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Support Local Journalism. Riverfront Times Press Club. August 31, News » Feature. Warmed by sun, boat exhaust and vast amounts of human urine, the iridescent green water of Party Cove sloshes about at a tepid 85 degrees. Twenty feet below the surface a new biosphere unfolds. Here, the lake sits cool and undisturbed, with silt and sediment lending the water the look and feel of chocolate milk. Swimming through these murky depths, diver Tim McNitt spre his thick arms wide, allowing his hands to rake across the muddy lakebed. Like a foraging catfish, McNitt blindly feels his way through the muck, seeking sunken riches among the discarded beer bottles, plastic Mardi Gras be and sundry crap blanketing the floor of the cove.
Among the jackpots struck in Party Cove, McNitt's found Rolex watches, gold chains, diamond bracelets, rolls of cash and scores of deer sunglasses.
As for the less-marketable finds -- the one-hitters, the syringes, the pistols, the unopened liquor bottles -- McNitt discards all but the dildos. It's a hoot. He routinely goes deeper than feet in his treasure-hunting pursuits, and as he sees it, his barrel-chested physique is perfect for the job.
At just five-foot-six, he's small enough to keep his limbs from getting tangled in dive cords, yet powerful enough he claims to bench-press pounds to bring to the surface damn near anything he finds on the lake bottom.
Most important, McNitt has the proper disposition for the task. Among his Party Cove war stories, McNitt tells of drunken hellions bombarding him with M fireworks. He recalls run-ins with angry fish, water snakes and saber-toothed muskrats.
He describes in detail how Vaseline protects the skin from corrosive solvents polluting the lake. He bemoans the ear and throat infections he invariably picks up during his frequent scavenger dips. Of those vacationers, the Missouri Water Patrol anticipates between 8, and 10, will enter the lake's notorious Party Cove, an audacious free-for-all that's earned the reputation as a backwater Sodom and Gomorrah.
There, under the late-summer sun, partygoers will burn their plump flesh the color of ballpark franks, expose themselves for cheap plastic be and engage in provocative sex acts with perfect strangers. To McNitt's good fortune, an untold of thrill-seekers will drop valuables into the drink. At least two people, according to Missouri Water Patrol statistics, will be carted off to the hospital for excessive drinking. Dozens more will be arrested on charges of boating-while-intoxicated BWI. Chances are better than average that someone will die, with a drug- or alcohol-related drowning occurring in the mile-long Party Cove roughly every three to four years.
All of this serves to fuel the inlet's notoriety, which after some twenty years in existence as a party spot may now be reaching its zenith. A half-dozen other sites carry discussion boards devoted to Party Cove's orgiastic escapades, and at least Cocksucking in missouri state parks.
Swinging. competing firms now offer knockoff Girls Gone Wild videos filmed in the infamous inlet. In recent months, the cove has been featured on the Playboy Channel and the television show A Current Affair. Just last month none other than the New York Times ran a front- story in its July 22 travel section, dubbing the cove "the oldest established floating bacchanal in the country.
For several years the Lake of the Ozarks-based evangelical minister was a fixture in Party Cove, preaching fiery sermons from aboard his foot-long houseboat. We don't need to see it, too! As for the nudity, well, Missouri state law defines nudity as exposed genitalia. Our officers will arrest them if they're bottomless, but topless? We can't do a thing.
On the bow of a houseboat, a pound woman shakes her tremendous derriere to the Boston classic "More Than a Feeling. In total, some boats and personal watercraft JetSkis, WaveRunners and the like will enter the cove this afternoon. On holiday weekends that can more than double. Navigating his way through the cove's notorious "gauntlet" -- a narrow stretch of water through which all passersby are subject to catcalls and water-gun spray -- a three-foot-tall midget on a WaveRunner proves an elusive target to the frat boys shooting water cannons at him.
When the little person fails to give into women's screams that he show his penis, the crowd switches its attention to the next vessel floating through the gauntlet: a pontoon boat full of Hell's Angels. Two of the gang members -- a character resembling Telly Savalas and his burly friend -- take objection to the squirt-gun assault and stand up to shout obscenities at their attackers.
When he turns to confront this new gunman, Cocksucking in missouri state parks. Swinging. drunks open fire, shooting him now from all sides. As he disappears out into the cove, all the soggy biker can do is crack a smile and address his attackers with a one-finger salute. Off to the side, a foursome of women in their 30s are reliving their halcyon high school days, shaking their mom-hips and pumping their fists to the sound of Duran Duran's "Hungry Like the Wolf.
Def Leppard melds into Garth Brooks. The B's give way to Lynyrd Skynyrd. In reality, the cove belongs solely to the redneck, albeit an offshoot of the species wealthy enough to afford vacation homes and luxury boats. Sioux City car dealers, south St. In need of a place to show off their vessels, the rednecks congregated in the lake's "Millionaire Cove," so named for the mansions lining its shore. When property owners protested the cocaine- and alcohol-fueled benders taking place outside their homes, the party moved to another cove before earning the ire of homeowners there as well.
To find Party Cove, just follow the armada of boats streaming past the Grand Glaize Bridge on any weekend afternoon. That the weekly revelry takes place on the doorstep of one of the state's largest nature preserves is a paradox that does not escape Sue Holst, deputy director of Missouri State Parks.
Unless we get the cooperation of boaters to move it someplace else, there's little we can do. His keg stand completed, Tyler lets out a boisterous holler and jumps on the back of the boat, offering Mardi Gras be to the first woman who'll show him her breasts. His girlfriend is the first to respond, flashing her perky gumdrops toward Tyler and a raft of men canoeing their way through the gauntlet. The men carry with them a homemade beer bong fashioned out of a metal funnel, on which they've scribbled the words: "Bitch Bang.
