Here's how amusement park thrill ride turned into disappointment

It was going to be epic, because everyone said it was awesome.

In those days, we used that word a lot: Awesome. But the Tidal Wave ride at Marriott's Great America (in those days, we called it "Marriott's") was the newest, greatest ride at Northern California's new and leading theme park when I was in high school.

I lived in Eureka, six hours north of the park, so the trip was a major undertaking. The theme park's reputation made it a desirable location for any teenager, but the addition of the Tidal Wave – a roller coaster that had a loop in the middle and was designed to take off with maximum force and acceleration – made the park a must-visit attraction.

A year after the ride opened, I made the long trip with a group of friends from church. It was a junk-food-eating, non-sleeping trip that included a full day on the various coasters and other attractions at Great America.

Especially the Tidal Wave. Because everyone was talking about it.

I wasn't a huge fan of roller coasters, but I didn't avoid them. The thrill that others got didn't really translate to me, although it was fun to say I rode whatever famous ride there was.

Growing up in Humboldt County, that meant such rides as the Zipper and the Scrambler, the kind that were part of the annual county fair or whatever carnival came to town.

Great America was different. It was huge; it had permanent rides.

And it had the Tidal Wave, the most epic ride in the world.

We arrived at the park and the line for the Tidal Wave was so long that we decided to check out the rest of the park, getting on many of the rides and undoubtedly eating unhealthy food while keeping an eye on the line.

Which got longer.

Finally, my friends and I decided to get in line for the Tidal Wave. Sure, it would take a long time, but it was worth it. It was wickedly fast and took off with such force that it took your breath away.

The line was agonizingly slow. When you're a teenager, it's worse. When it's hot, it's even worse.

Ten minutes. Thirty minutes. Forty minutes.

After about an hour in the Santa Clara sun, we reached the front. We were going to ride the Tidal Wave.

I was scared, but knew that the ride didn't take long. While waiting, I repeatedly watched it blast forward, go through the loop, then return, backward. People got off with huge smiles, saying how great it was.

Finally, we were at the front of the line. I made my way into a seat and was buckled in.

Awesomeness coming.

5, 4, 3 . . .

"Please make sure you are secure in your seat," the ride operator said, as we waited for the thrill of our lives.

I looked down to see the belt – and the ride took off.

It launched with so much force, I couldn't lift my head. Full speed ahead, into the loop. Everybody screamed. My head was stuck, looking at my lap.

I moaned with an inhuman groan, trying to lift my chin off my chest.

The famous "maximum force" of the ride left me unable to move. I spent the 20 or so seconds – the time everyone else was raising their arms in ecstasy – staring at my lap.

The ride ended. My friends were thrilled. They survived the Tidal Wave! And the line was even longer, so we weren't going to ride it again.

I rubbed my sore neck.

My reaction? The Tidal Wave was overrated. All it did was make you stare at your lap and groan.

Reach Brad Stanhope at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.