JEEPTRACKS
Although it was a hot, clear, summer day, the bunch of us were getting a little bit soggy. It was approaching sunset, and we had been drinking beers most of the afternoon. We had been cruising the dunes west of Grayton in Hampton’s old Willis Jeep, and, as was nearly always the case, we had gotten stuck, big time. Sometimes, when you try to bank off the face of a giant dune on a 45-degree incline, you just lose it, and start to sideslip, wheels spinning out of control, sand spraying high and mighty. Usually you drift down to a more stable sand surface, and with a little bit of rocking, you can ease yourself out. This time, that didn’t work. The jeep’s downward wheels just sank and dug in. The jeep tilted up. Reggie and Wild Bill bailed out quickly, laughing at first, and then cursing as their faces hit the sand and the last of their beers spilled away.
Not being quick enough, I just gritted my teeth and held on as we flipped, all the while listening to Hampton’s maniacal laugh followed by the longest continuous creative stream of cursing I have ever heard. Thank God for the rollbar. After the flip, as we came to rest, still tilted sideways at a 45-degree angle, it became apparent that the both of us were still intact, uninjured, and covered in beer-soaked sand. Neither of us had pissed in his pants (I think), which was a small victory, but we were stuck, big time, and we were out of beer.
Being stuck was an inconvenience, and also a serious blow to Hampton’s pride. We would have to hoof it back to “town”, which was the sleepy little collection of beach cottages called Grayton, and “borrow” someone else’s four wheel drive and hope word didn’t get out that we had gotten stuck so bad we needed to be towed out. That was something only tourists did.
That was bad. But being out of beer… that was really bad. It was just minutes to what was promising to be a gorgeous sunset and we were hoping to be able to situate ourselves on the tallest dune, pop open some cold ones, get high, and just drink it in. Now we would have to come up with a plan B.
Hamp knew what to do. “C’mon” he muttered and we struck out westward, away from Grayton, and towards a singular towering dune. We trudged up the face of it, not knowing what he had in mind. We were headed in the opposite direction from town, a four-wheel drive, and more beer. Does this guy really know what he’s doing? We grumbled, sunburned, sandy, tired, and oh so thirsty. When we reached the top, the three of us sat down, and Wild Bill pulled a crumpled baggy out of his shorts. He always came prepared. He proceeded to roll up a big, fat one, which was usually the cure for most ills, and certainly the best way to appreciate a sunset on the beach. But to have nothing to wet our whistles with was a bit of a drag.
Hampton remained standing, and slowly paced around the top of the dune, looking down, as if looking for clues. Finally he found a specific spot, stood and turned facing due north. Then he spread his arms out wide just like an Indian praying to the Sun God, and fell flat on his back in the sand. We all just watched in tired amusement. Hamp had done peculiar things before. This time, he just started digging the sand below his right hand. Shortly thereafter, a triumphant grin appeared on his face, and his hand pulled up a half-full bottle of Jose Cuervo Gold. We all just stared dumbfounded in admiration. The dude had come through again, with style.
He explained later, as we sipped, and toked, and drank in the sunset, that this had been the same dune he had come out to late last weekend, and that this was the exact spot at which he had sort of passed out, and had had enough survival skills left to bury his stash, just before slipping into sandy sleep.
Hampton saved the day, we captured the magnificent sunset in our memories, we got back to Grayton very late that night, and didn’t retrieve the Jeep ‘til very late in the morning. Just another day at the beach in Seagrove in the seventies.
