The Sandman Cometh — Driving a Dodge Ram
“Are we going to have to live here in our car the rest of our life?” asked our seven year old.
“I’m not really sure Joe.”
While at the beach, I made it my mission to find seafood. Arriving at such an establishment, we drove down the ramp onto the sand to park. After driving a few feet off the pavement, it quickly became apparent that decision was one of my more regrettable ones.
Our teenager who did not have the pleasure of joining us on the trip was informed of our adventure through text messages:
Dad: We got the truck stuck in sand.
Son: Do you not have 4WD?
Dad: No. Your mother thought we could make it.
Son: Of course.
I did see the “4 Wheel Drive Only” sign but growing up by a beach, I knew about driving on sand. We were 20 feet from the main ramp. No one got stuck 20 feet from a main ramp because the sand stayed packed from cars entering and leaving the beach. Well, no one got stuck unless weeks of no rain turned the sand to baby powder.
The first beach goers who approached us were Russian tourists. Their help pushing and my exacting pressure on the gas pedal resulted in sand successfully cresting the rim of our back tires.
A man with gray hair and dark t-shirt stared at our sorry tableau from his black Ram truck. Alongside his fluffy white husky mix, he looked at us and shook his head. While my husband and gathering band tried to dig the tires out, I set my sights on the man as our vine out of the quick sand. I shuffled over and said, “You look like you might know how to get us out of here.”
“I pull people out all the time, but I’ve never seen the sand this soft. I’m afraid I’ll get stuck if I try.”
Great. I looked to the panting dog. I looked at him, offered a slight twitch of the lips in resignation and turned around. The sand was as flour. I couldn’t blame the guy for not wanting to try.
But after watching the assembled cast of characters pushing and slipping behind our truck to no avail, he agreed to attempt a rescue. The Ram pulled and the strap tightened. I stepped on the gas, and after two attempts, we slipped and spun out of the crater to much rejoicing.
I blew kisses to our rescuers. I blew kisses to everyone on beach – all except the man in the Ram. He didn’t seem to be the type to appreciate an air kiss. I did tell him “he earned another star in his crown.” And with that he rolled up his tether and drove off.
I didn’t care to be subject of tourists’ photos showing off their beach adventures to relatives back in Belarus. But for a moment, there was peaceful freedom in a situation where I had no control – other than to shell out money for tow truck. Whether it’s no rain, no cash or sand up to your bumper, never count out mercy in the form of a guy driving a 4 wheel drive.
