34

Storms and Speed

ONE HOT EVENING we stood on the balcony watching in wonder and amazement as no fewer than five thunder storms roared, rumbled and rattled through the mountains around the lake.

The air was still: no wind at all and I could feel the crackling charges in the atmosphere as the pink and orange lightning snaked through the mountains, momentarily illuminating the red rocks against the dark sky. Now and again a jagged fork of white light would hit the water and the brilliance of the flash bounce before disappearing into the depths. The spectacle was truly magnificent.

Trying to watch all the storms at once, we stood in wonder, awe, respect even, for the strength of nature’s rage. The tumult made speech impossible so each had his own thoughts and I reflected how such spectacles had inspired writers and composers for hundreds of years. ‘The Hebrides Overture’, ‘Fingal’s Cave’, ‘The Flying Dutchman’ all mirror the savagery of storms. I was reminded, too, of the thunder storms in the Western Isles where the noise bounced off the solid rock faces, like the sound of an explosion and rumbled away in the gullies. I was just thinking that this was easier to watch as there was no wind or rain, when suddenly a hot blustery wind sprang up, blowing into our faces and buffeting our bodies. One moment, we had been quietly watching the dramatic scene and the next, we were clutching the balcony rail for support while doors and windows crashed back and forth behind us.

‘Storm’s coming this way,’ shouted a neighbour. ‘Get off the balcony!’ The balcony was metal and not the best place to stand among lightning strikes. We continued to watch the storms across the lake from inside, but Mount Grant was behind the apartments so we could only hear the fury as it hit that great mountain. And what a noise! One almost felt the need to duck or cover one’s head as the exploding claps of thunder seemed only inches above us. And still there was no rain!

In all our wanderings, I have not experienced a storm like that one with five different locations, experiencing lightning and thunder at the same time while the ferocity of the wind and the roar of the onslaught on Mount Grant, so close behind us, was fearsome in its savagery.

During the next week, we witnessed more electrical storms – as the Americans call them. They are correct, of course, but for me the technical term detracts from the awesome splendour of nature’s anger and the romance of the spectacle.

One day, Andy was swimming quite far out in the lake when lightning hit with speed and ferocity, striking the water and appearing to create sparks. Horrified, I rushed down towards the lake, yelling to him to come out of the water. Swimming swiftly, he made the shore and we both raced back to the apartments, but I wondered just how safe we were on that metal staircase!

Storms held off, however, to allow a lot of water-skiing and even I became quite proficient. The first thing I learnt was how to fall over without the intense agony of plunging into the water at speed straight onto one’s lower back. Falling sideways was a much better option until I managed to stay up. I was very proud of myself as I had had no idea that I was capable of mastering anything quite so physical. Some five years later, I surprised myself even further by learning to windsurf. And what fun that was!

Andy, of course, outstripped us both and became proficient almost at once, making ‘Rooster tails’ of the spray, slalom-skiing and doing various other tricks.

One day he was wandering about among the boating fraternity as usual when two burly fellows approached him. They were paramedics from California at Walker Lake for the weekend. Andy had been admiring their fast, shining speed boat with an enormous engine. They needed a ‘spotter’, they said and he was delighted to oblige. The rules on water-skiing require a spotter to be present in the boat if there is only the helmsman and the skier so that a fallen skier, who could be injured or severely winded, is picked up as soon as possible. Off they went at a ferocious speed with one or the other man skiing behind and Andy spotting. There was little to ‘spot’ as these fellows were so adept that they did not fall off at all. As the morning wore on, Andy’s private hopes were fulfilled as the paramedics invited him to ski behind this magnificent boat. The speed achieved far out passed anything that our quite fast but rather more modest seventy hp engine could produce.

As the following weekend approached, we became aware of much activity at the waterfront. Seating was set out (just benches), bunting was strung between lamp posts (‘light poles’ – I think) and extra staff were taken on for the restaurant. Then large luxuriant RVs (motor homes to us) started to arrive, many trailing large, fast speedboats bearing romantic or quirky names and competition numbers in brilliant colours. Soon we had a bay full of these fantastic craft and a small town of RVs. on the open land beside the lake. Everyone was in good spirits and Andy mingled happily with these enthusiasts, admiring their boats. A sure way to their hearts!

Everyone was here for practice runs or heats for the ‘Hundred Mile Marathon’ due to take place later in the summer. Walker Lake was virtually straight for its twelve mile length so most suitable for racing, the one hundred miles being achieved by racing to and fro. The serious boating was to take place the next morning, so there was a party spirit in the evening with BBQs, and general meeting and greeting and the inspection and admiration for the ‘tunnel hulls’ the ‘mono hulls’ and many other types of boats in the various classes. Andy can probably reel off their names to this day but I just thought they were all fantastic craft as I have always loved speed, especially on water.

But among all the jollity there was concern for one of their main competitors – tipped to win in fact – who had not arrived.

Apart from its ability to ‘turn over’, Walker Lake had another unpleasant habit. In the summer months, the lake would be glasslike until about lunch time when the heat reached a point which caused the wind to swing round to the south and strengthen, churning the surface and making it unsuitable – even dangerous – for high-speed boating. All the boats had to compete in the few hours of the morning for this reason.

