Saving Face

“My last memory of Indian Harbor Beach Skatepark”

 By: Tim Ebaugh

  After IHB skatepark closed for good it was about a year before they actually leveled the place.  In the meantime, a few of us who were not willing to accept that our only skatepark was closed would sneak in for “moonlight strolls”, most of which followed our many weekend “clambakes.”   Stealthily as beer-laden skaters could be, we would get in a few good surf runs before paranoia or a pair of suspicious headlights would send us skate-rats scurrying for the palmettos that surrounded the park.   More than once those headlights were attached to the local IHB police cruiser.  Tucked away in the palmettos, usually laughing our asses off as the search beams burned overhead, we usually were not apprehended. 

 A few months later, they’d had enough, and a cement contractor came in and poured “rocky-road” trails of speed bumps throughout the park.   Did this stop us?  Hell no!  Some creative lines and impromptu “ollies” were all that were needed to negotiate the silly little speed bumps, but if you were unfortunate enough to clip one at 10 or 15 miles per hour the result was not very pretty.   

One certain overcast day, with foreboding gray skies rumbling and bumbling, spreading doom and gloom across the city, Carmen Romano and I decided it was dark enough to sneak in for a few unnoticed rides before the storm hit. I suppose it was the oncoming storm, but I truly had an ominous feeling inside.

We had two ways in.  On one side there was a hole dug under the fence and disguised with palm fronds. Around the back of the snake run was a gate in the fence that surrounded the park, topped with two feet of menacing barbwire.  We had at one time hack-sawed the shackle of the lock on the gate, always putting it back in place to make it look untampered with.   On this glorious day, we’d gone in through the hole since it was nearest to the tire store where I’d stashed my car.

No sooner had I dropped in and cranked a noisy cess-slide on the first wall did I hear the bullhorn…IHB’s finest.   “Hold it right there boys and don’t run,” bellowed the officer from what used to be the parking lot.   We ran.  I went first, hi-tailing down the grass embankment and toward the gate, hoping the cut lock had not been replaced.  Perfect!  The entire gate was gone!  However, camouflaged by the dark sky were two strands of barbwire across the opening, one about a foot off the ground and the other about six feet high.  I saw the bottom wire and jumped over, full speed from running down the hill.  I never saw the top wire.  It caught me right in the face.  I flipped up horizontal and landed flat on my back.  I could hear the cops coming through the brush as Carmen pulled me to me feet shouting,” Go! Go!”   I felt no pain at that time but my mouth felt numb and while we continued running I noticed there were large drops of crimson splashing on my skateboard and my shirt was splattered.   Just then the skies let loose and the police gave up the chase.  We made it safely back to my car and quickly jumped in to get out of the rain.  Carmen’s face went sheet-white when he looked at me.  Let me say this.  If you ever happen to be with someone who has been injured, don’t look at them bug-eyed, turn sheet-white and say, “Oh my God!”  Carmen, driving my car, nearly passed out.  I looked in the rearview mirror. 

As tongues are prone to do when you have a mouth injury, mine went to inspect the damage from the inside, and neatly popped through the gash and out my cheek.  I nearly passed out.    A while later my Mom came rushing into the ER, “Are you OK,” she gasped.  I removed the blood soaked towel from my face, smiled and showed her my new tongue trick, this time wagging it slightly for effect.  She went bug-eyed, turned sheet-white, said “Oh my God!” and nearly passed out.  

A few hours and ninety-five stitches later I sat at home, sipping a medicinal Budweiser (legal age was 18 then) through a straw when I received a visitor.  It was an IHB police officer. Oh great. “How are you,” he asked, cringing when he saw my face.  I replied that I’d seen better days.   He continued, telling me he’d seen the whole thing, he was already around the back when the second officer got on the bullhorn.  He had followed us, took down my license plate number as we left and traced it to my address.    “I’ve got something for you,” he added.   Resigned to the fact that I was “going downtown” I held out my hands.  Instead of cuffs, the officer placed one blood-spattered skateboard in my hands, smiled and said, “We were only going to tell you to leave.”