Lake Martin 9-1-1 … (Because Sometimes You’ve Just Gotta Shrug, Grin & Give in to the Crazy)

(Please enjoy this excerpt from ONE WRONG TURN AT A TIME, my humor book-in-progress that chronicles adventures I’ve shared with my other half as we’ve trekked around the 50 states over our 45 years together. This piece appeared previously in a 2018 blog post but has been tweaked, as all writing must be when it resurfaces. Cheers!)

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It was the perfect getaway. Rice and me. A lake house—beautiful, rustic, chic. The water—clear, aqua, expansive. It smelled clean as rain against the fresh cut grass on the sloping lot. A couple icy adult beverages and some down time on the dock were just the ticket.

Spotty cell service? No problem. We were on the water. Lake Martin, Alabama. Ahhh.

I felt alive in a way I hadn’t for ages. Eying the jet skis tied at the dock, I called dibs on the red one. Named her Stella, then bragged to Rice about how the next day, Stella and I would go out and spin double nickels! (That’s code for 55, my pending age at the time, and the speed limit I was ready to push.)

“Why wait?” Rice asked, his grin wide.

The next thing I knew, I was bouncing across the lake, wind and water whipping my hair. It was pure heaven. Finding the marina “beyond the point,” I gassed Stella up for the next day.

Back out on the water, I hugged the shore closer this time. Feeling the waves beneath me, I passed colorful clusters of Adirondack chairs …cozy cottages…flapping flags. Then I passed them again. And again. Meanwhile, black clouds loomed. Lightning flirted, about to flicker.

Rice tells me he grew uneasy as darkness began to set in. Where was I? He drove to the nearby marina and learned that I’d stopped there for gas…over a half hour earlier.

When he returned to the lake house, I was still gone. Under his breath he cursed me for leaving without my phone, despite…well, spotty cell service. Not to be stymied, he called the police to brainstorm how he might track me down. To his dismay, officers came to the house, walked him down to the deck, and peppered him with questions, shining their flashlights into the dark depths around them.

Meanwhile, out on the lake….

Hellz, yes, I was lost. So lost I couldn’t even sniff my way back to the marina.

I tried not to panic. How could I ask for directions when I couldn’t recall the address or the name of the subdivision where we were staying.

Spotting a father and son casting lines from their dock, I inched Stella up, close enough to share my woes. Perhaps they noticed I looked like a deer in headlights when they tried to explain the way back to the marina. Against claps of thunder, they powered up their boat and led me back there themselves.

At the marina, I asked another boater if I could borrow a phone to reach out to Rice.

Alas…I think I’ve mentioned spotty cell service?

Needing to gather my wits, I went inside the marina shop to buy a healthy snack. (Okay, I bought a wine cooler and cigs. Don’t judge.)

“Are you Jan?” the clerk asked.

I raised my eyebrows. “Yes?”

“An elderly gentleman stopped in an hour or so ago,” he continued. “He was worried about his wife Jan out on the water.”

Oh, my dear, sweet man….

But oof. Elderly gentleman? At the risk of going to hell, I admit, that made me snicker.

I shouldn’t have laughed, though. Because apparently, I think much the way an elderly gentleman does. Trying to figure out ways to connect back to Rice, I thought of the police, too, and asked if someone could give me a ride to the station.

The next thing I knew, I was in a jeep, jostling around back roads of the lake with two young dudes I’d never met before in my life. Had I not seen enough episodes of Law & Order to know better?

Blame it on the wine cooler. Or the optimism of youth—theirs. When these guys insisted they knew the lake and knew we could find the lake house, any danger radar I had failed me.

“Can you remember any landmarks?” the driver asked.

Breeze rustled my hair, helping me think. “A little chapel, maybe?”

He took a few turns, and the other guy asked, “Any road names?”

Suddenly, I envisioned a street sign that Rice and I had passed earlier.

“Peckerwood!” I blurted.

Yes, I was mortified that’s the particular name I remembered. Yet seconds later, we turned onto Peckerwood Road. And, in short time, we did find the lake house.

The jeep engine idled as the front door of the lake house flung open. Rice rushed out onto the driveway, two law officers on his tail. He looked ashen from worry—indeed elderly. For a moment I thought he might chew me out. Instead, he lumbered over and hugged me. Tight.

The officers left PDQ. Almost as quickly as my rescuers, who hightailed it before we could even offer a reward. Maybe because of the open beer containers on the jeep floor.

Minutes later, Rice shook his head while plopping ice cubes into glasses.

“All I could see were the headlines,” he said. “Georgia man arrested after wife disappears on Alabama lake.”

He handed me a glass, and I studied him—flushed, relieved, slap-happy. Both of us were.

“Maybe that was your plan all along?” I ribbed him. “To lose the wife.”

Before he could respond, I had a slightly more serious question. “How could you not remember, after 30-plus years with me, that I get lost everywhere, even in my own driveway?”

To Rice’s credit, he didn’t attempt a comeback.

Sometimes you’ve just gotta shrug, grin, and give in to the crazy.  

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