Killen's Pond

Summer in Felton, Delaware meant swimming in Killen’s Pond. The area is a state park today but in the sixties Killen’s Pond was just a small rural lake surrounded by farm fields and forest with a big dirt parking lot and picnic area at one end. There was just room enough for a half dozen powerboats to pull water skiers single-file around the shore.

We didn’t have a boat of our own but Dad’s friend, Junior, had a wooden speedboat with an Evinrude twenty-five horsepower outboard motor, powerful enough to pull two skiers in tandem. I had learned to ski several summers earlier in Minnesota and considered myself pretty good on a single slalom.

Dad was a big man; not really fat but, after a decade and a half in long-haul trucks, he had that big belly and swayed back so many drivers develop after spending years behind the wheel. A love of beer on hot summer days only contributed to his girth. The summer sun made Dad hot, beer made him fearless and the water beckoned with a promise of cool relief until Dad could take it no longer and yelled out to Junior, “Bring the boat around, I’m going to ski!”

Dad had never skied in his life. I convinced him to ride in the boat just once to watch me demonstrate the basics; take off, maintain balance, cross the wake, swing out, drop the tow rope, dismount. As we made a circuit of the lake my misgiving grew. He ignored my example, instead laughing and talking with Junior as they finished another beer. I was skeptical at the end of the tow as I swung toward the beach and prepared to come in. Unconsciously, I made my usual dismount; racing toward the shore at high speed then leaning back suddenly to decelerate, stepping out of the skis and onto dry sand at the last moment. That must have been the one thing of which Dad took note, unfortunately.

We couldn’t find a safety vest large enough to fit him. “I don’t need that damned thing anyway,” he declared and settled back in the shallow water like I showed him while I held his ski tips above the surface and Junior eased the slack out of the rope.

“Hit it!” he yelled. There were a dozen false starts; some ending with a backward splash, others in a face-first watery explosion as the boat yanked him out of his skis. The last unsuccessful attempt nearly dragged the boat to a halt. He fell forward but kept a death-grip on the handle as he disappeared beneath the surface, plowing a giant wave before him until his head dug a crater into the sandy bottom.

“Give up,” I pleaded. He was not a quitter.

To everyone’s surprise he rose from the water almost gracefully on the next try and with a loud cowboy “Whoop” he and the boat disappeared from view behind a line of trees. It was exciting. I could hear him laugh and holler above the roar of the motor as they followed the curve of the far bank. When they came again into view Dad was steady on his feet and looked like he had been skiing for years. I was proud of him. He was fearless, adventurous. How many other middle-aged men would show the confidence and courage to try again and again, right there in front of everyone until they had achieved their goal and mastered a new sport? What a man! What a dad!

Junior was lining up the boat on its approach for a dismount. I hoped Dad remembered how to cross the wake and swing out toward the shore. I saw him make a couple of tentative moves toward the swell of the wake as they quickly approached. Come on, I said under my breath, make your move.

Suddenly, he leaned to the right and dug the edge of both skis into the water. Like a rocket he shot up and over the wake and was airborne in an instant. “Too fast!” I shouted. “Oh shit!” I heard him yell.

Everyone who witnessed what happened next did not stop talking about it for the rest of the summer. Even now, as I write these words, the scene unfolds before my eyes as though I am transported back to Killen’s Pond, standing knee-deep in water and watching in slow-motion horror.

Dad flies twenty feet beyond the wake, arcing three feet over the surface, landing upright on his skis at thirty miles per hour only fifty feet from the onrushing shore.

“Oh my God!” my mother screams from somewhere behind me.
“Oh shit, oh shit!” Dad yells over and over, knowing that this can not end well.
“Lean back!” I shout across the water, praying he will remember how I leaned back to slow down before stepping out of my skis.

He is hurtling right at me. I have no choice but to step aside, knowing it is impossible to stop his momentum. A collision would mean broken bones for us both. He zips past me heading straight for the beach.

“Lean back!” I shout one last time, but it is too late. His skis hit the slope of the sand in a sudden stop. Jumping out of the foot grips Dad hits the ground running. His legs and arms are a blur as they pump furiously, propelling him at a pace he has never run in his life. For an instant it seems he can defy the limits of human performance and remain upright, but ever so slowly he begins leaning further and further in the direction of his trajectory.

Knowing in his heart that the end is near he thrusts his arms out straight and braces for the fall. Impact is inevitable, but with what? Now he is beyond the beach and approaching the tree line. Directly before him stands a pair of maple trees, their trunks separated by less than two feet of space. Dad aims for the space between and hurls himself to the ground like a runner stealing home plate. He slides through the opening and beyond, now heading for the parking lot, his speed diminished only a little.

“Oh my God!” Mother still screams. Dad has fallen silent except for the sound of flesh scraping gravel. I run in his direction, wanting to be there when he finally skids to a halt.

From the corner of my eye I see a car moving across the parking lot on an intersecting course. Dad slides into the path of the vehicle, throwing up a cloud of dust as the driver stabs at the brake pedal.

I can’t look. Oh God, please don’t let this happen!

Mother stops screaming. The world falls silent. I open my eyes and see Dad lying motionless a foot in front of the car. They both stopped in time.

Slowly, Dad rolls over and sits up, his chest, stomach and hands scraped nearly raw and beginning to bleed. Strangers reach him before I do and help him to his feet. Mother and I join him and together we walk down to the lake to rinse off the dust and gravel. Eventually, Dad breaks the silence.

“Well,” he says, “that was fun. I don’t think I’ll water ski again for a long time.”

Thankfully, he never did.