Time Fries! (10 page)
Authors: Fay Jacobs
When my mate suggested we do a zip line through the trees in the White Mountains of New Hampshire, I knew it was way outside my comfort zone, but I had read the brochure. “Family fun. Ages 9 and up. A stunning view over the tree canopy.”
How bad could it be? I don't know what I pictured. Maybe a starter zip, a zip line light, a mini-zip. I felt sure we'd be on the bunny slope of zip lines.
I was buttressed into my gear, complete with helmet and body harness, then lectured on safety by a Paul Bunyan-like 20-year old. Okay, there really were children getting outfitted and their parents weren't calling 911.
But when the instructor offered advice about controlling flight speed, reality bit. For me, was the “appropriate clothing” suggested by the brochure a diaper?
Nervous and weighed down by gear, I toddled off to the zip site. Then the guide said, “For the first zip we will launch from the ground.”
FIRST?? I saw the enormity of my blunder.
The guides attached me and my industrial strength canvas harness to a block and tackle pulley system, on a cable between the ground and a teeny tiny platform on a tree a mile down the mountainside. I was about to zip into the next zip code.
“Stand on this boulder, crouch to a sitting position and gently push off,” said Big Foot the guide. Great, I can't do squats at the gym and I'm supposed to squat on a rock? I felt like a Sumo wrestler trying for the lotus position.
“And if you feel yourself spinning right or left, simply turn into the spin, like a car turning into a skid in the snow.” Crap. I never understood that concept.
I could feel the muscular guide's open hand on my back, gently suggesting it was time for me to slide my scrunched-up torso off the boulder and down over the trees.
Zippity-do-daaauuggghhh!!!
I hit the air, the harness locked to the cable and I was off, semi-squatting, screaming, arms in the air, hanging by my thighs and crotch. What part of the word zip didn't you understand, you moron? God, don't let me pee!
I started to spin, helpless to right myself, zipping backwards toward the tree platform. “Incoming! Incoming!” I howled, sure I'd wipe out the unfortunate mountain man poised to snag me.
Apparently there was a wood block rigged to stop my forward motion, which, when I hit it, sounded like a gunshot. But no such luck. Unshot, marginally alive, I was passed, like a sack of Idaho potatoes, from one athlete to another to get rigged for a second zip.
When my spouse landed on the platform behind me, I spat, “I'm going to kill you!” just as the guide instructed me to jump off.
I gaped at the tree tops below. I was supposed to leap into mid-air, trusting the skinny cable to keep me from free fall? I'd rather die than bungee jump. I can't even jump into a swimming pool for pity's sake, much less sky dive! What am I doing here?
“I can't do this,” I muttered.
“You have to,” said Sasquatch. “There's no other way down.”
By this time, zippers were piling up behind me as I stared, paralyzed, into the void.
“But I can'tâ¦Auuggghhh!!!!” Jumped or pushed? We'll never know.
What beautiful tree canopy??? With my eyes shut I could have been zipping over the county dump. And it's funny about gravity. The featherweight nine year olds had time to look around, but this big broad came zipping down the line like a freakin' space shuttle.
Zooming into the next outpost, hands in a death grip at the harness holds, praying I wouldn't kill anybody, I wound up
suspended in midair, swinging like a fresh side of beef. I mouthed, “I'm going to kill you” to my mate, who appeared, dangling behind me, refusing to make eye contact.
Mentally, I filed for divorce as I was once again shuttled between a gaggle of outdoorsmen, who unclipped my cables, re-clipped me to other cables and hinged me to the zip line. Had anyone ever become unhinged? Physically, I mean. I was already mentally unhinged.
“Get ready for Zip Three!” yelled a bulky teenage guide, who suddenly grabbed me and tightened my harness so thoroughly I wanted to ask if he'd at least buy me dinner first.
“Off you go!” he hollered, sending me down the mountain at lightning speed. This time I faced forward, and, picking up speed, screamed “Cowabunga!” hoping not to have a coronary. I opened one eye to see trees flying by and a look of terror on the face of the poor schnook waiting to break my fall.
Thud! I practically flattened him, but he kept us both upright and rigged me for zip four. As I clenched my eyes and prepared for takeoff, I heard him say to the person I was formerly married to, “Things are getting better. This time she didn't say she was going to kill you.”
Okay, so I came shrieking in for yet another klutzy crash landing, then had myself shackled and lashed to the line for the final zip. This time, the ride was tricky. I zipped down, then, by gravity, zipped up because the line stretched back up to a high tree. From there, gravity sent me down again, like a skate-boarder on a half-pipe, not that I'd know from experience. I zipped back up and down two more times like Cirque du Soleil before settling in the middle of the cable, hanging like a pair of underpants on a clothes line. That's so they could yell “smile!” and take a picture.
When they got a ladder to offload me, my legs were rubber, my arms felt like lead, and even my hair was clenched. But I was happy to be on the ground, not in it.
“Well, what did you think?” ventured my spouse. “Are you proud you did it?”
Truth is, yes, I was proud. Quite pleased with myself, actually. And at least New Hampshire's motto, Live Free or Die, was not put to the test. And I guess I don't need a cardiac stress test. Been there, done that. Cowabunga.
