October 9, 2012--Midcoast: Punkin' Chunkin'

When we got up Saturday morning the sun was struggling to emerge after three days of chilly grayness and the temperature was a "balmy" 57.

Rona said, "Let's get up and out, have coffee at the Diner, and go over to the Great Salt Bay where they are chunking pumpkins."

"Are you serious?" I was sure she wasn't. "I  thought you hated that," I wondered if she was still half asleep and didn't know what she was suggesting. "We went last year, it was windy and cold, and you looked like you couldn't wait to get back to the car."

"You forgot to mention that the two cannons that were supposed to chunk the pumpkins had both broken down by the time we got there." That in fact was true. "So how could you expect me to have a good time with nothing happening and me shivering?"

"So?"

"Today it looks different out--at least it's not in the 30s like last year--and I have a feeling that if we get there early at least one of the cannons will still be operational and we'll get to see some pumpkins actually get launched."

"And this time we know right where to go. Last year we drove around for an hour looking for the place, which ironically was just a mile or two outside of town."

So we had some of Sue's biscuits and gravy and hot coffee to fortify us if the weather, as it is wont to do, changed for the worse, and drove over to the Bay.

It was early but still we had to park a half mile up the road and walk down to the chunking site. "Looks like everyone had the same idea," I mused, thinking already about what it would be like to have to hoof back up the long hill to retrieve the car.

Reading my mind, Rona said, "Don't worry, we'll take it slow. It won't kill you."

But I was not convinced of that when I saw a pudgy 10-year-old dragging and panting his way back toward the crest of the hill where I assumed his parents were parked. If someone his age was in danger of throwing an embolism, I worried, what might be in store for someone my age when it was our time to head home.

I noticed he was wearing a t-shirt that had stenciled on it--See My Big 10 Inches.

He didn't look like that kind of raunchy kid, all roll-polly and freckled as he was, but one never knows these days even up here when children his age can be so ultra-sophisicated.

When I whispered to Rona to check out his shirt, she said, "You're being silly. I read in the Lincoln County News that that's the name of one of the chunking machines. Actually, the world record holder."

"Whatever that means," I muttered under my breath.

"You'll see in a minute.'

"I can hardly wait." I was still worrying about the trek back to the car.

"There it is," she pointed, all excited, "Over there by the water."

And indeed there it was, a huge Rube Goldberg contraption made up of pipes and what looked like boilers or pressure tanks, all hooked up through a maze of plumbing to a huge tube that was at least 150 feet long and pointed at a 45 degree angle toward the middle of Great Salt Bay.

"From what I read," Rona said, "they load a 10-inch diameter pumpkin--thus the name of the pumpkin cannon--into the base of that long tube, fill all those tanks with compressed air, and then when the pressure builds up to whatever level they think will give the pumpkin the best launch--see all those pressure gauges over there--they then do whatever they do to fire the thing and after that the pumpkin is chunked, or fired off toward the middle of the bay."

"I wondered what you were poring over in the paper the other day. Now I know. You sound like a punkin'-chunkin' expert."

She was smiling with pride. "Every once in a while I like to impress you with my knowledge of tools or machines because I know you still think I'm just a big city girl who doesn't know anything about mechanical things."

"I'm impressed, I really am, and . . ."

But before I could finish the words of praise I was intending to offer, one of the Big 10-Inch men in a hard hat pulled on a lever with the full weight of his body and there was what sounded like an explosion in the firing tube followed but a blast of steam and, flying out from the top of the cannon, what looked like hundreds of pumpkin parts.

"I think the pumpkin exploded in the tube," I said, startled by the ferocity of the blast.

"What's coming out of the tube looks more like leaves and twigs to me," Rona said with confidence.

"Look," someone standing behind us said, "See the splash-down all the way out there?" He was pointing well out into the bay, and sure enough I say the geyser of water produced by what I assumed was the pumpkin landing.

"Wow," I said, "That was amazing. Really. I wonder how far away it landed?"

One of the Big 10-Inch team members had a walky-talky which was emitted what sounded like static. He was  hollering into it, "Whatdja say? How far?" He paused to listen, "Not bad, not bad at all."

All eyes of those of us waiting on the bank of the bay watched as he walked over to a chalkboard and wrote--3,784. "Not bad at all," he repeated.

Rona leaned closer to me and whispered, "Not that good either. The world record--and these guys hold it--is about 5,500 feet.  That's more than a mile. Though I think they did that at altitude in Utah with a following wind. But even so, 3,784 doesn't quite cut it."

"This was in the paper too?" I continued to be both amazed and impressed that Rona had done so much research. "Let's wait to see how the next blast goes."

"Good idea," Rona said, "The sheriffs are selling coffee over there so let's get some while we wait because it takes a few minute to build up enough pressure to launch another pumpkin."

Over coffee Rona showed off more of her pumpkin erudition. "You know there are basically three types of pumpkins they use for this--they grow them specially to have thick skins that can withstand the force of the blast and not blow up in the tube. I think they pack them in leaves when they put them in the cannon to make a tighter seal--that's what we saw when they fired that thing. But as I was saying," I was trying to pay attention while sipping my coffee, "they use Caspers or . . ."

"Caspers? What's that? I think I'll go back to see if they have any doughnuts left. I saw that they have pumpkin ones."

Rona trailed after me. "That's one of the three types they use. Of pumpkins. The others are--and I can see you're not that interested." I didn't contradict her. "They also use," she continued, ignoring me, "Luminas, and--my favorite--La Estrellas."

I looked at her skeptically, "You have a favorite pumpkin?"

"Yes. La Estrellas. You know I have a soft spot for anything Spanish. La estrellas--"stars" in English. Nice image, no? When they get blasted into the sky they look like orange stars. And they have the thick skin these guys like and are fully mature and hardened off when they're about 10 inches across. So they're perfect for . . ."

And with that, interrupting Rona's pumpkin dissertation, there was another blast, this one much louder than the first, and after about ten seconds--punkin'chunkin' aficionados by now--we knew just where to look to wait for the splash which, when it occurred, seemed to be quite a bit further into the bay than the previously one.

"Let's see if it's more than 4,000 feet," Rona said, clinging to my arm. "Then we can leave." She sensed I was beginning to lose interest.

The same fellow as before, after holding the wally-talky to his ear, jogged over to the chalkboard and with a flair wrote--4,009.

A cheer went up among the spectators, including from me. Rona was jumping up and down beside me and exclaimed, "I can't believe I'm clapping for a pumpkin!"