Minutes later a minor fracas breaks out when three middle-aged men on a cruiser vie for use of the boat's lone binoculars. A hundred yards away -- atop a Scarab speedboat -- a pair of naked strippers dance about, rubbing each other's augmented breasts and clean-shaven clam shells.
Passing off the binoculars to his friends, one of the sunburned men on the cruiser remarks knowingly: "Welcome to the redneck Riviera. You gotta love it! Seated inside his air-conditioned station house, Greg Newell, owner of the marina, wraps up a story about the time he saw a crew filming a porn flick in Party Cove. As proprietor of one of the last outposts before entering the Party Cove, Newell has heard plenty of wild tales of the hell-raising. His stories quickly gets others talking, including Sergeant Nick Humphrey of the Missouri Water Patrol, who's stopped by the marina for a caffeinated energy drink and a break from the brutal August sun.
Between andhe led the nation in the of BWIs handed out, averaging about 70 a year, with the majority of the arrests coming in or around the cove. But it's not the stories of the routine drunks that Humphrey spills forth today.
It's the lascivious, twisted stuff of Party Cove legend. When Humphrey went to investigate, he says he found the men accused of the assault idly drinking beer and acting as though nothing had happened. When questioned, they freely admitted to having sex with the newlywed but added a few details that the husband had left out of his initial complaint.
The wife consented to the orgy, and they had the film to prove it. That woman was not getting raped. That I know. She grimaces at Newell's story as though she herself were being doused by the golden shower. If Lake of the Ozarks ever aired a Baywatch series, Jacobson would no doubt fill the lead role. A corn-fed beauty from northern Illinois, Jacobson wears her blond hair pulled back tight in a ponytail.
Hypnotic green eyes lie hidden behind her stylish black shades. Her golden-brown arms reveal an athletic, taut frame. By ing Water Patrol, Jacobson has defied the family trade of firefighting in favor of police work. Still, she remains daddy's little girl, as is evident by the bulky bulletproof vest protruding under her shirt. We stop a lot of fishermen. They all carry knives. Dad doesn't need to hear about the legions of dirty old drunks who routinely beg and plead that Jacobson give them a thorough "cuff and stuff.
Arrest me! I was like, 'No way! Jacobson doesn't so much as bat an eye at the scene, even when she's tying up to the boat and a wave nearly sends her flying face-first into the woman's weathered bosom. The couple on the boat, George and Marj Long of central Illinois, want to know why Humphrey and Jacobson didn't pull over a cruiser that recently sent waves crashing through a no-wake zone. Humphrey explains that he did not see the cruiser, then offers the woeful story he tells everyone who complains of Water Patrol's inability to police the lake. Seventy years later, the outdoorsmen who first flocked to the lake have been replaced by fun-loving hedonists.
As many as 30, leisure craft now take to the lake on summer weekends, making the job Cocksucking in missouri state parks. Swinging. policing the area nearly impossible for the chronically understaffed Water Patrol. With just thirteen officers -- and rarely more than half of them on the water at any given time -- vast regions of the lake are left with little or no police service.
As if on cue, Humphrey receives a radio call for a boat that's broken down on the Little Niangua branch of the lake, some 27 miles away from Party Cove. He and Jacobson were to spend the late afternoon patrolling the cove; now, as the closest Water Patrol unit to the distressed boat, they have no choice but to respond to the emergency call.
With Jacobson at the wheel, the two water cops take off across Cocksucking in missouri state parks. Swinging. lake's choppy surface, leaving Party Cove without its sober chaperones. Back inside the cove, the sun hangs low in the western sky, and the heathen hijinks are slowly winding down. After six hours of drinking in the hot sun, the University of Illinois students lie about their boat, woozy and sunburned.
A woman named Malinda from Kansas City swims about the last remaining boats, asking for cigarettes. Drunk on Jell-O shots and rum runners a Party Cove favorite consisting of white and dark rum, pineapple juice and bittersshe throws a temper tantrum when she fails to find her minty cancer-stick of choice.
In Missouri, boaters born before are not required to have a -- or, for that matter, any experience piloting a boat. When coupled with the excessive drinking and boat traffic in Party Cove, the unskilled boaters make this a particularly treacherous place. In the Columbia Daily Tribune named the Lake of the Ozarks one of the most dangerous bodies of water in the nation.
The article cited statistics that placed the lake behind only the Atlantic Ocean and the Colorado River in the of boating accidents, with wrecks occurring between and Of the boating accidents reported last year in Missouri, nearly half came in the Lake of the Ozarks. But for now the few remaining partygoers need not concern themselves with boating safety. As the revelers depart Party Cove on this Saturday evening, Sergeant Humphrey has yet to return from the call that ferried him to the opposite end of the lake.
Typically he'd be stationed at the mouth of the cove right now, trying his best to determine the slightly buzzed from the egregious drunks. Fishermen cast their lines in the middle of the bay.
A great blue heron, with its tremendous six-foot wingspan, skims across the surface of the lake. The only visible reminders that a party ever occurred here is the litter hugging the shoreline, and two rented houseboats on which a dozen college students are slowly waking from their hangovers.
McNitt was out diving in the cove the night before, but having found nothing more valuable than a pink strap-on, he's at it again. After a half-hour submerged on the bottom, he climbs aboard the boat and empties a mesh bag onto the table. Among the goodies he's uncovered are hundreds of Mardi Gras be, a disposable camera, a half-dozen pairs of sunglasses, a bottle of Mike's Hard Lemonade and a pair of ripped bikini bottoms advertising a nonexistent Web site, www.
Not a great day, but not a bad one either. Buoying McNitt's spirit is the knowledge that in Party Cove buried treasure is a renewable resource, and Labor Day promises a bountiful harvest.
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