Dame on the Dune
© Gene Majors
Three weeks into the fall quarter of my second year at the Summerston Junior College (1962), our JC Tennis Club decided we needed a break before the fall round of tournaments began. To us,
a
break
, meant an all-day picnic, waterskiing, and a general sight-seeing cruise around the river canyon seventy five miles to the east. To supply the hydroelectric plant, ten years ago they'd dammed up the main river into a lake. We were yet in that part of September when almost without fail the sun would cooperate by providing plenty of sun for body roasting—and, there were lots of shapely female bodies in the tennis club to
roast
.
Our club president, Benson Branaghan, borrowed his family's small day boat with which we could ferry members across the lake from the landing if we made several trips, then use it to pull skiers if we didn't try to pull more than two at a time.
I was the only other boat owner in the club. I had a Mini-Max, an eight foot hydroplane which amounted to two 4 x 8 foot sheets of plywood with an old 20 hp Merc outboard clamped to its stern.
With my high school friend, Dean, we each built a Mini-Max from the plans
Popular Mechanics
sold us mail-order that winter before we graduated from school. If you'd like to see what these looked like, Google up Mini-Max Hydroplane: They were seventy pounds of fun you could build in a weekend for $25 in material costs. Somewhere I read more of these boats have been built than any other boat design in history. The expensive part was the engine; a well-used 10 to 15 hp outboard would push it plenty fast enough to kill yourself if you did something really stupid, so there was plenty of reason for excitement.
The plan for our club picnic was we'd head out from the JC campus at 9:00 Saturday morngin, then drive for two hours to the boat launch ramp at Jenson's Landing. Once there, we'd off-load our supplies—the stuff required for making hotdogs, a couple buckets of grocery store potato salad and coleslaw, plenty of ice for the beer tub, an adequate stash of beer, and all the towels everyone thought we'd need—into Benson's boat. From there, we'd begin ferrying the whole lot the three miles across and up the lake to a secluded, sand beach Branaghan knew about.
By noon we'd pretty much accomplished that, my little Mini-Max not assisting much because at best it hauled only me, my beer, and one
very small
passenger.
By 1:30, we were set up and well on our way toward finishing off the hotdogs and tubs of grocery store salad. The beer supply was holding up well, and most of the bodies beautiful were stretched out on sand-supported towels for display and roasting. Benson had plenty of ski tow candidates, working his way through our attendance two skiers at a time. My situation was much different; I think skimming around the lake on two glorified sheets of plywood looked less than sensible to those not so adventurous. I did get one passenger—almost—until she realized my boat's
luxurious
seating consisted of her sitting on the deck forward of my cockpit and hanging onto not-very-much while I bounced the boat at full power trying to get it onto a plane so it would really get moving.
So, my afternoon morphed into a solo cruise up the lake, most of the time an eighth mile off the east shore where, prior to filling the lake, wind had blown numerous dunes up against the east canyon wall. Benson wasn't the only boat owner to know about these now partially submerged dunes. But as I skimmed along, the further I got from our picnic dune, fewer signs I saw of boating habitation. After all, that afternoon was post Labor Day, so summer was past tense for most families.
But hell, I didn't care. My Merc 20 whined along behind me, pushing me into frivolous curves at my command, throwing up rooster-tails for each one, and occasionally during a quick direction change, skittering the hull around on one side or one of its corners. Sun, water splashing up from my maneuvers, wind, and spray the breeze picked up from those tiny ripples kept it fun. Yes, it was a great day to be on the water and heading up the lake at full speed.
I hadn't seen much evidence of habitation among those east shore dunes in quite a while now. Just those rocky, basalt cliffs with pale-ish, orange sand dunes sloped up against them. I suppose me and my little toy boat looked pretty small to anyone an eighth mile east who might look my direction from shore.
As I rounded a pointed cliff that jutted farther into the lake than most, I found myself closer to shore with its sand beach filling a small cove just beyond. Like the others, there was that reddish golden dune blown up against the basalt cliff behind, with a dark speck that seemed to be waving at me. I waved back—just to be friendly. That speck then sat on the beach's sand. So much for that. When you have an out-of-the-ordinary toy boat like mine you are often hailed by inquisitive spectators.
On my way back two hours later, that jutting basalt promontory brought me close to the east shore again, even nearer than last time. As I aimed closer to the rock, something looked different—out of place and not right. That speck that had waved at me still sat where it appeared to have sat after it waved to me two hours earlier.
After some indecision, I changed course and headed straight that way, coming to the beach fast and cutting the throttle only when I guessed I'd drop off my plane just a few yards short of the beach. Yes, a body lay there, and as I planed into the shallows, I made out that body belonged to a woman—an extremely well sunburned woman.
***
I scrambled out of my boat, tripping over an exposed steering cable as I did so, and stepped ankle deep into the wet sand.
"Hey!" I said to the apparently inert shape down the beach twenty feet from me.
She didn't move, but looked like hell. Blonde. Badly sunburned. Almost no bathing suit.
"Hey! Wake up!"
She moaned softly.
"Hey! Wake up! You can't be that drunk." Here you'll notice my assumption that she'd done what many of our Tennis Club members had taken up to accompany their body baking.
She moaned again.
"Wake up! What's the matter with you?" I meant other than being overdone in the body roasting department. She shouldn't be that badly dehydrated; she lay only ten yards from the water's edge. After all, the whole lake was fresh water.
"Help me? Please?" That was another weak groan, a plea more than a request.
"What's the matter?"
"I can't ...." with that she went limp against the sand where she'd lain.
Well, one thing I'd learned so far at college was cold water splashed around was an excellent recipe for waking drunks. I grabbled my 2-quart plastic bailing bucket I kept in the Mini-Max, filled it from the lake, and splashed it over her.
"Agh," she moaned, but then went limp again.
"What's the matter with you, huh?"
Well, that got me no more in the way of an answer than before, so I splashed another bucketful over her. "Wake up, already. You can't be that drunk!"
"Not drunk. Not anymore." she moaned, almost inaudibly.
"Then wake up. What's the matter?"
"I'm trying. Can't you see?"
As what I saw sank in, I wondered if she had some sort of medical condition gone wrong.
"What happened to you?"
"They stranded me here. Two weeks ago."
"Who did?"
