The warm night swooped down like a welcome blackbird; seeking the perfect spot to drop a slice of adventure. I was seventeen, restless and powerful behind the wheel of a maroon, 1968 Dodge Polara. There were four of us on this pilgrimage and we were conjuring up the perfect spell to attract the four young men pursuing us; waving a lasso of loud music and laughter that flirted with the Dodge and our hearts. We were captivated.
My rookie driving skills and reckless enthusiasm resulted in the car plunging into the outer fringe of Hanson Lake. All four wheels were partially immersed in the lake water and we were, quite simply, stuck. That laughter and music ended abruptly as the four gallant gentleman surrounded us, a look of bewilderment on their faces as we climbed out of the car and up onto dry land.
“We’ll go get a wrecker,” the driver called as they tore away from us in a red Chevy; whose wheels kicked up lake-sand in their wake.
“We’ll never see them again,” I said. We all sighed. Our laughter and amusement sank into the lake, right along with the undercarriage of the Polara.
The gentlemen were true to their word, although the “wrecker” was actually a dilapidated pickup that belonged to one of them. They hooked a rusty chain to the rear bumper of the car and pulled it completely free from the fingers of the lake. Unfortunately, the driver’s side of the rear bumper came loose and clung pathetically to the back – crooked and in obvious peril.
The gentlemen would accept no payment for their valor and drove off into the night, flashing half-smiles and limp apologies. We climbed into the car and drove back slowly to Caribou. I brought my companions home, our moods sullen and our conversation sparse. I pulled into my own yard, a grand story already fluttering around in my 17-year-old brain as I approached my father.
“You won’t believe what happened, Dad. I parked the car in the Zayre parking lot and when the girls and I came out from shopping, someone had hit the rear end of the car. The bumper needs to be fixed.”
He raised his eyebrows, walked out of the house and returned within minutes. “Has there been some sort of flood in Presque Isle that I am not aware of?” I swallowed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, there are water reeds and clumps of mud wrapped tightly around the axle. Any idea how that might have happened? Hmmm?”
I spent the next month forbidden to drive, while my father placed me on what he referred to as “House Arrest.” (I believe he acquired that term while in the military.) For years, we referred to the Dodge as the Maroon Submarine.
As for the young men who came to the rescue? Well, I never saw any of them again, though my dad told me that an ancient, sad old pickup used to drive by our house every once in a while. He said that four “hoodlums” were packed into the cab of the truck like sardines and he sure wondered how that poor excuse for a vehicle ever passed a State of Maine vehicle inspection.
“I don’t suppose you know those boys, do you, Bin?” I would shrug my shoulders, secretly thrilled, and look everywhere but into my father’s sharp gray eyes. We would both laugh then, content with the moment and each other.
Editor’s Note: Belinda Wilcox Ouellette lives in Connor TWP with her husband Dale and their Goldendoodle Barney. They are currently working on building a home in Caribou. You may contact Belinda online at: dbwouellette@maine.rr.com.
