I could see it off in the distant haze, a burly and impressive pickup truck ripping through the deep sand at Assateague Island National Seashore just a few miles south of Ocean City.
As it sped down the stretch of beach that allows 4x4s, I could see it was a pretty Ford F-250 double cab, pimped out in chrome and glittery paint and fancy wheels, a package meant to show off in front of the other trucks lined up along the shore.
We had arrived at the beach earlier that morning, eager to get in one more day on the $90 Over-Sand Vehicle day pass I bought last July and set to expire at the end of the month.
Truck watching is one of the pastimes at Assateague. Most of us have modest rigs that can get on and off the beach without getting stuck. Mine is just a V6, but includes the cool-sounding “crawl” feature that I had to have after watching a Toyota YouTube video.
In it, the test drivers spin all four tires in beach sand until the chassis sinks to the axles. Then they switch on crawl and the truck, on its own, inches its way out of the sand. I’ve never gotten stuck in the sand (yet) but I for sure was going to pay up for the crawl feature to make sure it never happens.
As that Ford neared us, the driver tried a left turn, apparently set on parking between us and another truck about 100 yards away. But something went wrong. I could see the fancy wheels spinning, sand shooting in the air, but the truck wasn’t moving forward. Instead, it was sinking deep and fast.
For a few minutes all three of us pretended not to show the Ford’s driver that we were smugly chuckling. “Idiot,” I thought, as he and his girlfriend jumped down and started to dig out the rear tires. For about five minutes they struggled to free their truck without any luck. Every time he hit the gas, it sunk deeper.
It wasn’t long before I started to feel bad for them, thinking about the panic I’d be in if I got stuck. As I walked up to the Ford, the driver who just a few minutes earlier was behind the wheel of the baddest truck on the beach, hung his head and said he didn’t need any help. His girlfriend gave him the look and he quickly changed his mind.
As I got out a shovel he explained that he got stuck minutes earlier, but was able to pull free. He blamed the expensive new tires just installed on the Ford for his troubles. “I never had this problem before. What a waste of money,” he said, both irritated at getting stuck and happy with some help.
We dug out the rear tires and stuck some wood in front of them. He attached a tow strap and I tried to pull him out but had no luck. He offered to call a wrecker.
But I wasn’t ready to give up. “Put it in neutral. I’m going to get a running start and try to pop you out. If the rope doesn’t break, give it a tiny amount of gas when you feel the tug forward,” I said.
Two tense tries and he was out.
We both got out and shook hands. Though I wanted to, I resisted making a snide comment about my ugly little Toyota saving his beefy and pretty Ford. He said something about junking his fancy tires before getting in and driving away.
I went back to fishing and napping until I smelled smoke and heard horrific engine backfire. We all turned to see another pretty Ford F-250, this one smoking from some sort of transmission problem. That guy turned around, but broke down about 200 yards away.
By then it was time to pack up and leave the beach. We loaded up our gear and headed out.
As we drove toward the smoking Ford, who others were helping, I couldn’t resist, and detoured toward the couple we had helped a few hours earlier. As I rolled down the window, the driver walked up.
But he beat me to it. “Not a good day for Fords.”