It was about ten thirty am, when the missing competitor, with wife and two children arrived, having had a breakdown on the way. He started to launch his boat but everyone was telling him that it was too late: that the water would be too choppy in just a few minutes. They had all done their ‘runs’ by then – and very impressive they were. But he took no notice. They pressed the point home but he was stubborn. He knew that he had a good chance of winning in the final races and wanted to be sure of taking part in the heats.

Despairingly, everyone watched. His wife and children stood on the jetty with the competitors and a crowd of onlookers that had materialized, no doubt sensing drama. He launched and roared off to the starting point at the Southern end of the lake. Then he began his run, accelerating and quickly gaining speed. By the time he was opposite the bay, he looked invincible and he was still gaining speed. As predicted, the water was now choppy with small waves forming here and there.

He hit such a patch. The bow rose. There was a gasp from the crowd. The boat righted itself and there was a sigh of relief. But it rose again on the next wave, righted again, hit a third, rose, turned bow down and plunged at a terrifying speed deep into the water. The boat just simply broke up! People watched in horror – it had all taken only seconds – then the man’s helmet appeared, not far out but a little way along the shore line.

Everyone set off along the edge of the water, but two workmen were building a house near the accident and immediately plunged in, striking out towards the man. We could see them from our balcony, dragging the inert man shoreward through the water. They pulled him out and the paramedics were there in an instant, giving CPR. But he did not respond: he had been so badly injured as the boat broke up that he was already dead when he was taken from the water.

A horrible silence fell on the previously vociferous crowd and then there was a thin scream. The man’s wife had been told the dreadful news and presumably the children too. What a terrible day! I cannot imagine what it must have felt like to stand and watch a husband and father killed in this way.

Someone took the family home and there was a subdued meeting of the remaining competitors to decide what to do about the practice runs due the following day. After much soul searching, they decided still to hold the event. Many had come hundreds of miles and without the second practice day, no-one would qualify for the finals. But they held a short silence before the races started as a mark of respect. I am sure that tragedy is remembered on Walker Lake to this day but perhaps the most sobering thought of all is that no one was surprised!

Present among the competitors was Lee Taylor, an ambitious man who was practising for his attempt to beat the world water-speed record in his fantastic boat which eclipsed all the other boats, fast though they were.

We watched from the shore almost in disbelief at the incredible velocity that this craft achieved. The hull looked like the fuselage of an aircraft and was designed purely for speed over ‘short’ distances and so carried only enough fuel for the proposed ‘run’ in order to keep the weight down. Several men launched this monster and then it was towed by two ordinary speed boats to the end of the lake ready to start the run.

Lee started and accelerated at a phenomenal rate so that by the time he passed us – roughly half way up the lake – the two speedboats following him were left way behind although they were travelling at their maximum speed. As he reached the end of the lake, the speed boats caught up and towed him back to the bay. I do not know what speed was achieved that day but we heard that he was confident and would attempt the actual record later on Lake Tahoe. It had to be Tahoe as he was being sponsored by one of the casinos bordering the Nevada side of that high lake. The enthusiasts on Walker Lake seemed to think that it was not particularly suitable-something to do with the winds swirling among the surrounding mountains, I understood. Later that year, we heard of another tragedy.

The actual attempt at the record was called off at the last moment, as the weather conditions were too volatile. But thousands of well-wishers had gathered on the shoreline and Lee decided to do the ‘run’ for their benefit although it would not be the official record attempt. As before, he was towed into position and accelerated. He had reached two hundred and seventy miles an hour when the wind hit and the bow rose and then dived. The fuel tanks, located behind him, broke loose, slipped forward and crushed him. Once more a dead man was pulled from the water.

Understandably, we were rather depressed by the Walker Lake tragedy and, when everyone had gone, the place seemed empty and ghostlike. Someone mentioned that there was a rodeo the next weekend so we decided to go. We had all seen such things in cowboy films but I wondered if this one might be just a publicity stunt and not the real thing at all. I need not have worried.

Yerington, a hundred miles or so to the north (no-one thinks anything of travelling hundreds of miles for a day out), was a small township? village? group of ranches? – I don’t know what it was, but it seemed to be very scattered but with a large permanent venue for the rodeos. These took place frequently and were real: owing nothing to tourism but concentrating on the competitive nature of the cattle ranchers of the area.

But to us, and particularly Andy, this was like something out of the films and we had to keep reminding ourselves that it was real.

We sat on tiered benches of sun-bleached wood and were very glad of our hats and sunglasses as no-one seemed to have heard of shade. Some of the stunt riders were unbelievably skilled, standing, hanging off the horse’s flank, hand-standing, head-standing, etc, and all with no saddle and at incredible speed. There was some bull riding which was probably not quite as dangerous as it looked but the bulls did not appear to enjoy it, snorting horribly all the time. And they were enormous.

Some very skilled young folk then had a competition lassoing calves. Although they were undoubtedly very clever and practised, I hated to see the animals brought to the ground with such a bone-jarring thump. They must have been badly winded and bruised and I considered that it bordered on cruelty. But I suppose commercial cattle ranchers have to catch the animals somehow. One can only hope, naively perhaps, that the animals are well fed and watered and well looked after for their short lives. But, says my cynical side, probably only because a well fed animal will fetch a good price at the market.

I wonder if ranchers talk interminably about the price of cattle at the last sale just as the crofters do about the price of sheep at their last sale.