgasbord at 12:30—a huge table set up in the Corinthian Room, laden with food, and a second table piled high with desserts. The line for this feast would extend all the way across the lobby. As impatient youngsters we would run around the lobby—squeezing behind the marble pillars or listening to the echo of our voices as we stood dead center under the lobby dome, heads craned back, talking to the sky.

After eating we were supposed to take naps, to rest up for the afternoon concert at 4 p.m. and evening service at 7 p.m. Instead we would sneak out from our rooms and meet in the old elevator room for our weekly hide-and-seek ritual. There were six or eight or 10 of us. We would huddle in that natural wind tunnel and make up rules for that week’s version of the game. The entire building was open territory. One round could take an hour or more. We would usually go in pairs because once nested into a hiding spot one could sit for quite some time before—if ever—being discovered.

Finding a Niche

It was during hide-and-seek that, through the years, I discovered my favorite spots in the building. Between the top two floors there was a three-foot crawl space that we climbed into through a hatch door by the stairway. There was the infamous attic (only braved by the older kids) where pigeons, old hospital equipment, plaster molds and crates were stored, and the furnace room where we hide between and behind the three huge boilers. There was the cloak room off the lobby or the long “secret passageway” that connected the kitchen on the west with the private dining room on the east wing. Never in those dozen or so childhood years was there a lack of the most amazing hiding places. But there was also Mr. Bancroft and then Mr. Ide, the two dedicated, tireless manager, who invariably chased us down those Sunday afternoons. Mr. Bancroft seemed especially fierce the time he caught us hanging on the steam pipes behind the trellised façade and above the dropped ceiling across from the lower lobby elevator. He probably would not have caught us, but we couldn’t resist using the water pistols we’d earned with skee-ball tickets. Dining in the Corinthian Room was another tradition – especially on Saturdays. My grandmother insisted that the family dine together promptly at six. After a long day at the beach, we scrambled to get to dinner on time, especially because we had to wear jackets and ties. How reluctant I was to put on my little shorts with bow tie and jacket which, as

I got older, were replaced by long pants and regular ties. At some point a children’s dining room was opened. Perhaps the moms were tired of maintaining dress codes and dignity in the Corinthian Room. From then on, during the week, they shuttled us happily into the room with painted giraffes on the walls. There, young college girls tried to maintain order as we shot wads of paper and cold peas back and forth across the room.

Traditions

As I got older, and one decade led to another, I realized what a wonderful tradition those Saturday dinners were. The Corinthian Room was majestic with the late afternoon sun streaming through the stained glass, the columns casting shadows over the more than 300 seats. The cooling ocean air streamed in as well, billowing the sheer curtains and table cloths, making the required jacket and tie tolerable.

Often there were VIPs to entertain, US senators, foreign dignitaries, and the like, and my grandfather was always in his trademark white summer suit, greeting the other guests in the dining room. Our table was in the southwest corner of the roof and the long march in from the lobby was always a lesson in diplomacy. As the grandchildren and family of Dr. McIntire we had to smile and shake hands and greet all the people my grandfather talked to as we walked by. It seemed that everybody was watching us, and we didn’t need to be reminded that we were expected to be on our best behavior.

But it was not all formalities. My grandmother’s living room was in room 510 and there we would unwind together and play Monopoly, Scrabble and Rook. I remember that the wool wall-to-wall carpet was slightly scratchy and that my grandmother would sit in the wing chair with her feet up on the little needlepoint stool making lists of things to do the next day. Eventually she would look at her little darlings and laugh ad say “bless your heat” and shuffle us off to bed.

It was 1975 when I moved out of 508 and up to the “boys” dorm on the south side of the top floor. There were more little cousins and siblings now to take my place in room 508. Besides, ever since I could remember I wanted to be a “big kid” and not a “little kid” and therefore I couldn’t wait until I could live in the dorm and actually have a job. I worked as a bus boy, a bellhop, a waiter, a dishwasher, a tour guide. I also had other duties – grandson duties that is – like leading the singing in the meetings and even preaching once in a while. I remember sitting in those top-floor windows watching the sun set across town. We were always told that it was the highest spot in Cape May County. Sometimes we would sneak out the hatch door in the kitchen of the top floor dining room and crawl out onto the flat roof that connected the two wings. There we would sit late at night and watch the lights of the city sparkle. You could see the harbor and Wildwood and the ocean and all

Good-byes

The breeze stirred these sounds and smells and brought the ocean into the place, or the place onto the ocean – almost like an ocean liner. The Admiral lived with the breeze. When the breeze was shut out the place just seemed sad. It seemed to close in on itself and just wasn’t the same. The good smells became stagnant, the sounds became noise and childhood memories faded to adult responsibilities. Taxes, bills, repairs, and codes. Roofs failing, pipers bursting, sashes crumbling and plaster falling. What little money existed was just used to close the place up some more, build more fire walls, rip down the falling copper try to keep up. But it wasn’t enough, and it was closed to guests in November, 1991, 28 seasons since I had first listened for those organ strains. Noble societal goals – fire safety, access for alternatively challenged citizens, environmental cleanliness – each had a cost. Who would dispute their well-intentionedness? Moreover, the creditors had waited now for years and Cape May need its taxes. There were operating realities, enormous expenses that just couldn’t be eliminated. Rehabilitation costs were in the tens of millions.

I was really, like coming to terms with a terminal illness. The Admiral was dying, time had passed it by. After accepting the inevitable everything became easier. Instead of trying to make that dear, tired edifice something it wasn’t, instead of telling it, “you must get better, you will get better”, we just embraced each other. And with that there was peace.

And so, the Admiral gave itself up and as care-givers we took her apart over two months. One particular day last November several of us worked well into the night taking out the lobby dome, panel by panel all 72, wrapping and labeling each. And as we worked, I noticed the breeze again coming in through the broken and missing windows stirring up dust around the marble fragments. And it was cold. But it was also alive, like it used to be and I felt the spirit of the place again. I smelled its smells and heard its sounds. The Admiral wasn’t groaning, it was ready to go.

The next day, all of us, Sandy, Erik, Phil, Greg and the most loyal crew of people imaginable, loaded the last truck, made the last sale and retired at sunset to the domeless rotunda where we stood around a make-shift campfire to give our Admiral a final salute. We felt the wind and were quiet. When we spoke, it was in broken sentences of a place we had all come to love, and we wept, and we smiled and we said good-bye and we knew that the Admiral would never leave us. And so, we delivered that beloved building the next day to the demolition team. And the breeze was blowing steadily, just as it had when I first came to that place.