I brought a raft to a gunfight
Make the quarry great again
In honor of yesterday’s summer solstice, my sister and I wanted to connect with nature.
We drove to a not-so-hidden gem: the infamous Runaway Bay.
Runaway Bay sounds like a pirate theme park, but it’s an apartment complex. The units are nothing special, though the high rent implies otherwise. The only true selling point is the quarry: a rarity in Ohio. It’s so inviting that more than once people have tragically died there! Always after a night of drinking, which is the only time jumping off a cliff in the dark sounds like a good idea.
Don’t worry, I don’t drink.
Sure, my city has public pools. I guess I just like playing with fire! I also can’t hack the chlorine, the Marco Polo-playing ruffians, or the frozen snickers served by spaced-out teen snack bar attendants. Once I chipped a tooth on a Milky Way at the Worthington Rec Center Pool. Thanks for the rock-hard slab of frozen nougat, Maddie.
I’d love a real ocean, who wouldn’t, but I’m landlocked. The quarry is as good as it gets. It’s vast, deep, surrounded by wildlife and mature trees. You can kayak, float, or even swim [if you’re cool with duck poop particles in your hair.] There’s even a little “beach” (the sand was trucked in…it’s Ohio).
On paper, I love the quarry. I also think it’s seated in a Twilight Zone-type energy field. Things go awry. Maybe it’s haunted? The name “Runaway Bay” might be the issue, as it attracts people who are avoiding something, be it their inner demons, a stalker, or perhaps the authorities. Troubled tenants aside, we were all in. Summer solstice, baby!
To get there, you technically have to commit a crime, but it’s a victimless crime. It was 97 degrees, the longest day of the year, and we felt invincible.
We parked behind a dumpster, inflated our new rafts (one pineapple-themed, one in the shape of an owl), and set out on our usual path to the water: a little cut-through in the dense woods, safe from security’s prying eyes.
It’s a short trek from woods to water, maybe 3 minutes. Normally it’s no-man’s land in there; too many bugs and thorns to contend with. Yesterday, however, it looked different.
The giant American flag was the first, err, red flag. Who put it there? It was affixed to a picnic table, also there was a huge storage chest right there on the path. Someone had hauled all that stuff into the forest and set up shop, as if staking their claim in the gold rush.
Within seconds she appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, long blond hair blowing in the wind. Was she a witch? A vision? I wish.
Ever met a Trumper that looks like a hippie? That’s some cognitive dissonance. The woman was draped in boho-chic fabric and beaded jewelry and until she opened her mouth, I pegged her as someone who collected rain in buckets and used Dr. Bronner’s for literally everything.
Then she opened her mouth. You girls live here? Cuz that’s my stuff.
Boho Barbie wasn’t there to chitchat. She was a self-nominated guardian of her own tiny galaxy, which she’d decorated by shoving all that junk in the woods.
She gestured toward the chest, which had a giant lock on it and was large enough to store at least two bodies. It looked like it weighed a ton; she probably needed five friends to help her haul it down there. Hopefully she had five friends.
Oh, your stuff is fine! I replied, in my iciest you’re-not-the-boss-of-me tone. We’re just here to swim.
Yeah, we live here, chimed in my sister.
Cue the hostile swan. She came into my peripheral vision just as Flag Lady was starting to foam at the mouth.
I love a waterbird as much as the next, though I’m unsure if “waterbird” is a real term. Swans, cool, I used to be a ballet dancer, I get it. This swan, however, was nesting; prepared to guard her fuzzy babies by any means necessary, including murder. I can’t say I blame her, the mini-swans were truly adorable. I made eye contact; the full-sized swan interpreted this as a threat. She began to approach.
People keep swimming here that don’t even live here. It’s crazy, you know? The intensity in her voice was alarming; she was obsessed with the topic of intruders, getting all fired up. Soon she’d probably launch into a diatribe about securing the borders. She was also physically blocking us, unfazed by the impending waterbird attack.
My sister kept talking, probably to keep me from giving Flag Lady a piece of my mind. I’m usually pretty chill, but as far as I was concerned, this woman was a killjoy posing as a wellness influencer, there to poison our sacred solstice. The more she talked, the more I detected meth-vibes.
