Our destination was the Sea Spray, a motel on the beach in Ocean City, MD. Karl and I were lagging behind. A bowl of home grown attached to the dash by a rubber suction cup. A long plastic tube coming off the bowl made it easy to drive and smoke. When the car turned sideways on the Bay Bridge, I knew we were going over the guard rail and into the bay two hundred feet below. Karl, captain of the wrestling team, made a miraculous move, righted our course, and, with a laugh, we continued on our way.
We were athletes who smoked pot and partied with the cheerleaders.
The sea air, hormones raging, maximum testosterone–people making love under the influence of drugs and alcohol–the best week of my life.
May the memories never leave me.
The Joking Life 