Ever heard a grown man scream like a tween at a haunted house? I have, and it was one of the funniest things I’ve ever witnessed. Let me break it down for ya ….
During the summer of ’97, a large group of neighborhood friends and family organized an outing at Schaeffer Lake, in Indiana. While it boasted a spacious campground, we were only there for the day, and to take advantage of amenities like the sandy beach, shady pavilions, and a concession stand that’d give 7/11 a run for their money. They also had kayaks, paddle-boats, and jet skis you could rent by the hour – and threw in the free use of life jackets with every rental.
Over half of those in attendance were children, who ran around playing games – in and out of the water – ate too much junk food, and got nasty sun burns for their efforts. Then you had the Old Schoolers, who sat at picnic tables under the pavilions, sipping their chilled wine and eating salami sammiches and potato salad. And then you had us: the twenty-some-thing crowd who guzzled Budweisers, played too rough with the kids, and shamelessly (though playfully) splashed the girls who were only there to lay-out and get tans.
Considering that there were nearly a hundred people gathered here, and all basically from the same ‘hood, it was a rather peaceful day.
Until I rented the loudest, and ugliest jet ski they had available, that is.
A Water-Bug by nature – having grown up in, on, and around Lake Michigan – I am also a rabid snowmobiler and four-wheeler rider, known to blaze trails where trails don’t exist, and punish whatever machine finds itself beneath me. The same held true on this day, as I treated the old PWC like a rented mule, plowing through self-made waves like a madman. The beachcombers seemed to get a kick out of my antics, though I’m sure that the seafaring folk were sick of rocking in my wake.
After almost 45 minutes of abusing my body and craft alike, my friend Richie felt that he was bold (drunk) enough to climb on the back of the ugly duckling, thinking that we were gonna cruise the lake like a couple of 80 year old tourists. (Yeah, right.) So, we got him fitted with a life vest – fitted the life vest with Budweisers – and headed out to sea.
I figured I’d test out his sea-legs right off the bat, so I gunned the throttle from the get-go, launching us forward like a rocket. The only thing this accomplished was making a pair of chanklas appear under my chin, while my life jacket was being violently yanked back, choking me. When I let off the gas, Richie slammed into me like a freight train, pinning me against the handlebars. I was gasping for air – from being choked – while he was panting due to pure terror. (Um, I think I forgot to mention that Richie can’t swim.)
I really wanted to laugh at this point, but hadn’t yet the breath to do so. No worries. Cheers and laughter erupted from all around the lake, as it seemed everyone was watching and waiting to see how Richie was gonna act on the back of this mechanical water bronco.
When I caught my breath, I asked him if he was alright, and if he wanted to go back to the beach. “Nah, I’m good bro” he said. “Just slow your dumb ass down. And if you do that again, I’m gonna stab you in the neck with a sword fish.”
So we petered around the lake like a couple of 80 year old tourists, doing large figure 8 laps, and generally just taking in the sights.
Gradually, I increased our speed, getting him in tune with the machine, and hoping that he wouldn’t realize what I was doing until it was too late. He didn’t. He was leaning low into the turns, going with the flow of the momentum, and enjoying a cold beer. I knew better than to think he could (or would) handle what I was about to do, but I did it anyways.
While making a wide loop in a figure 8, I checked out some nice, round waves, and was cunningly deciding which ones I was going to pummel into submission. I also noticed that a crowd had gathered on the beach, looking our way. I suppose they had an idea of what probably was about to happen next, and didn’t want to miss it. Besides, there was only a few minutes left on the hour’s rent, and I was determined to go out with a splash. Or rather, a bang.
Cracking the throttle wide-open while coming out of the last loop, we shot straight at a killer set of waves. Barely able to breathe again, as Richie’s knees were now one with my kidneys, and he locked onto me in a from-behind bear hug, but there was NO WAY I was letting up this time – we were in it to win it (or lose it all trying!)
