Dune Dame

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?"

"The people I came here with. More students."

"They left you behind?"

"I went back in the rocks to pee, I passed out back there I think, and they left without me."

"On purpose?"

"They were all drunk ... like me."

"So you been here alone for two weeks? Nothing to eat?"

She nodded.

Well, that explained her being weak. I'd be weak, too, if I'd eaten nothing for two weeks.

"I tried to wave down lots of boats going by, but everybody just waved back, just being friendly."

"I sure did, earlier today."

"I know. After you went by, I just couldn't stand up any longer. That's why I'm here now."

Well, what next? Couldn't she swim out? No, not likely, considering it was at least five miles to Jenson's Landing and she didn't even have strength to stand. Couldn't she have climbed out of this beached-up cove and gotten to civilization on the plateau up above? Bare footed with no gloves? Another not too likely solution to her problem. Her bloody, bare feet and hands said she'd already tried that.

About then I was wishing I hadn't eaten that peanut & chocolate bar I brought along in the Mini-Max to serve as my after-beer-and-hotdogs desert. Two weeks without food? This girl needed something with a few calories in it—and quickly. But I had nothing.

"Okay. Let's see what we have going for you. What's your name, anyway?

"Hanks. Katty, if you wish."

"I'm Dyer. Dyer Strait. And don't laugh! It's true." My parents thought that was a prime joke that made up for the unexpected pregnancy that resulted in me.

"You think you could ride in my boat with us together? I know it looks pretty small, but it'll carry us both."

"Really? Looked like it was about to sink when you stopped just now."

"Tricky, but to make it work, you gotta help me. Otherwise we can't get the boat up on a plane so it moves along fast, and if it doesn't move right along, we won't have enough gas to get back. I burned most of my tank screwing around farther up the lake. Left just enough to get safely back."

I looked at her for approval or not, but all I saw in her eyes was you do what you think best.

"Or, I could leave you here, run down to our picnic dune, and have them come back with the ski boat to get you ... if they haven't headed home already. If they have, then I'll have to go on over to Jenson's and get more fuel or help or something."

"Please, no! Please don't leave me! I'll do whatever you say, somehow, I promise! Just don't leave me alone again!" Even in her weak state, that was panic if I'd ever heard it!

"Well, I think we're okay on fuel for now ... if you help me get the boat up and planing. I'll head straight for where we had our picnic and stop if everyone else is still there. Then everything will be fine. If they've already left, we'll just head straight across the lake for Jenson's without even stopping."

She nodded.

"Okay?"

She nodded again. God, I wished I still had more outboard gas, but I didn't want to say so out loud. When I went to the boat, picked up the tank and shook it, it contents sloshed a whole lot less than I'd have preferred!

***

By the time I got her into my only life jacket, loaded onto my boat, tied her to something—to keep her from sliding off, yet in such a way if the boat went under from overload or hitting a big wake, she wouldn't go down with it—I headed out. I motored at reasonable planing speed the three miles from her dune to our picnic dune, where the rest of my crowd must have decided I could take care of myself. So some time before I got back, they'd made their final trip to the boat ramp at Jenson's. I didn't even stop at our picnic dune; I'd left nothing there, and apparently the rest of my crowd assumed I'd left for good after the hotdogs and beer ran out.

So without dropping the Mini-Max off a plane, I aimed a bee-line toward Jenson's, too. Good thing I did. Before we reached the boat ramp, the motor coughed several times sucking air from the nearly empty fuel tank. When we arrived, I had the tank standing on one edge in the cockpit, a trick I'd learned the previous summer that worked to get the last bit of fuel into the engine and keep it running.

I was still on a plane as I passed the walkways extending along both sides of the concrete boat ramp. At that point I just wanted to get there and get help of some sort for Katty. To hell with the bottom of the boat and the turning fin sticking six inches out of its bottom. My poor little boat made quite a scrunch sound when she slid up on the concrete and stopped. But what the hell? That was repairable.

Another fellow had his boat tied up to the north-side walkway, waiting while his wife backed their trailer from the parking lot to the ramp.

"You okay?" he said. "You hit pretty hard."

"It's okay. But, I got an emergency here. Anybody up at Jenson's. I gotta get a doctor—quick."

"Maybe I can help. I'm a vet."

"This woman here's been stranded two weeks on the other side of the lake. Sunburned to hell and nothing to eat for that long." By now I was trying to separate her and my life jacket from my boat. I turned to her.

"Think you can stand up?"

She tried, but quickly gave up.

By now my good Samaritan was hurrying along the walkway toward us. As he neared us, his wife managed to get their boat trailer backed down the ramp and into the water. He was at her window that quick, and I heard him ask if there was anything left from their picnic.

No.

Well, I had nothing either. Running up to Jenson's for a candy bar or two sounded like the best solution. "Do what you can for her here, will you? I'll see what I can find up at Jenson's to feed her.

Already the man's wife had entered the thick of our little emergency with the efficiency of a nurse. Obviously, they'd see to Katty while I scouted for quickly digestible calories.

"Here," I said as quickly as I returned, handing him two plain chocolate candy bars and a bar of something I knew was easily chewed and mostly sugar. "Best choice I could figure. Everything else looked harder to digest."

"Good choice." He turned to his wife and handed her one.

"This woman needs a hospital—really soon."

