Take a dip
California’s Giant Dipper Rollercoaster still sends an anticipatory thrill down columnist’s spine.
The smell of cigarette smoke once blended with the scent of frying foods. The walkways and beaches were littered with butts. The rumble and shrieks from the rides started the pump of adrenaline in my young soul.
The cigarettes and litter are gone and many of the tamer rides at the Santa Cruz California Beach and Boardwalk have been edged out in favor of more speed and bigger thrills.
But the iconic Giant Dipper Rollercoaster still sends an anticipatory thrill down my spine.
I was about 8 years old when I first gaped at the soaring white track and felt the deep vibrations in my chest as the trail tore past. I knew I must conquer it. It was more than a dare, more than a thrill. I had to prove that not all girls were scaredy cats.
A lengthy wait in the line only tightened my nerves. At last it was my turn. My stomach was a-quiver but I snapped the oldfashioned seat belt and tightened the strap. I wondered if I’d have the courage to throw my hands heavenward in public oblation to the god of thrill rides.
The train rolled forward and my innards began to crowd my throat. I couldn’t bring myself to lift my hands from the grab bar in the twisting tunnel, since I had no idea if there were low-hanging braces that might lop them off at the wrist.
Other riders were screaming. I wasn’t. Girls aren’t all scaredy cats.
The lift chain engaged with our train with a jerk and a clack as we returned to daylight. Up, up, up, clickity, clickity, clickity, higher and higher to 70 feet. The scariest moment of any roller coaster is that imaginary pause as the train’s center of gravity shifts from the tugging up to screaming down. It’s a moment to wonder if deathbed repentance is effective.
And then it’s too late and gravity has you in its clutches. The train tears down into the giant dip and swoops up into an almost vertical fan curve. My teeth were jarred and my arms, raised triumphantly overhead, are folded into submission by the centrifugal force.
The rest of the ride was just fun: no courage required.
And I was hooked. Since that first ride on the Boardwalk’s Giant Dipper, I’ve loved roller coaster s.
The ancestor of roller coasters was a wooden frame ice slide in Russia hundreds of years ago. But the first commercial roller coaster appeared at Coney Island in New York in 1884. It would be 40 years before my beloved Giant Dipper would open on the beach in Santa Cruz.
Now designated as a National Historic Landmark, the wooden structure was built in just 47 days and cost just $50,000. Now, it costs more than that just to paint it.
I have ridden dozens of coasters across the country. The steel rides are smooth and fast, fun but not frightening. Some loop and some corkscrew, while others rely on plain speed or death-defying drops to attract riders.
At 55 mph top speed, the Giant Dipper is not even close to the fastest roller coaster, but it’s an old friend. Inspected everytwo hours when in operation, it’s kept in the pristine condition of its youth. It’s safe. The track has never failed, and though there have been three deaths in nearly a century of continuous operation, each was due to deliberate thwarting of safety provisions.
Times have changed but human nature doesn’t. We like a little taste of danger to remind us of our mortality. I returned to The Boardwalk recently with my husband and grandkids.
As I waited in line for the Big Dipper, I found myself inspecting the structure again, wondering if I’d want to raise my arms, or if a wiser course would dub me a scaredy cat. I know more about human error and structural stresses now. The wooden braces and painted track have served well for almost a century. My heart sped up and I bounced on the balls of my feet as those ahead climbed aboard.
I decided not to raise my arms. But I didn’t scream either. I laughed as my eyes watered from the wind and the joy and memories.
Only in America, God Bless it.