We launched off the first wave almost flawlessly, and would’ve stuck the perfect landing – if Richie hadn’t hit the panic-button in mid-air. His flailing attempt to balance the airborne machine led to us catching wave number two at a slight angle. This then caused our trajectory to change, and we wound up smacking into wave number three – the biggest of them – at a downward, sideways angle. We hit so hard, the jet ski stopped in its tracks instantly – while Richie and me kept going.
Ker-SPLASH!
Did you know that there is a sign posted on the bottoms of personal water crafts? Ha! I didn’t either! Until then. It’s actually directions to follow on which way to properly roll an overturned vehicle up-side-right, in the rare event you happen to tip one over. Ahem. This is to ensure that the engine’s various fluids don’t intermingle, which might lead to one being stranded with a stalled machine out in the middle of a lake.
As the water drained from my head, I thought I heard clapping and cheering. Again. Some of our friends and family members were standing on the beach holding styrofoam beer cooler lids up in the air as if they were score cards. I thought that was pretty funny, but what do I know?
As I was surveying crowd, a movement to my left caught my attention. It was Richie, doggy-paddling all around, gathering up his loose stash of Budweisers. (For those of you who know Richie Vasquez, I’m sure you’re not in the least surprised at this.)
With a firm grip on the side rail of the Calypso, I managed to roll it back upright, then climbed aboard and sat waiting for my homeboy, who was looking both mad and water-logged at the same time. When I asked if he was ready to climb back on (as though rolling boats over was something I did on a regular basis – which it isn’t!), he replied with: “When we get outta the water, I’m gonna make you eat a life preserver.” And he said it all casual-like, as if we were having a regular conversation.
With his beers now safely tucked in his life jacket, he asked me how he was supposed to get back on, without us tipping over. Again. I explained it like this: “Grab ahold of this bar back here with both hands, then I’ll give it a little gas and then let up, and you can use the momentum to pull yourself up – like a cowboy does when he jumps on the back of a horse. It’s easy.” That was my theory, anyway. The look he gave me said he wasn’t buying a word I said. But, he did grab the bar, and although he looked a little weary, he said: “Go.” And I went. Hard. But only for a second!
It was that one, shot second that caused my best friend in the world to let out the most awful, blood-curdling screams ever. At first I thought the bearings in the thing were seizing up, it was such a high-pitched squeal. But then I recognized the terrified words that followed: “AHHHH! IT’S CUTTING MEEE! IT’S CUTTING MEEEE! AAAHHHHH !”
I’d went pale and was light-headed by the time I turned around and saw Richie, who was now six feet behind me and thrashing around in the water like a maniac, and screaming like a girl. Apparently, he – and the many spectators alike – believed that the machine’s propeller had bored into his chest cavity, shredding his innards like a meat grinder. They must’ve also thought that the blood pouring out of this catastrophic wound was going to attract sharks, judging by the way they all suddenly started heading for the shore in a panic of their own.
By this time I was howling myself – with laughter. This was a jet ski. There is no
outboard propeller. Richie was merely blasted by nothing more serious than the bubbles you’d get hit with while relaxing in a hot tub. There was no spinning blades of death. No blood. No guts. And, most definitely, no sharks. Only bubbles. (And probably lots of urine!)
The frightened crowd picked up on what was actually happening before Richie did, and it must’ve been their nervous laughter – along with a lack of blood, pain, and sharks – that brought him out of his apoplectic fit.
When he finally regained his composure (and salvaged what was left of his pride), he started doggy-paddling towards the beach, refusing to acknowledge me at all.
Richie avoided me the rest of the day, and it wasn’t until I picked him up for work on Monday morning that he finally spoke to me, saying: “I ain’t going swimming with you no more, bro.” He then spent the entire commute to the job-site looking out the passenger side window, ignoring me once again.
He did get over it, eventually. And everytime I retell the story, he gets in his feelings all over again. I understand. Needless to say – but I will anyways – when we took a trip to visit some friends in Flint, Michigan later that summer, he flat-out refused to ride with me on our buddy’s 4-wheeler. I mean, c’mon! What was the worst that could happen???
The End?
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