More Tales From the Island Nurse

by Mary J. Macleod

  It seemed that they were kept very strictly to their own land and this seemed a gross injustice to me but I soon discovered that this opinion is not one to be voiced in certain circles in Nevada.

  We began to get to know other residents in the apartments. What a diverse group! In one, there was a tall, bronzed, muscled young man living with his equally bronzed and determined wife. His father, also bronzed and tall, picked him up each morning in a huge, red truck. They went off to their nearby silver mine which had closed in the 1930s as being ‘worked out’, but new technology meant that there were now ways of extracting the silver from the rocks and these two hard-working, hard-drinking men were sure that they were going to make a fortune.

  Two girls, whom I took to be in their twenties but who turned out to be sixteen and seventeen, worked in El Capitano, departing in the evening wearing high heels and make-up but helping in the silver mine in the day. When did they sleep, I wondered?

  A young couple, devout Baptists, lived below and to the right. During our time there, Babs gave birth to her second child. They had no health insurance and the cost of maternity care was such that she had had no antenatal care at all and only went in to the local(ish) hospital when her waters broke and she was well advanced in labour. She was back again in less than two hours, driven home by the Pastor of their church. Her husband could not afford to lose even a few hours work. This was rough, tough Nevada, not the easy living of California.

  That evening, however, all the residents of the apartments were invited in to their home to sit in a circle on the floor holding hands, to thank God for Bab’s safe delivery and God’s gift of a baby. From my perspective, I certainly felt that He must have been smiling on her and the baby. The whole scenario seemed unbelievably desperate.

  In the apartment below us were a very odd couple and their nine-year-old son, Jason. Being Jewish, they did not attend the celebrations; in fact they seemed unwilling to even talk to Babs and her husband, Harley, a tall, thin man who wore a lungi most of the time and no shoes.

  Jason’s mother was a New York lady with an accent to match. (I was apparently an ‘English Poyson’). Jason was at school in Hawthorne. His stepfather was a very angry individual, who shouted at our dogs for no reason except that they were there, who grumbled at all the residents for a variety of imagined slights and was generally disliked and ignored. He had a ‘sidearm’ and a rifle, both of which he carried everywhere, even down to the restaurant by the lake if they were eating there in the evening. When Jason announced that he had saved up enough money for a bicycle and mentioned the figure, his stepfather remarked, ‘What a waste of money. You could buy a good gun for that.’

  Being unused to the gun culture of the States – very obvious in Nevada – we were uncomfortable with his general attitude, wondering if he was perhaps dangerous. Eventually his wife told us that he was a Vietnam War veteran who still had nightmares and whose insecurities stemmed from some horrendous experience that he had endured but would not speak about. We all tried hard to be friendly and to find something to like in him, but were rebuffed at every turn. We were very sorry for him but we gave up – what else could we do?

  Two other girls lived at the end of the block. Sheila was about seventeen and her sister, Amy, about twenty. There was some sad reason for the sisters living there, away from their parents, but I did not understand this at the time. They worked together in the restaurant at El Capitan and Amy seemed very protective of her sister. They loved swimming in the lake but by the time they got home, it was dark. No long, northern twilight here: darkness fell suddenly at around seven and, apart from our little group of lights, the twelves miles of the lake and its surroundings were completely dark. Except for the moon and stars. Delightful!

  One evening there was a knock on the apartment door and the sisters stood there in their swimsuits.

  ‘Come swimming,’ they invited. Andy was out. Were they asking me? Two young girls asking a fifty-year-old grandmother to swim with them?

  ‘Me?’ I asked.

  ‘Of course! It’s quite warm. We always dive off the jetty. See you there.’

  Dive off the jetty? In the dark? Into dark green water of unknown depth?

  Suddenly, I felt almost flattered to be asked to join two young girls in their swim. I was being asked just as myself with no reference to age or foreign-ness.

  ‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

  I changed rapidly and ran down to the jetty – no longer the dignified Nurse Macleod.

  They dived into the blackness. Heart in mouth, I followed, shutting my eyes long before I hit the water. It was still warm from the heat of the day and we swam about, treading water sometimes to chat and get to know each other. What I did not let them know was that I had always had a dread of dark water! Only later did I see, hanging in their webs from the underside of the jetty, dozens of ‘Brown Recluses’. I am more scared of spiders than of dark water and these enormous creatures were just inches from our feet as we joyfully ran along the boards. They are about three inches across (taking the leg length into account) and have the unpleasant habit of biting folk. Although the bite usually has no generalised effect on the body, the flesh around the bite rots away to leave deep and lasting scars, sometimes an inch in diameter. Once I knew about these monsters, I began to notice such scars on the bare arms and legs of some of those around us.

  We swam most evenings after that until the lake ‘turned over’. Like the Recluses, this phenomenon was a total surprise. In high summer when the sustained heat gets to a certain point, the plant life from the bottom of the lake rises to the surface, sending the cleaner water down. This process happens in many of the hot desert lakes. The resultant smelly mess of algae and other plants make the lake impossible to swim in and very difficult even to launch a boat, and this state of affairs lasts for several days or even a week until the whole disgusting, slimy matter sinks again. Clever people have tried to explain this to me but I still have only the vaguest notion of why it happens.

  But long before the lake ‘turned over’, George and I had a ‘conference’. Here we were beside a lake for the long hot summer and boating was

  free with no charge to launch, no licence needed or restriction of any kind – so why did we not have a boat? Andy was ecstatic when we decided to fill this gap in our lives. Enquiries were made, a few telephone numbers rung: someone was selling his boat business and there were bargains to

  be had.

  Next weekend, we set off for Topaz Lake. Topaz and its lake are on the border of California and Nevada in the mountains to the north and west of Hawthorne. The fact that it was about two hundred miles away did not seem important.

  We looked at several boats including a pretty, comfortable potterer. This took my eye but was instantly dismissed as ‘useless’ by Andy and George who wanted something fast. Andy wanted to water-ski.

  We bought a sixteen foot fibreglass boat and a seventy hp Evinrude outboard engine and some water skis (later found to be far too heavy and had to be replaced) and some special propellers to cope with the four thousand feet altitude of Walker Lake. We intended to ski on the six thousand feet Lake Tahoe at some point, too. A trailer came with the boat: we had a hitch fitted there and then and set off back through the now darkening mountain roads.

  Next morning, we reversed the trailer into the lake. As with all boating, there always seems to be help on hand coupled with much advice, delivered on this occasion through puffs of an enormous cigar rolled from side to side in the mouth of a huge young man, who seemed delighted to push the boat in, start the engine, adjust this and that and generally take us under his wing.

  After a while, we got the hang of it, loaded the dogs into the boat and Andy jumped over the side, prepared to ski. In his first few attempts, he failed to ‘get up’ at all but in less than half an hour was skiing well and enjoying himself enormously. Watching him, I decided that if a fifty-year-old grandmother could swim nightly in inky black water, she could surely learn to water-
ski. So I did!

  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 wh
at 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.