I’m on summer break from middle-school. Boredom stretches far into the distance, like the field near our house that, in a few years, will turn into an industrial park. Me and my across-the-street best friend, Danny, share the same dream, the only source of excitement our minds can conjure: Elitch Gardens, still in its original location in North Denver.
Elitch’s was famous for its wooden roller coaster, Mister Twister, which creaked and buckled and gave the impression that we were in mortal peril, an essential part of the thrill. It interlooped with another coaster, the Wildcat, and zoomed through two tunnels, sudden blackouts that amplified the sound of the wheels a hundredfold, which, compounded with downward velocity, elicited pure sensory overload.
The Last Wave opens with the arid Australia landscape, brown and dusty, the sky blue. When the rain starts without a cloud, the school children are excited by this strange development. But as hail falls in larger and larger chunks—until they’re the size of fists, shattering glass, beaning farm animals—their excitement turns into fear. They huddle away from the windows, cowering. This is the herald of the apocalypse.
One summer day, we cajole Danny’s father to drop us off at Elitch’s. Those who love roller coasters know that the best seats are the front (unobstructed views) or the back (strongest whip, longest sense of suspension in the air). The line for the back seat was always the longest, and we patiently waited our turn.
Who knows what form the apocalypse will take? In The Last Wave, it comes as a deluge: endless torrents of rain, at times black with petroleum. In Richard Chamberlain’s dreams, he sees water coming out of his car radio, in cascade past a second-floor railing, surrounding him as if he’s surfing through the crest of a wave.
For me and Danny, it comes as it’s finally our turn to board the coaster. It comes as a few stray drops of water, which makes as smile as we believe this will enhance the feel of the ride. As we’re about to board, a steady stream. Gunmetal clouds blackening the sky. And then hail. Sharp stings of it, like BB pellets. A machine-gun full. Roaring on the fiberglass awning covering the coaster.
We huddle as much as we can, lace our fingers over the back of our heads, as though in a tornado drill. It pelts our backs and leaves welts. We don’t fear for our lives, not really, but in our doubled-over panic, time ticks endlessly on our skin. Our shorts and shirts are soaked through. And then, it ends.
It’s lucky, we tell ourselves, that we weren’t stuck on the track when the hail hit. We really would have gotten beaned then. We wring out our clothes the best we can. We line up for the pay phone. Ice crunches underfoot. Water squishes between our toes. We survived this watery apocalypse, we say, and got two vouchers for a future visit. Nothing has ended after all.
Elitch Gardens closes that location and moves downtown.