Out of the Frying Pan - Part 9
“This thing looks like a lawn chair on roller skates! I could break my neck in this contraption," said Haylene. Ehrhard laughed loudly and said, “Ja! Ja! Goot! We go!”
Another six-minute adventure with Haylene and Marla. If you like these two loose, but lovable women, you can find eight more road trips HERE.
Thirty-four tandem dirtboats were lined up facing into the stiff wind of the dry lake bed. … their sails slack and fluttering … waiting for the first race to begin.
Haylene, wearing an arrest-me-red tank top and her leopard print Spandex capris, snapped on a helmet. She climbed into the landsailer and buckled up next to Ehrhard, a burly German pilot whose English was a little shaky. She grinned at him and said, “This thing looks about as stable as a lawn chair on roller skates! I could break my neck in this contraption!”
Ehrhard, not understanding anything she said, laughed loudly, “Ja! Ja! Goot! We go!”
Haylene was jittering in anticipation of this ride. Ehrhard admired her enthusiasm, and a few more of her obvious assets.
At the wave of the green flag, the pilots pulled their sails taut and shot out into the wind like arrows, aiming wide of the first mark. Haylene attached herself to Ehrhard’s muscular arm like a limpet. Tacking for the mark, he was already going 30 miles per hour, but to Haylene, being so low to the ground, it felt more like 90. Her heart was pounding like Ginger Baker’s bass drum at the Fillmore in 1967.
It’d been a long winter in Florida, and the two women had stayed home in Vero Beach for what seemed like forever, oppressed by unusually gloomy skies, a hurricane, and a flood or two.
“Marla, I feel like I been lying at anchor. We need to get out of here, girl. I have a serious case of hydrophobia that I might just die of.” She stirred her margarita thoughtfully and lay back on the bright yellow chaise lounge
“I think you mean claustrophobia, Haylene. A little roadtrip might just cure that.”
Haylene shrugged, sighed and helped herself to another handful of Cheez-Balls from a family-size bag. She poured herself another drink from the frosty pitcher.
Marla was floating lazily in the pool on a large inflatable frog, admiring her new purple toenail polish. “You just say when, Haylene. I am in! The gift shop don’t open for the season until April, so I got time for a little explore before going back to work. Where do you wanna go?”
They took Haylene’s classic ’79 Camaro all the way to Las Vegas, spending a full uncharted week on the road, just to see what kind of fun the west had to offer two single ladies. They stopped over in a couple of small Texas towns and a few places in New Mexico and Arizona along the way. They mostly managed to stay out of trouble, except for one close call outside of El Paso with a couple of troopers. Haylene dismissed the whole affair, saying that those badge-wielding animals were obviously suffering from testosterone poisoning. They both agreed they were not going to mention that incident ever again.
They’d wiled away three days and three long nights in Vegas. They won a little, lost a little. They ate and drank too much, and unashamedly committed at least five of the seven deadly sins. Still, they managed to keep themselves out of jail.
They were sitting at a horseshoe-shaped bar drinking Mai Tais, when Marla said, “Haylene, I thought you told me you was raised Baptist. What the hell happened to you?”
Haylene took a delicate sip through her straw. “I got over it,” she said.
“You know we better get on down to that desert pretty soon — those races are supposed to begin on Saturday.”
“Yeah … anyway, I’ve had just about all I can stand of Vegas,” said Haylene. “I am as weak as pond water.”
“Aw, you’re just mad ‘cause you lost at black jack last night — and I didn’t.”
They stayed one more day at the Bellagio, getting a spa treatment, catching up on their beauty sleep and sobering up before heading out.
Their final destination was Primm Valley, a disappointing little bump on Interstate 15 right on the Nevada-California border. It used to be said that Primm was the first opportunity for Californians to lose their money on the way to Vegas. Now, though, it’s pretty much derelict. All it has to recommend it is that it’s situated next to Ivanpah, a large recreational dry lake.
“This place is as dead as disco,” Marla said as they pulled into town. “Whiskey Pete’s is closed down and so is Buffalo Bill’s! Don’t that beat all!” She looked up from the Google map. “Seems the only place left in this town to find a bed is Primm Valley Resort — and at $50 a night, we better not get our hopes too high. I can feel the petrified shag carpet under my bare feet now.”
