Summer
by Judah Leblang — Age 49 — Medford, MA
On my first day of work in July 1974, I drove nervously over the hilly two-lane roads that led me south and east toward Sea World, the biggest thing to hit the Cleveland area since Ralph Perk, our laid-back Republican mayor, had managed to set his hair on fire while welding. Passing the rickety roller coaster at Geauga Lake, I spotted a billboard of a gigantic black and white whale—pulled into the parking lot and pulled myself together, tucking my white polo shirt into my regulation sky-blue polyester pants, the uniform of all park employees.
There were three main venues that first summer—the seals and penguins, the dolphins and Shamu, the famed killer whale, and the water-ski show, where I worked my eight-hour shifts. “The show” which took place on Geauga Lake with an amphitheater set on the lakeshore, had a “Roaring twenties” theme, with a group of athletic skiers dressed as keystone cops, convicts in striped suits, and flappers.
Though my job sounded initially glamorous or at least interesting, the actual reality varied between boredom, frustration and occasionally, abject terror. Most of my hours were spent cleaning up a collection of soda cups, popcorn boxes and half-eaten food left by the masses that flooded the stadium each day.
My least favorite shift was 2:30 to 11 PM. On those nights I held the spotlight for one of the famed “Flying Walendas.” Carla Walenda was the star of the show, a solidly built middle-aged woman with striking red hair and a keen sense of concentration. Keeping to herself, distant from the young skiers, ignoring the ‘help staff,’ Carla existed in a higher, ethereal world. And I hoped she’d stay there. I’d heard the stories of her loss—two of her fellow Walendas had fallen off the high wire a few years earlier in Detroit. (It was a point of pride that the Walendas worked without a net.)
As I watched, Carla climbed up onto a long white fiberglass pole that reached 90 feet into the sky, the pole’s peak a tiny white platform with a cloth strap and miniature seat. She would perch there, briefly, in the darkness. During that late night show, it was my responsibility to turn on the spotlight, anchored in the sand, far below her.
As Carla hung from that thin white strap, holding on by her white ballet slippers, spinning with her red mane flowing toward the earth, I shakily aimed the spot’s yellow beam toward her spinning form. Praying that I wouldn’t somehow blind her, miss her or spook her, the performance would come to an end, and I’d thank the God I didn’t believe in, just in case He’d saved me from a lifetime of guilt, shame and restitution payments.
I could have earned a $200 bonus if I’d stayed until Labor Day. But my nerves were shot, and I needed a vacation. I resigned on August 15. Ultimately, I’m sure Carla and I were both the better for it.
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