Let's face it, vacations are rejuvenating. Unless you're away from home during the historic trifecta of environmental events when Rehoboth gets an earthquake, tornado, and hurricane. As a writer, it's the pits to be out of town, out of touch, and missing the action.
Luckily, there was not that much action. The earthquake was but a tremble, the hurricane, thankfully, a no-show, and the tornado, while scaring many, mercifully produced no injuries and only property damage. All in all, not bad.
At word of the earthquake I was in a campground in Ogunquit, ME. We felt nary a shiver. Had I been home, I'm sure I would have run out into the street like Jeannette McDonald in
San Francisco
, shrieking and singing (although in her case, they were one and the same) “Nearer My God to Thee.”
When we got news of impending Hurricane Irene, though, Bonnie decided we should head home a few days early to batten our hatches. When I whined, she suggested I batten my hatch and think about the six foot fiberglass dolphin on our stoop that could become airborne. Not to mention the gnomes in our kitsch garden.
So the traveling circus, me and Bon, the pups, the RV and the Jeep in tow, lumbered home down I-95 just in time to hear that Reho was being evacuated. Great. With thousands of cars pouring outbound on Route One, this was no time for us to be driving the Hindenburg head-on into the mess.
Quandary. Is there an insane pal along the route willing to harbor us, our dogs, and our rolling house for a four-day minimum? Luckily, there was a brave and generous soul in New Jersey. So we headed off road, pulling our convoy into the driveway, and descending, like refugees, with two weeks of laundry, two freaked-out dogs, and two women fearing for the Reho home front.
Our quartet spent the first day of our double date engaged in grocery store hand-to-hand combat. Too late for toilet paper, bottled water and “D” batteries, we stocked up on critical supplies like wine and chocolate pudding. Then, not homebound yet, we went to see
Rise of the Planet of the Apes
. I'd always wondered how the Tea Party got started.
Over the next three days we stayed glued to the gusting weathercasters. One hapless Jersey anchor reported a Code Gray situation. That seemed a bit, well, bland to us. What's a Tsunami, Code Beige? Dive! Dive! Dive! It's Code Taupe!
The reporters did a masterful job of reporting absolutely nothing new for three days running. Wind was coming, water was coming. Code Gray!!!
Frankly, I tried to avoid Code Yellow. I know how my dogs hate wind and rain, and feared they would befoul the carpets so I put them in Huggies. Moxie has such a biscuit belly that the Velcro tabs sprung and he looked like he was wearing a tutu. Imagine his humiliation.
On the Thursday and Friday night before the projected perfect storm, my family huddled at home in the RV on the driveway. But by Saturday morning, with ominous tornado warnings afoot, we fled to the brick and mortar house. Our first clue to the severity of the situation was that none of the piercing warning sirens coming from the TV offered the statement “This is not a test.” Tornadoes were spotted all over Delaware, Jersey, and points north, and they would continue overnight Saturday.
Heeding advice, we ruled out second floor sleeping and pitched base camp in the windowless side of the living room. A sofa and loveseat would do for me and Bon, and we'd bring a blow-up mattress downstairs for our hostesses. Rise of the Planet of the Idiots. Laurel and Hardy should have deflated the inflatable first.
Upstairs, we wrestled the awkward queen size balloon onto its end, coming within millimeters of slicing it in half with the ceiling fan. Lunging to get it out of the way, we nearly put the
mattress through the window. By this time we were gasping for air and crying from laugher, sure there'd be a flood, and not from the hurricane.
When we finally slid the amoeba down the staircase and situated it in our make-shift refugee camp it was time to hunker down and say Goodnight, Irene. That's when we learned that even if you mute the TV, the warning siren does not mute. Tornado be damned, we turned off the television.
Come dawn, a clown in the group woke us to strains of “There's Got to Be a Morning After.” Very funny. All was quiet on the western front, as the storm had missed us entirely and headed for the unlikely target state of Vermont. The Poseidon was still in place on the driveway and we were all above water.
That's when the comedy show began. Those poor on-air bastards had been broadcasting live for days and now they were left to report that pretty much nothing at all had happened. News anchors stood in half an inch of water, hairdos askew, as gawkers stood off left on perfectly dry land. Talking heads begged people to send photos or video of any storm damage. We had reports of twigs down, lawn chairs overturned. Such was the dearth of reportable information.
But that was a good thing. That the hurricane missed us and Rehoboth was grand news. I am not one of the folks who complained about overkill regarding the evacuation, the dire warnings, and the calls for preparedness. It's great to know that city and town governments, all up and down the East Coast, were ready, locked and loaded, to provide bailouts, and this time it was the literal kind.
And ya know, if the BIG ONE, an earthquake, hurricane, or tornado had hit, those anti-government Tea Party Poopers would have been right there in line, waiting for the government to rescue them and provide services. Hypocrites heal thyselves.
So I hope it's bye bye hurricane season real soon. I'm glad Rehoboth was spared and sorry for the devastation in Vermont. But following the earthquake, hurricane, and tornado scare, I
got home just in time for the ensuing pestilence of Labor Day traffic.
This is Fay J. reporting live from the beach. Code Tan.