Haylene licked the sugar off her fingers — she’d been into the box of do-nuts. “No worries, Marla. We’ll just leave our shoes on.”
The primary objective of this road trip was to attend the annual America’s Cup for Land Sailing. Haylene had read somewhere that these events attracted entrants from all over the world — France, Belgium, Germany, Holland, New Zealand, Argentina — a veritable smorgasbord of rugged, unattached male dirtboat pilots from exotic locales. She thought it might have possibilities.
And now here she was flying around that race course in a Manta Twinjammer with Ehrhard from Germany. And, as sometimes happens, after rounding the weather mark, coming out of a jibe, a sudden gust of wind caused a rear tire to lift two feet off the ground and they rolled along balancing on two wheels. Haylene screeched, “Brakes! Brakes!”
“Nein, nein!” yelled Ehrhard, “ Wir haben keine brakes!! No brakes auf einem landsailer! Ha ha ha!”
Little Marla happened to witness this action and was thinking, “I sure hope Haylene brought an extra pair of underwear, ‘cause she’s probably going to need ‘em.”
Toward the last ten minutes of the race, boats were stacking up like jet planes over Atlanta, all vying for the same good wind. Then, as fate would have it, Erhhard came in too fast downwind to the leeward mark — about 60 miles an hour, and lost traction. They spun a complete 540˙ and ended up facing the wrong way round in a bunch of pucker bushes. Boats swerved around them, whizzing past, weaving in and out of each other’s dust trails. Adrenaline was pumping through Haylene like oil through a Texas pipeline. She was coughing and laughing and having the time of her life. “What now, big boy?” she said.
They both got out and pushed the dirtboat free of the prickly shrubs and took off again. They say that sometimes you just have to let yourself spin in a landsailer, discretion being the better part of valor. “Ehrhard ist no hero,” declared Ehrhard.
They continued for one more lap, finally tacking upwind toward the finish line and feeling the full force of the Manta’s speed. Haylene was breathless. They came in 16th place, only managing to beat one guy - the guy who broke his axle and flipped upside down. But what a ride for a first-timer!
Haylene gave Ehrhard a big kiss and a sincere “Danke Schoen”. She puffed up her platinum hair and repaired her lipstick and went off in search of a bathroom before the next race.
Marla, in a wide brimmed straw hat, decided that one race was enough for her for the rest of her born days. She’d thanked her pilot, Dennis, and sat down contentedly on a large cooler of beer. She planned to watch the next race with Rene, a shy member of the Belgian contingent.
In the evening, the girls wandered through the race village where several different camps were having parties — the L.A. Wind Wizards, the Flying Monkeys from northern Nevada, the MOOSE men out of Montana, and a couple of ice-boating clans from Minnesota and Wisconsin.
“There’s temptation on every side here, Haylene, both domestic and foreign,” laughed Marla.
“God bless America!” said Haylene.
The two women were invited to hang out with SASSASS — the Sunny Acres Sipping, Sailing and Soaring Society, a friendly California tribe. Most of the international folks gathered in that camp as well.
Haylene jumped on Erhhard like a duck on a junebug, and they went wandering off in the moonlight and were not seen again until after midnight. Little Marla hung out near the barbecue. She had a thing for Dennis, the guy in charge of grilling the sausages. Dennis’ wife didn’t seem to mind. Married 35 years, she knew he wasn’t going anywhere.
The SASSASS camp featured good food, an ocean of beer, and music and dancing under the wide, night sky, but they were also the proud providers of the infamous Sassinator - a small cement mixer in which Margaritas were prepared all night long.
The girls left Ivanpah two days later wearing their new purple T-shirts with the SASSASS logo on the pocket and the affirmation “All we do is party and sail.” The girls, now honorary members of the club, thought that was a monumental understatement.
Come take a quick ride - triple click the arrow
What great description of the sights and experiences of this famous duo!
Oh Sharron, how do I sign up to SASSASS???!!!!!!!!!!!!! I NEED TO BE PART OF THIS GANG!
I love these two, and it's fantastic to read this latest episode in their fabulous story. Now, although Marla and Haylene are girls after my own heart I'm not sure I could tick off quite THAT many of the seven deadly sins in such a short space of time!
🤔🤣