"I asked the man up there." I pointed to Jensons. "He said the closest place in Eatonville, seventy-five miles. It will take them over an hour to get an ambulance out here."

"Too long to be good. Has he got anything we can borrow?"

"Didn't sound like it."

"Humph. Any other ideas?"

"If you'll help me, we could toss my boat onto my trailer, tie it down, and go in that. She can sit okay, I think."

"Get you car and trailer down here, then. We'll do that."

"Pickup and trailer."

"So much the better. Belle?" he said turning to his wife. "Can you get our boat onto the trailer alone?"

"I'll try. And I'm sure if I ask, Jenson or his people will help me."

"Get him. And you—what's your name, anyway? Get your trailer down here."

"Dyer. I'm gone. Be back in a minute."

"Good."

***

I'd have never believed we could get a Mini-Max loaded and tied down to my trailer that quickly; my helper seemed an extension of my thoughts. By the time I'd backed the trailer around and down the ramp, he had the motor unclamped from the Mini-Max's transom, and as I backed into the lake, he set the engine in my pickup bed along with its fuel tank. That reduced the weight we had to lift to seventy pounds between us. Meanwhile, his wife herded the half-conscious Katt Hanks into my pickup's passenger-side seat.

"I'll take a space in the truck bed," he said to me. "Turn your 4-way flashers on and make your speed count. If a cop stops you, tell him you're making an emergency run and ask if he'll lead you to Eatonville Hospital. If he questions, tell him I'm Dr. Maddox, okay?"

Sounded good to me! We left the parking lot at Jenson's in an obvious rush and a shower of gravel. That's certainly the fastest my Mini-Max had ever went anywhere, on or off the water.

Yes, we did get stopped for speeding, but the only real change was the doctor traded my pickup's bed for a seat in the State Police car. We must have averaged over eighty the rest of the way to Eatonville; that officer really cleared the path for us. At least I don't think I've ever driven at that speed for any sustained length of time—before or since.

Eatonville is halfway from Jenson's Landing at the lake to Summersville, home of our junior college. Although I stuck around the Eatonville Hospital the rest of that day and much of evening, they wouldn't let me close to her. Seems Katt had been reported kidnaped, which she tried to talk them out of, but they wouldn't listen. From the questions they asked me, you'd have thought I stranded her on that dune, then had second thoughts and tried to turn it all around into a rescue. I thought for a while they were aiming toward keeping me in jail overnight.

But finally, after getting enough data so they figured they could track me down no matter what, they let me go. And being a typical, cash-strapped college student, I had to head home in order to have a place to sleep that night.

Dad, being his up-and-at-'em-early-farmer-self, picked right up on the damage I'd done to my glorified two sheets of plywood when I slid her onto the boat ramp at Jenson's. In moments he was in my room, checking that I was okay.

"Yeah, Dad. I'm fine. And the boat will live."

"I was always afraid you'd kill yourself with that little thing."

"Not even close. But it may have saved a life."

The way he looked at me said you better tell me what happened. So I gave him the unadulterated story.

"In that little boat?" he said when I finished. "Two of you?"

"Yup. Me in the cockpit, her on the deck in front of the steering wheel. No big deal. Dean and I carry passengers lots of times."

"You're nuts!"

"No, Dad. Just sensible and careful."

"But her ...?"

"Yeah, that was a challenge, just keeping her safely on the boat, yet not strapped down so if something did go wrong or she fainted, she didn't fall off and go under with the boat."

He shook his head. "Nuts. Really nuts!"

"Well, what would have you done? Poor kid was nearly out of her head with fear and exposure. I couldn't leave her there, could I?"

He looked down a moment, then back up. "So my son, the dare-devil boat racer who plays with boats so small he has to carry his to get it to stay afloat on the water—don't forget I went with you to the river once—a boat so tiny he weighs twice as much as it, rescues a stranded woman and has to take her seventy five miles to a hospital, all the way playing ambulance with his pickup with a boat and trailer on behind, then gets stopped for speeding and makes the rest of the trip averaging eighty miles an hour with a state patrol car clearing the path for him?

"And now he may be charged with the kidnaping that stranded the girl out there, all because he took his tiny little boat to the lake for a beer, hotdogs, and water skiing picnic?" Dad shook his head.

"So, this girl? Not anybody we know, I guess?"

"Not, far as I know."

"And she's in the Eatonville Hospital for exposure and starvation?"

I nodded. They wouldn't tell me anything at the hospital, but that's what I gathered from Dr. Mattox and his wife's comments as we prepared Katt to head for the hospital. Boy, was I lucky they were there when I arrived at Jenson's. I'd have been a nut-case otherwise.

"For how long?"

"Don't know. Hospital wouldn't tell me anything."

"You want me to go back up there with you to Eatonville?"

Right then I was fully grateful how wonderful it is to have good parents.

***

We did go, and when Dad and I arrived at the hospital, they wouldn't tell him anything either.

But he refused to succumb to their bureaucratic nonsense. You know the drill: The person you need to speak to isn't in, or The person you need to see can't see you right now, or the other five hundred versions of stall-and-avoid.

Dad finally called our attorney, and after a few calls from the attorney, things got moving, to the extent they allowed me to see Katty—but only with a sheriff's officer present.

Well, I had nothing to hide, so other than a body search when I went in and its accompanying violation of my privacy, I pretty much got what I wanted.

Katt was a mass of bandages, but all said, she looked no worse than when I found her at the lake.