Do We Call It Luck or What?

We arrive at Siesta Cove RV park to put the boat in, still tasting honey mustard sauce and onions from Subway, the sting of pink top Blenheim ginger ale. We hear gravel crunch, ricket slam; knuckles pop, spine crack; door slam door slam laughter. Dude good to see you; backslap hug-slap. Why did you bring a power saw? Big door slam. Halyard against metal. Is Franklin coming this year? No, he said he had to work. Well it is good to be back again. Look at Joe, calling his wife. Dude what are you married now or something? Get off your phone. Did you bring a tent this year? Risky move. You bring one Mr. Paul? Noah only brought the sandcrawler. And when it rains three nights straight, I am not letting you in my tent. No way it rains. Good vibes man. Thoughts become things. 

Let’s get the gear unloaded then park the cars. Can we get out there in two trips? Chris brought the dinghy and wants to sail all the way. 

Just then a brand spanking new white F250 chugs around the corner. It slows right beside us. 

But then it slams the gas and whammo, NASCAR in our faces, gravel dust, diesel stench, and stanky burned rubber. The tires spin out and the engine burns and the truck drives straight down the boat ramp and into Lake Murray. 

Oil tang smells up the air. 

No problem, we think, it will pop an Evinrude right over the tailgate and idle off into the lake like a normal aquatic F250. 

Steam rises from under the hood and we hear a weak little hiss. 

Then we yell: Call an ambulance, let’s go get him. Pad pad feet slam on dock-wood. Get a rope. Hey man, can you put it in reverse? Nevermind, can you roll down the window? It is going to sink. Stay away from the engine. 

The truck sinks and we dive, splash, and feel the tepid lakewater. The driver rolls the window half down. Then, the electricals fizz out. We lean in the window and grab his arm, clamber onto the rear wheel to stabilize it, run back to the gear to find rope. 

Can you climb out of there? What is your name? Can you speak? No, do not try to open the door. 

He is stuck, he is not coming out. 

You are doing fine man. We got you. 

The RV park manager backs his truck to the top of the boat ramp, yelling that an ambulance is on the way. 

Throw me that. Another splash; whip, snap, water droplets. We hitch the rope around the tow ball. You sure that will hold? It is climbing rope, it would hold a VW Bug from a cliff. Get off there. I’m stabilizing it. The tire tread is new under our toes, we fudge the knot and re-tie, swim to shore and grab a rock. No, we need to put chocks under the tires to keep it from rolling farther in. Splash; underwater stillness, ear-drums shoosh; murmured voices. Rubber scrapes our index fingers as we lump the chocks into the lake-bottom mush. We lose contact lenses, lose breath, might lose fingers if the truck slips and the tires roll forward. 

We break water and breath. The manager gently guns the engine of his truck. The rope stretches. It’s going to snap. Get back, idiot. Don’t worry, it won’t snap. Get back from there. Engine guns, gravel skitters. Loosh water gurgles. Okay, now put the chocks under it. The rope groans as the manager’s truck tugs the brand spanking new white F250 up onto the ramp. We gather behind its front bumper to push. 

A woman on land screams at us to get away. What if the rope snaps and it crushes you? 

We get away.

The truck is tugged out and up the boat ramp. On level ground we open the truck’s door to an exhale of spilling water. We lift the driver; his thighs, arms, and left leg are set at rigid angles, stiff as a mannequin; the right leg of his soggy jeans flaps empty below his knee.

Wire rimmed glasses, grey T-shirt, he looks none of us in the eye. We set him on the grass. He rolls sideways onto his elbow. The grey gravel dust sticks to his jeans.

The elderly RV camp residents emerge to work out what happened. Clemson pendants flutter from fences and mailboxes around each RV; a garnet and black flag — Go Cocks! — flutters behind the old woman’s golf cart. She ashes her cig into the breeze.  

The manager approaches us. I am a former cop, he says. Tell me what happened.

We tell the manager that we were just standing here unloading our gear for a camping trip and this truck comes around the corner and hits the gas and tear-asses it straight down the boat ramp and right into the lake. 

I’ll stay with him till the ambulance shows up, the manager says. We’re lucky yall were here. The guys says his prosthetic slipped off and got stuck on the gas pedal. 

The manager offers us free weekend parking. We accept and say thank you, even though we had already paid the teller inside the lodge. 

Each year we remind ourselves that the island giveth and the island taketh. Last year, we saw an Osprey shit into the water before it alighted on the branch of a pine, which we proclaimed a good omen, kin to the eagle, snake, and cactus of Lake Tenochtitlan. Sure enough, last year there were no storms that soaked our food or lightning that struck nearby pines or fire-ants that bedded in our eggs and crackers. 

Three golf carts wheel up and ask other golf carts what is going on. We need to get to the island and set up camp before dark. 

This omen. We think we might have to pay for it.

Norris Eppes has published fiction, essays, and reporting in X-R-A-Y, Hobart, Four Way Review, The Surfer’s Journal, BeachGrit, Newsweek, Bitter Southerner, and elsewhere. He holds an M.F.A. from the University of Tennessee, has been a staff member at the Sewanee Writers’ Conference, and currently works in 3D metrology/LIDAR (which is super cool — basically, metrology is the science of precise measurement!). www.norriseppes.com.