Summer arrived earlier than usual in the Pacific Northwest. At night our windows are open wide to the cool breeze and the sound of the waves on Lake Coeur d' Alene. Dropping off to sleep is almost instantaneous when we kill the lights, unless, of course, there are party sounds emanating from the beach. Last night was one of those nights when unbelievably crappy music was blasting (why is it NEVER great jazz?) and teens in heat endeavoured to keep me awake for a good five or ten minutes. Outrageous!
As I lay in bed I was reminded of my own days of raging testosterone and unbridled stupidity. I realized that a mere fifty years ago my nocturnal activities had no doubt kept some now long dead cranky old fart from falling asleep. Hormones and near zero life experience invites moronic behaviour. I recalled an adventure from the summer of 1964 or '65 with another Spencer, Iowa high school guttersnipe pal, Tom White, who shall remain nameless--oops, sorry Tom--that found us on the run from the Lake Okoboji, Iowa lake patrol. The lake, located a few miles north of Spencer, was, and still is, a popular summertime place for most everybody living in Northwest Iowa. It's a beautiful lake in a part of the country not exactly famous for a plethora of recreational water opportunities.
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| Sloe gin, nectar of the 'tards |
Tom's folks had a cabin on Okoboji and they spent most of the summer there. I had spent the night a few times in the past so it was easy to kite a story to my parents about being invited to do it again when Tom and I put together a plan to spend the night whooping it up with a bottle of Sloe Gin swiped from his grandma, (God, do they still make that crap?) a couple of six packs of Old Style and a pack or three of Winstons.
Tom's parents were either out of town or he told them he was staying in town at my house and, as I mentioned, my tale was already fully fibbed. We were ready to party. Both of us were out of girlfriends at the time and were more interested in smoking and drinking all night than steaming up the windows of our not so cool cars at the local drive-in movie. We may have made a feeble attempt to score some female companionship at the Arnolds Park amusement park but most likely struck out since we wound up hiking into Gull Point state park after hours to, we thought, booze and crash for the evening. Gull Point was patrolled by boat under the jurisdiction of the fish and game department of the state of Iowa. (You know, Barney Fife with a minnow bucket.) We figured that since it was dark and we were making no noise we could smoke cigarettes and get blasted 'til our livers shut down or the sun came up. We proceeded to kill some brain cells.
Around 2 AM, being more than happily in the bag, we must have become just a little too loud or the glow of our smokes may have attracted attention from nearby homes because very slowly a boat began circling the narrow point where we had planted ourselves for the evening. It was the Lake Patrol. A searchlight began to scan the beach. We scrambled into the bushes just off the sand dragging our empties and what was left of the Sloe Gin. We lay flat as the light concentrated on the area where we were concealed but we knew there was slim chance we hadn't been spotted. As the boat rounded the point to come at us from the other direction we took advantage the moving spotlight and made a run for it.
We found my twelve year-old Buick right where I had parked it in the lot at the entrance to Gull Point. Tossing the remaining contraband onto the backseat we fled the scene down the dirt road we had come in on. One of us, probably me, thought it was prudent to operate without headlights in case the lake cops had alerted the sheriff's office. There could already be a BOLO out on us!
God, no doubt remembering to look out for drunks and fools, somehow got us safely to a beach in a popular residential area where it was easy to hide the car on a side street. We assumed that the Lake Patrol junior G-men had noted my car in the Gull Point parking lot earlier in the evening. We quietly plopped ourselves on the small new beach, quietly finished the evidence and decided to call it a night.
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| evidence |
A fish jumping in the lake woke me just before sunrise. I couldn't decide if there was more sand in my mouth or on the beach. My head ached and I was already dreading the long day of work scheduled for me at Swanson' Super Store where I worked for Oscar "The watermelon King" Swanson. Tom, also feeling about the same, considered what lay ahead at his summer job wrangling wood at Fostoria Lumber. We groused about the unfairness of it all as we fired up a couple of Winstons and considered our next move. We congratulated ourselves on evading arrest, blowing one by our parents and--so far--not throwing up. I recall brushing my teeth in the lake, dropping Tom off at his car and heading for work. Because life is made for people not encumbered by self awareness, it only took me another 35 years to figure out that this was not a great way to start your day.
Next year is the fiftieth reunion of our high school class: Spencer High Class of '66. Maybe Tom and I can recreate this nocturnal adventure of yore. Perhaps a heads up is in order for the Lake Patrol this time and, instead of Sloe gin and Old Style, a couple of large bottles of Pellagrino or Perrier. We could always club ourselves over the head repeatedly with the empties to re-live the good old days.
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| Lake Okoboji |
