“Kaawaaabungaaaa!!!!!” I scream as I fly down Spooner’s Hill  on a skateboard. 

‘Bonzaiiiiii!” screams Turk Mudge from his skateboard, right beside me. 

Neither of us have a clue what “Kawabunga” or “Bonzai” mean, but this is 1964 and the surfing craze has swept the nation, we know that these are the words surfers holler when they catch a good wave.

At the top of Spooner’s Hill, Yootz is standing guard by the car, which is pulled over onto the side of the shoulderless road.  She is watching for cars, and will reach through the open window and blow the horn if she sees one so that we can either veer into the ditch if still standing or use what remaining functioning limbs we might have to crawl off the road before we get flattened.

The problem with this skateboard excursion is that everything we know about surfing, and therefore, skateboarding, we have learned from listening to Beach Boys and Jan and Dean records on the radio. 

And, unlike the skateboards that will come along in later years---skateboards with nice rubbery plastic wheels that grip the pavement---our early models have rigid metal wheels that send up sparks when they hit stones and which spin out when one tries to turn too sharply.

There are also other issues with  this particular midnight trip down Spooner’s Hill.

It is the first time we have ever ridden our brand-new skateboards.

The so-called Highway, M-156 was last resurfaced to accommodate an anticipated campaign visit by Theodore Roosevelt, which was cancelled because the road was too rough.

So why, you may ask, do Turk and I opt to take our maiden voyage on our new skateboards down such a dangerous hill in the middle of the night.  Why indeed.

Many reasons.

First, there is the issue of hills.  When one grows up in the Deep South flatlander town of Morenci, Michigan, one cannot be too picky about finding hills of merit, and Spooner’s Hill is the first hill of merit one comes too when driving north from town. Then, there is the matter of timing.  In the mid-sixties, a teenager must take advantage of those rare opportunities when the family automobile is made available for his or her use---and on this particular night, one of us---Turk, Yootz or I, have managed to obtain such a vehicle, either with permission or because our parents fell asleep.

Then, there is the problem of one idiot male adolescent saying “Hey, let’s go ride skateboards down Spooner’s Hill” and the other idiot male adolescent then having no option under the code of male adolescence, especially when there is a girl in the car, but to say, “Yeah, man, cool idea. Let’s go.”

Jumping forward a few decades, last evening I happened to drive over Spooner’s Hill.  The Highway Department finally rebuilt the road several years ago (too late for Teddy and the Rough Riders and steel-wheeled skateboards) and cut the top of the hill off and used the dirt they removed to fill in the bottom of the valley, so the hill doesn’t amount to much any more, but I was thinking about that crazy ride down the hill.  Then, a few minutes later, I was delighted to see Yootz at a banquet I attended, and the first thing she said to me was,  “Remember that night that you and Turk rode your skateboards down Spooner’s Hill while I stood guard?” 

I always figured she’d go into nursing, but I guess the sight of all that blood made her decide on a career in business instead.         

                               by Jim Whitehouse

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