I know, it’s so frustrating, said my sister, in a somber voice. I heard drunk people come here at night and act crazy. I had a friend whose car was stolen here too!
Flag Lady nodded eagerly and they shared a moment of collective frustration, even though my sister’s frustration was fake. The exchange seemed to smooth things over. Flag Lady pivoted and returned to her perch by the water. Simultaneously, the swan backed down. Crisis averted!
CRISIS NOT AVERTED.
Moments from plopping our pineapple and owl rafts into the warm water, Flag Lady rematerialized, this time demanding to know our address. Who WAS this character, the fun police?
Speaking of police: I used to break the law all the time. Not by choice, exactly - unless addiction is a choice. (It’s not.) That’s old news. These days, I kick into fight-or-flight mode and turn into a Karen when wrongly accused. See, I’m finally NOT doing anything wrong, and I assume everyone knows. When questioned, some primal part of me turns into a cobra.
Due to astrological factors I can’t control, only half-joking, I also make my own rules. For some reason I expect the world to understand and respect this code. Case in point: If we’re splitting hairs, YES, I broke into Runaway Bay. In my thoughtfully-designed ethical landscape, no harm no foul. I damn sure wasn’t stealing her stuff. Why would I even want her stuff? My motives were pure; therefore, Runaway Bay’s rules (and this person’s preferences) = irrelevant.
Oh, no thanks! I replied with a saccharin smile. There’s no reason we’d give you our address! That’s a super personal question!! Do you work here or something?
The vibe changed. Flag Lady’s face said it all: she was on to us, and she wasn’t backing down. She began chuckling like a psychopath.
Ahh! So you DON’T live here. This is my area, you know? I set up all of this stuff to get away from the beach. People steal my things, it’s sad!
I wanted to feel her pain but honestly didn’t give AF. She was harshing my mellow.
I even started bringing my concealed carry with me all the time. I have to, you know?
Mic drop.
Only Ohioans refer to a handgun as “a concealed carry,” which is what the PERMIT is called, not the weapon. This is how they dance around the fact that they’re packing heat, despite also taking pride in the fact that they’re strapped and ready for war. Go figure.
Yeah, that kinda proves why we’re not comfortable giving you our address, my sister said sweetly. You just said you have a gun on you! [Also, the meth. But why bring up a sensitive topic?]
The swan took this opportunity to begin charging our way in slow-motion, which felt extra menacing. I began to wonder if Flag Lady hired the swan to help her guard her little setup. We were inches from the water, and now a sunburned blond was low-key threatening to shoot us, whilst a swan plotted our demise. Fucking Runaway Bay!!
I’m bad at many things: math, applying fake eyelashes, waking up early, navigating a grocery store. But when shit hits the fan, I excel at coming up with a solid lie on the spot.
To be perfectly honest, I said, pulling the honesty card, we’re kind of avoiding my ex; he lives here too. He’s probably at the beach right now; we thought we’d try another route because I don’t want to deal with his bullshit today. Sorry if that’s TMI!!
The swan refocused on her offspring. Maybe she understood English and believed my story. Flag Lady seemed to get it too.
I’ve had a few crazy exes myself! She said with surprising warmth, the shared hatred of past lovers potent enough to override her paranoia. The concealed weapon? No longer top of mind. Amen, girlfriend! #Commongroundbuiltonlies. A proud moment.
In the spirit of solstice, the cosmos intervened. Once Karen believed that I too, had been screwed over by a crazy ex, she was sweet as pie. Guns/schmuns…time to have fun!
We launched our rafts into the quarry and took a hundred deep breaths. Turns out our awesome pineapple and owl rafts were the toast of Runaway Bay, giving us instant status and recognition. It was comical: at least a dozen beachgoers asked where we bought them. One woman got so excited she even left the beach, to immediately purchase one. Now that she knew where to obtain a floating owl, she couldn’t live without one. I hope they weren’t sold out.
We stayed for an hour and drifted aimlessly, gazing at the sky while sipping cans of Liquid Death.
* Liquid Death sounds like another version of Four Loko, which is probably why I like it, but it’s just plain ol’ water.
Holy shit this is so good.