Before the Preacher and I boarded Knott’s Berry Farm’s towering yellow roller coaster, the senior ahead of us in line tucked in his shirt and buttoned it to his chin. “They told me,” he said, “that if I don’t do this, I’ll lose it.” His middle-aged son rolled his eyeballs.
I looked up at the twin-towered beast with a loop in the middle (aptly named Montezooma’s Revenge) and tried to ignore my churning gut. But I’d pledged to face my fear of upside-down rides if the Preacher would tackle his own dread: Ferris wheels.
The ride attendant secured us behind steel lap bars that pressed our belly buttons to our backbone. A voice over the intercom suggested we place glasses, wigs, false teeth, jewelry, hearing aids, pacemakers and eyeballs in a tray beside our cart.
We’d committed now. An attendant raised his hand. Lowered it fast. One deep breath later our cart had accelerated to the kind of speed that removes facial hair. My lips, cheeks and jowls made for the back of my head. I opened my mouth to scream, but gagged on the cyclone in my windpipe. I shut my eyes and prayed to survive.
Less than a minute later (or so says the Preacher) we blasted back into the station and tumbled out, gulping calm air and clinging to each other. But the old gent in front of us ejected like a jack-in-the-box, his shirt still neatly tucked in. “Let’s do that again!” he crowed. His son, still stuck in his seat, barely managed to shake his head.
Thirty years past that brain-scrambling amusement park ride in California, we still argue over how long it lasted. I think two hours. At least.
We didn’t reach the giant Ferris wheel until dark, when most people had wandered over to see the fireworks. No one else waited in line. Perhaps the attendant saw us holding hands and decided to give us a romantic interlude. Because once we boarded, he set the wheel turning and left for about fifteen minutes.
The Preacher remembers it differently. “He went for his break. He went for dinner and a date. And then he went to watch the fireworks. He left us for hours.”
His hands stuck like barnacles to the safety bar. Whenever I breathed, he barked, “Don’t move.” When I turned to better view the magical lights beneath us, and the car rocked slightly, he almost passed out. When the attendant finally returned, stopped the ride and released us, my poor husband almost kissed the ground.
But we went to bed giddy-happy that night, and the memory stands; a humourous reminder of one of our love’s many trade-offs.
A committed marriage can survive life’s craziest, most frightening rides, provided you get on board together, hold hands and stick it out to the end – in spite of your fears. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. And never forget – God rides along.
