Notas del episodio
Chapter 4: Skinny-Dipping in Connecticut
About fifteen minutes after the rest stop, the bus pulled off the highway onto a two-lane country road lined with tall pine trees somewhere west of Hartford. Less than a mile later at a nondescript break in the tree-line we turned onto a primitive single-lane dirt road that ended in an open field at the foot of a hill. The bus listed severely on the grassy slope as our driver turned the bus around, throwing passengers side to side and back again as he made a three-point-turn. The bus came to a halt facing the direction we had come, and Driver Chris set the air brake with a pop and hiss.
The bus parked on a dead-end dirt road within sight of the highway. Pine trees populated a hillside between the highway and the pond, muffling the roar of engines and car horns, creating an oasis yards away from the motorized mayhem.
Driver Chris stood up next to the driver’s seat to make a brief announcement. He bent down a little and pointed out the window. “The swim-hole is down the path over there. Just follow that trail. You can’t miss it.” He sat back down and stroked his red beard and tucked his long hair back behind his ears. “This place is completely private and we’re only going to be here for about an hour. So, you do not need to waste any time digging out your bathing suits and towels or stuff like that. There’s no place on the bus to hang wet clothes to dry.” He reached over and opened the noisy door with a screech. “We will blow the horn when it’s time to go.” As an afterthought he advised, “Don’t worry about the sunken car. It’s been there forever.”
“Sunken car!” shouted Little Josh enthusiastically. “Yay!” He pulled his mother’s hand. “Come on, let’s go.”
The brunette soccer player from Boston remained seated while everyone else exited the bus. I sat across from her to put my boots on and asked, “Are you going to swim?”
“No,” she answered abruptly. “I’m all set. My swimsuit is buried under the floor in the back, and there is no way in a million years I am going skinny-dipping. That’s just nuts.”
“I could help you find your bag,” I offered.
“No, it’s fine,” she replied. “I’m good.” She was so sweet, demure, and unassuming, with an assertive self-determination that told me she was trying to manifest independence.
I had to agree with her. Having grown up in Rhode Island, skinny-dipping in Connecticut sounded crazy, but I had to go along with it. I was swept-up in the excitement and swimming in the oppressive heat sounded great, suit or no suit. So, I said, “Stay cool,” and stepped outside to join the others. The sky was a clear New England summer of blue. The heat of August in New England pressed down upon us, baking our hair and skin.
Chicken Jim led the charge, skipping like a stone down the path to the pond, taking off his shirt as he ran. Driver Brian walked with Mother Michelle and her son, followed by the other driver’s French girlfriend and six of the new passengers. The footpath was well-worn and easy to follow, but it was obvious we would have this hidden sanctuary entirely to ourselves.
At the edge of the pond, we all stood around for a minute, not knowing what to think or where to begin. A blanket of thick orange pollen covered the surface of the water. Chicken Jim was already standing knee-deep in the water with his blinding white butt-cheeks displayed for all to see. A rusty old antique car that looked like it had been there for a generation sat submerged up to its missing windshield on the opposite bank about fifty feet away.
The big, old, American gas-guzzler had come through the pine forest on the hillside without hitting a single tree. It had careened down the hill off the highway, probably the result of an accident. The passengers speculated as to whether or not anyone had been hurt, or if the car had been stolen and was pushed down the hill to hide the evidence.