There were six boats and about fifteen of the crowd there. The Turner twins, Danny Riggs, Sue Lehman... just about everybody. Some skin-divers were close inshore, working the holes in the rocks.
Jean Anne dropped the bar at exactly the right moment, went sailing in on a long curve, losing speed until she came almost to a dead stop, just close enough so she could turn and sit neatly on the takeoff platform. When you do it wrong, and either die six feet away, or come piling in so hard you bang yourself up, you get the big jeer from all.
As Jean Anne came in for her landing, Dake made a sharp hard turn and headed in. I pulled the line in. Dake reversed, we nudged, and tied up. Some of the kids knew Foster Harmon. We introduced him to the others. I guess everybody knew the score, and they could pretty well guess what we had in mind.
I took Dake out first and set him up for the thing he likes to do best. I went out so I could build up top speed on a good long run back in, and then made a long, gentle, sweeping curve by the take-off platform. Dake had swung far to the left and at just the right moment he swung back, edging the skis, digging hard, building up his speed to the maximum. We haven’t been able to measure it, but if it is done right, the skier on his big swing, behind a boat going forty-five, can build it up to sixty-five. Dake flashed by, squatting low to cut the wind resistance. He passed the boat. If I’d continued straight away it would have picked up slack in the rope and dumped him, so I had to cut to port, keeping my eye on the line. I’d heard the girls squeal as he slammed by, not a yard away from the platform.
We had it all arranged to let Mr. Foster Harmon stew for a while. Dake took me out, kept it throttled down to build up the wake, and I did six jump spins in a row across the wake until I landed wrong and got dumped. Then Dake took Mickey Reiss out. Reiss is a solid pack of muscle. Mickey is the only one in the group husky enough to ski barefoot. He kicked off one ski, braced his bare foot against the water until he had enough pressure on it to kick off the other ski. He threw water so thick and high you could hardly see him, but he stayed up, the cords and muscles of his back bulging in an incredible way.
The kids coaxed Jean Anne till she gave an exhibition. Though she was a little rusty, she made it a honey, coming by the last time in a reverse swan. That’s where you are going backward on one ski, bent from the waist, arms out as though doing a swan dive, the towbar hooked behind the heel of your other foot. She made it look easy, and smiled as she went by.
Finally Dake nodded at me. I said to Foster Harmon, “Ready for a try at it?”
“Sure,” he said, in a casual way, but there were little knots of muscle at the corners of his jaw. Dake took him out. Harmon got the skis on and sat at takeoff, and when the line came tight he made the traditional pumping motion with his fist. Dake took off hard. Harmon wobbled for a moment and caught his balance. I sat beside Jean Anne. Nobody was doing any talking. Dake headed out and out and out, full throttle, as though heading for Mexico.
“Very, very amusing, I’m sure,” Jean Anne said in a tight little voice.
“Maybe Foster would like a nice long ride.”
“You two are revolting.”
“Thanks, chick. Look at him. He’s horsing around.”
Foster Harmon was, indeed, swinging from side to side as he gained confidence in his balance. And then he became so tiny we couldn’t see what he was doing. There was an offshore breeze. Out where Dake was heading there would be a punishing chop.
Some of the other boats went into action. Next to the Banshee, the fastest is Sonny Edison’s, a stubby plastic hull with one of the big Mercs mounted on the transom. Sonny took Danny Riggs out and tried to shake him off. You can do anything but deliberately put slack in the line. Danny wouldn’t shake. With a tow. Sonny can do a shade over thirty, and that’s good enough for a lot of fun. And the water isn’t concrete when you fall into it. I couldn’t see the Banshee any more. About twenty minutes later I was watching Sue Lehman ride on the shoulders of one of the Turner twins when Jean Anne’s fingers bit into my bare shoulder and she said, “There they are, and I think he’s still up.”
A few minutes later I could see for certain that he was still on the skis. It surprised me. Dake brought him in at such an angle that he couldn’t let loose the first time. Foster Harmon was bent forward to ease the strain on his arms and shoulders. His face had a gray, twisted look. He had the most obvious case of spaghetti legs I have ever seen. Dake made a proper swung and Harmon let go. It looked as though he would make a decent landing. You could tell from his face that he desperately wanted to land well. But thirty feet out his legs just folded on him and he went down. He bobbed up, rested on the skis for a moment, and then came slowly in, pushing them in front of him. Nobody razzed him. He was shaking all over when he climbed up. I helped him. I don’t know why. He stretched out, rolled onto his back and closed his eyes, breathing hard. I could see the muscles in his thighs and calves jump and quiver. Jean Anne sat close to him and they began to talk in low tones. I wandered away. I knew that in a little while he’d feel all right, but when he tried to get out of bed the next morning, he would have a big surprise.
A half hour passed before I had a chance for a private word with Dake. “Looks like he made it.” He looked sore. “I don’t know how. I thought he was gone ten minutes before I brought him in.”
“Jean Anne is pretty sore at both of us.”
“That college boy is gutsy, Jud. Face it.”
And I had to face it, but I didn’t like it. We’d have to think of some new way to show Jean Anne that he was a slick phoney.
In the meantime, I could at least get in some more ski time. It must have been a little after noon when Mickey Reiss and I talked Dake into taking us both out to play crisscross. Dake hates to pull two. It slows the boat and puts the bow too high. So somebody has to be on the bow, and that makes it even slower. Jean Anne agreed to go out on the bow of the Banshee. She stretched out in the sun. Dake towed us in big circles. Mickey and I had a fine old time. You swing in opposite directions, and when you come back you take turns jumping the other guy’s line. The one who jumps has to pull in line to shorten up, or you’ll bang into each other.
From the shape of the last circle, I knew Dake had had enough and was bringing us in, so we quit horsing around and got ready to peel off. I was looking at the Banshee, admiring her. I guess Jean Anne knew we were coming in, so she was getting up, ready to step back over the windscreen, down into the cockpit. Dake was standing at the wheel, looking back at us. And all of a sudden, directly in front of the speeding Banshee, I saw a damn fool skin-diver pop to the surface. I yelled, but I knew Dake couldn’t hear me. Maybe my expression, or some sixth sense, warned him. He snapped his head around. I didn’t see how he could miss the stoop in the mask.
It happened in a crazy kind of slow motion. Dake has good reflexes. He gave a hard yank on the wheel, taking no time to brace himself. The Banshee seemed to jump sideways. It skinned past the fool in the water. Dake lost his grip on the wheel, waved his arms wildly and went over the side. Jean Anne fell headlong over the windscreen, down into the cockpit. I saw that, just as the lines went slack; then they came taut and dumped both of us. I had the crazy idea of hanging onto the tow bar and trying to work my way up the line to the boat, but the weight of my body in the water tore my hands free.
We were about ninety yards from the take-off platform. I don’t think I ever swam faster in my life, but it was an endless distance. I must have been ten yards from it when there was a warning yell. Sonny Edison’s big Merc brayed with power, and Foster Harmon was yanked by me on skis. I had one glimpse of his face and it was set like marble.