The Devil's Punchbowl (The Tacoma Gravy Incident)

There is a certain mystery to boredom. Everyone reacts to it a different way. Some will just crawl into bed and wait for the phone to ring, others will seek out the solution, face the boredom like a matador and guide it to the side like a rampaging bull.

In that lies the spontaneity. Spontaneity is a curious thing, because whether the results are positive or not, it is very much like holding a match to the gasoline. Spontaneity, for the lack of a better description is the immediate release of reason and sense. It represents the desperation of a gambler taking his last five dollars to the Blackjack table looking to extend his final breath. His Magnum P.I. voice in his head is telling him "no, walk away." But he can't, he surrendered reason to that hard twenty he had 4 hands ago, the dealer's always going to flip a Blackjack on a hard twenty.

Back in the summer of '96 we were sitting around one Friday night. Everyone had an one of those weeks they just want to put behind them. The conversation was stale, if not muted. I found myself being entranced by the smoke dancing off the end of my cigarette to the music, I was thinking so intensely, the subject itself became distorted. Even the dogs that would normally be playing with one another just laid on their backs in the last light of the sun as it crept down behind Hollyburn Ridge.

My buddy Jeff came by with one of those sly goofy grins that meant he had "a plan." I had already talked to him on the phone earlier so he was well aware of my state of mind. Jeff was always the schemer, you know the type, always something up his sleeve but rarely wearing a shirt.

"I've got the deal for you Johnny!! Know what we're gonna do?"

Groan, "surprise me."

"We are loading up the surfboards and going to Oregon!!"

I had windsurfed for years, but I had only surfed once at a place called Grand Bend in the Great Lakes. As most know I have a very deep set fear of the ocean and have gone through life with the rule of thumb that I don't go in the water where the fish are bigger than me. But this is spontaneity, surrendering your fears, your reason, and your sense. Jeff was once again talking advantage of my boredom.

Our girlfriends let out a grunt of disapproval at first, but at the same time were drawn to the adventure of it. My Bronco was in being fixed at the time so we loaded up Jeff's Jeep with what we could. Quite the picture, a Jeep YJ with four adults and two full sized dogs. The roof couldn't be put on because it was the only way we attached the surfboards. It was a warm clear summer night anyhow, deceptively full of promise.

We made our run for the border. I already had about 8 beers in me, so I was just sitting in the passenger seat on cruise control. The girls were in the back with a few blankets wrapped around them and the dogs sitting across their laps. The border cross was easy, it was about 10 at night so no traffic.

We got about 10 minutes south of the border when the sky's opened up. We hadn't even noticed the clouds rolling in. We are talking torrential downpour. Without the roof the surfboards were offering us our only protection. Problem was the rain would just collect on their concave surface and roll like a waterfall over the sides. We knew there wasn't any sense turning back, we were already soaked to the bone in a matter of minutes, besides, the girls had already resorted to name calling. There was no turning back now. We drove on through the night. I actually found the rain quite cleansing as I always do, but I knew if I brought that up it would be met with some very sour comments so I kept it to myself.


None of us had eaten, and I was getting quite hungry, we still had a long road ahead of us. It was about midnight now and we found ourselves making great time despite the weather as we hydroplaned toward the city of Tacoma. I should have known something was wrong when spied a signpost up ahead (very Rod Serling like) for a Denny's. I told Jeff to pull off that way much to the chagrin of the girls. I spent a few minutes explaining the culinary dynamics of Tacoma at midnight. Once faced with the choice of a AM/PM hotdog, or Moons Over My Hammy, they quickly sided with me.

To be continued......