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Waterskiing Every boy deserves a big brother. Since I was the oldest I had to improvise. Cousin Lee Rose was two years older and a natural choice. In the summer of 1961, I was sixteen. Lee was eighteen. He had his driver’s license and a pickup truck. Saturday morning Mom gave me the news. “Lee Rose said he would come by this afternoon and take you to the river to go waterskiing.” “Cool, I’d better change my clothes. Could you fix my lunch early so I don’t get cramps in the water?” “Sure, I’ll make you a sandwich. Why don’t you wear cut-offs and a T-shirt, that way you can swim without changing. Put on some sunscreen. It’s already hot. Don’t wear socks, you always lose them.” Thirty minutes later Lee pulled up in front of the house and honked. My friend Roger Brown was already in the truck. He got out so I could get in the middle. I had to move my knees when Lee shifted the gears. The water skis were in the back. Past College City we went east towards the Sacramento River. Just before the river Lee turned right at Wilkins Slough, a wide irrigation canal. The turn-off to the dirt road on the levee wasn’t marked. Lee just drove off through the weeds and parked at an open spot. While Roger took the skis to the edge of the canal we readied the pickup. The pickup didn’t have a back window so we tied a long blue rope through the back window, around and out the driver’s-side window. We made a loop using a bowline knot. The long rope went out the back of the truck and down to the water’s edge. At the end of the rope was a short piece of broomstick tied in the middle to form a handle. The water was warm. It smelled like decaying plants and dead fish. Roger went first. He put the wide water skis on his feet and got in the water. He struggled to swim out, the skis holding him back. When he got to the middle he looked over at me and gave the signal. I was in the bed of the pickup, watching. “Go,” I shouted. Lee popped the clutch. The engine roared. Tires spun, throwing gravel. We were off. The rope snapped taut. Roger popped up, heading sideways towards the shore. He did a sideways somersault worthy of the movies. The rope, once he let go, tangled in the tules. Roger swam to the middle and said he was ready for another try. I jumped out, untangled the rope and threw it out to him. He got the skis pointed in the right direction and as soon as he gave the signal we took off again. This time Roger popped out of the water on one ski, the other ski waving in the air. He didn’t somersault like before but face planted with a big splash. As he crawled out of the water his face looked green. He must have swallowed a lot of that green water. It was my turn. Lee got out of the truck and came over to give me some last-minute instructions. “Lean back and keep your knees bent,” he said. “And watch out for the pumps,” he added as he climbed back up the levee. I put on the skis at the water’s edge and dog paddled to the middle. It was a challenge getting situated with the skis facing the right direction. The rope had to go at an angle, just off my right ski, pointing towards the truck. I gave the signal. Roger shouted “GO.” The sudden jerk pulled me over and dragged me through the water until I remembered to let go. I thought Roger was going to fall out of the pickup, he was laughing so hard. I lost one of the skis and had to paddle back to get it. I held the rope in my left hand and did the side stroke. I slid my foot back into the rubber binding and gripped the handle. Paddling backwards I took the slack out of the rope and checked the position of the pickup. I waved. Roger shouted “Go,” and the second the line went taut, I popped up with bent knees, leaning back. It was glorious. I sped down the canal, my eyes locked on the rusty iron pump heads poking above the cattails every hundred yards, raising the blue line clear of the obstructions just in time. The levee was straight and went on for miles. I experimented with turns, zig-zagging back and forth. My heart raced. We went so far my hair dried out and blew in the wind. Exhausted, I signaled my surrender. Lee took his turn in the water while I drove. Dad had been giving me lessons in his Model T pickup. Lee’s truck was a lot easier. I tried to take off with a little less gusto and it helped him get up on the first try. I towed Lee down the levee so far I lost track of where we were. Lee got back in the driver’s seat and we turned around. Roger said he was rested up, so we gave him another turn. He crashed two more times but we kept at it until he was successful. The afternoon drifted into evening and the mosquitoes began to bite. We were tired and hungry and probably looked like a trio of drowned rats as we made our way back to Arbuckle. |