Boys Behaving Badly

It all started with a purloined bottle of sloe gin, a particularly horrible British combination of gin and sloe berries that tickles your taste buds with delightful combination of ripe plums and an old toilet seat.  A grand drink indeed.  I no longer remember who scored the hooch, me or my pal Tom White, but we had a whole bottle with the seal still intact.  Along with two six-packs of Storz beer, a Midwest regional brew of some merit, the two of us were the owners of teenage boy gold.  As I recall, White had secured the beer at a small package store in Arnolds Park, Iowa a  burg that wrapped itself  around the shores of Lake Okoboji the premier lake in Northwest Iowa.  At 17, and sporting a growth of carrot colored beard, White was able to carry off the "I'm 21" vibe sufficiently enough to fool a bored shopkeeper who merely wanted the money,  a chance to close early, or could remember his own misspent youth.


Naturally there was a plan.  As captives in the ever so polite small city of Spencer, Iowa we and our other degenerate posse were constantly on the lookout for new opportunities to immerse ourselves in hot water.  We were too hip for the room and chafed at the restrictions imposed by our parents.  This caper involved the two of us telling our parents that we were staying at the other guy's house for the night.  We crafted our stories carefully and were certain we had covered all the bases.  Parents were at a disadvantage in 1965, no cell phones or tracking devices were available to check on miscreants like the two of us and we were home (not really) free.  Let the good times roll!

After clocking out of my summer job as a carryout at Swanson's Super Store, owned by Oscar Swanson "The Watermelon King", where I toiled hauling groceries behind old ladies who couldn't remember if their car was a black Cadillac  or a pink Rambler, I met up with White.  We headed north toward the lake in my 1954 Buick Century with four bald tires and no spare which my father had warned me never to take out of town.  (I can't live by your rules!)  We inventoried our booze supply and made sure we had two packs of Marlboros to enhance our evening.  (Did I mention that I was a D student?)

As I recall, the two of us were between girlfriends that summer and really had no reason to stifle our inclination to go full-tilt bozo.  Blame it on testosterone poisoning if you will, but we were determined  to have a criminally good time.

The plan--we really did have one--was to head for Gull Point which, if memory serves, was a state park with a very nice beach.  There we could hide out in the trees, drink booze, smoke cigarettes and pretend we were adults before grabbing some sleep on the sand. I remember both of us vowing that if we made it to our 60th birthday we would be guilty of shortchanging ourselves on fun.  What we hadn't considered was that the area was patrolled from the water by the Lake Patrol and that the park was closed after dark.  I don't know if we got a little loud or maybe someone in a nearby home saw the glow of our cigarettes but a patrol boat began circling the area sometime after midnight.  They were shining a searchlight  around the area where we were holding our impromptu party and demanding that we show ourselves.  Naturally we hit the deck and concealed ourselves in the underbrush.  When the boat went around the point and began searching the other side of the park we picked up our contraband and lit out for my car which sat alone in the parking lot at the entrance to the park.  We knew that it was very possible the cops would be checking on a lone car after hours in a state park.  Luckily the the red bomb with the bald tires was still there and there were no cops in sight.  I fired up the Buick and we headed for another beach.  We chose a residential area and stashed the car on a side street before hauling ourselves and the illegal refreshments to a public beach where we polished off the sloe gin and the last couple of beers before falling asleep on the sand.  I awoke the next morning feeling like I had gone ten rounds with Sonny Liston and was in receipt of a head pounding reminder to NEVER ever drink sloe gin again.  (An easy promise to keep more than 50 years later.) Tom looked to be in equally bad shape but neither of us said a word.  We were just a couple of almost adults who'd merely indulged in grown up pleasures the previous night.  It was just one of many stupid, yet fun, adventures that, come to think of it, more than prepared me for life in the radio business.

After brushing our teeth in the lake and shaking sand from our shoes and clothes we headed off to our summer jobs which, at least in my case, seemed to be especially difficult that day.  "You look like you don't feel well young man.  Let me show you where my car is...I think it's over here.  No, that's not it.  Now where did I park?  It's a Cadillac...no wait, maybe a Rambler."

Brewed in Omaha for juvenile delinquents of the Great Midwest