Category: Medford

I want to know if JayMonster remembers Action Park in Vernon Township, New Jersey. Although I lived in Medford, NJ (1983-1986) while it was open, I never ventured that far north. Instead I played at Great Adventure (saw the Monkies anniversary tour there). Here’s a fantastic description of Action Park. And here are pictures of the abandonedout of season park. These comments are very interesting too!

I was a lifeguard at Action Park for a summer. We called it Traction Park, and man could I tell stories about that place. Let me just say, it is very, very difficult to rescue an obese, panicked man who just dropped acid. The scratches were incredible. Can’t wait to read the Wiki — I’d never have thought to look.

Edit: A few funny things the wiki omits (although there’s obviously nothing funny about the serious injuries and deaths).

First, a large Hassidic community was located not far from the park. For those who aren’t familiar with the sect, females are required by religious edict to wear heavy ankle-length skirts. Always. As you might imagine, this sucked for swimming, but the non-lifeguard staff, who were often fourteen, were generally responsible for letting visitors go from the tops of various cliffs and slides. They were easily bullied, and every damn time I saw a Hassidic woman at the top of the cliff jump, I knew I was going in. It was outrageous. On the speed slides, which did not have lifeguards because they lacked deep water, it was enormously entertaining to watch our insistent patrons arrive with their ankle-length skirts over their heads.

Second, the wiki forgets a “cannonball” slide that went underground, completely enclosed, and dumped patrons in a very deep pool beyond sight of the launching point. Many non-swimmers launched with no idea they’d hit deep water. Trouble is, a fourteen-year-old non-lifeguard was responsible for letting people go, and the lifeguard at the bottom was all alone. This was, by far, the most terrifying lifeguard assignment. You’d go in for one drowner (or two, as there were parallel chutes) and the nitwit up top, if he wasn’t paying attention, would drop new drowners on you. If you got in trouble, you could whistle and hope guards at the nearby Tarzan Swing would save your ass, but nearby concerts often made this improbable. I was pulled under by people on drugs (they break all the rules you’re taught about water rescue — in particular, they don’t reflexively let go if you swim down); had to pull out an entire family simultaneously; and did, of course, have to pull out the odd Hassidic woman entangled in her own skirt. The scariest thing I saw occurred in my very first week. A large man on drugs (again, you can tell b/c they don’t let go if you swim down), headlocked a female lifeguard who probably weighed 100 pounds. Three guards piled on and had to beat him repeatedly about the head with rescue rings (about the firmness of a baseball) until he let go, by which time he was unconscious and the girl he headlocked had two lungs full of water. It’s something of a miracle that the place stayed in business as long as it did.
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When I was a freshman in high school I participated in track. I loved the thrill of the pole vault, and the challenge of the hurdles. Although the high jump was interesting, I just didn’t do well. I would have continued the track team throughout high school but in my sophomore year I was offered my first regular job and had to choose between practices and money; money, the great evil, won and took me down the wrong path.

One small winter track meet has so few competitors that for the 400 meter relay we raced 4 boys teams on the inner lanes and 2 girls teams on the outer lanes but officially the girls weren’t racing the boys. I was set as the anchor which meant I could bring the race home! Our first runner did well as did our second runner. As I watched him hand off to our third runner I was certain that we’d win the race. Then it happened. Our third runner set off in a hard jog. He seemed to be thrilled but we were all horrified. All 3 boys teams easily passed him and moments later the girls who had lagged have a track behind passed him. My dreams of winning had been crushed to a paniced desire to simply pass the girls and I wasn’t sure I’d be able to do that. I set off in the hardest sprint of my life and I beat the girls and brought our team in last.

Never would I have thought that race would become the metaphor for my life. I’ve been running that race for so long and I’m so fatigued. My race is different. I feel like I also have spectators throwing things under my feet trying to trip me. Can I even beat the girls at this point?

I have 11 minutes before the first team crosses the finish line;The first team just crossed the finish line. I have probably 2 hours if I’m lucky and not tripped before I’ll cross the first finish line. I’m not even on the track right now.

I don’t feel like living anymore.

Now that’s not a cry for help and no need to put me on a suicide watch. It means “the they” have won. I’m beat. Beat down.

I used to suck the marrow out of life. There was no challenge I wouldn’t accept and very little I didn’t want to do. Early on I set my eyes on hang gliding. Haven’t done that one yet and I have yet to “jump from a perfectly good airplane” either. But I was fearless and I have done much!

In the 9th or 10th grade I was at a school dance taking a break from the noise of the gym and talking with friends in the hallway. Something landed in my hair and I turned around and mouthed off at some muscle bound nimrod that had obviously thrown whatever it was. The first punched landed before I had fully turned my attention back to my friends and I momentarily blacked out as I slammed up against the lockers. Just as my vision returned I took another punch to the face and discovered blackness again. I received about five consecutive hits just under the left eye. Blackness returned to light just in time to see the fist, blackness, repeat.

I could not get a punch off and could not get my arms up to block the punches. I could hear a voice, “just walk away.” Is that where I am in my life? I am definitely taking repeated blows. Am I to “just walk away?” And for the literal readers, no, not family. I would never abandon family. I mean dreams. I mean desires. I mean Willy Loman. I mean Sam Lowry.

One week later, my blackened eye was traveling to Virginia to embarassingly visit relatives.

I don’t feel like living. I don’t want to hang glide or parachute anymore. I don’t even want to leave the ground. And I am tired of having to explain my blackened eye.

(Of course this post is a result of exhaustion, stress and economics. Let’s see how my tune changes if I ever get back on top.)