As usual, Matthew called shotgun early and often, and I never once gave a shit.

T


oday the plan was to drive to Williamsburg in Southeastern Virginia for the purpose of visiting Natalie's brother, Shonan (I know, I admit, I first introduced Natalie some months ago by calling her "Shonan's sister."), who is attending William and Mary. Sarah was to do the driving, and the vehicle was to be her Bronco. In our entourage were her, Natalie, Leah, Matthew Hart and myself. As usual, Matthew called shotgun early and often, and I never once gave a shit, since sitting in the back is fine with me.

There's something menacing about the way the rooms are designed, divided as they are by walls of glass into front and back sections.

Most of the ride to Williamsburg (which is maybe 150 miles from Charlottesville) was punctuated by our constant search for Mad Dog. We'd started the ride with a bottle of Pink Grapefruit Mad Dog and there was something about it that we all wanted to continue. All of us, that is, except Sarah, who was in a bad mood for the entire trip. I really hope I wasn't responsible for her misery.

The main topic of discussion for the whole trip was Natalie's underwear. She'd inadvertantly put on a pair of minimalist red fantasy panties, which we all referred to as "the thong." We wondered what she'd do when she had to change into shorts in front of us all.

The little markets we found along US 250 didn't have much in the way of fake-vino selection. Mad Dog was a definite rarity. We ended up drinking lots of Molsen Ice and Corona. I never realized how much I like Corona. There's something about that skunky citrus flavour that seems to work with driving through the Virginia Piedmont.

Towards Williamsburg, I fell asleep.

S


honan's dorm is an old renovated psychiatric ward. There's something menacing about the way the rooms are designed, divided as they are by walls of glass into front and back sections. Shonan's roommate is an unassuming raver guy who already had a paper to write and so couldn't join us further on our travels. But Shonan came along.

Evidently, any place that can grow shrubs is considered stable enough beach for permanent dwellings.

Matthew had originally intended to attempt to sneak into Busch Gardens. But we'd forgotten the wire cutters and other guerilla survivalist equipment, so we elected to go to Virginia Beach instead. Again, I slept for most of the ride.

In a little Virginia Beach convenience store, the cashier apparently doesn't sell very much Mad Dog, because he sold me the $3 flask of Orange Jubilee for only $1. The first digit on the price tag had ripped almost completely off and he'd missed it. But had I been him, I would have known better. His friend gave us a tip that the least populated beach was up near 89th street, just before a big military base.

We drove past the strip commercial district of Atlantic Avenue, past over-priced seafood establishments interspersed with towering hotels and and tracts of upper class residences. At 89th Street, the houses were built right up to where the scraggly-grass-covered sand dunes began. Evidently, any place that can grow shrubs is considered stable enough beach for permanent dwellings.

We walked on a sandy path through an enchanted forest of stout little trees, through a swath of humpy sand dunes, down to the beach itself. The ocean was at low tide, and the wet sand felt like hard concrete where the waves had worn it smooth.

Where the water lapped the sand they were rooting around, finding mysterious little unseen aliens to devour.

The waves came in at about one every ten seconds. They were bigger than any I had seen before: they were up to my neck and fell over themselves in white foam. I know people from the Pacific Coast would think nothing of such waves, but I've lived most of my life as a land-locked country boy, and for me the whole thing was a fascinating novelty. I have been to the sea only rarely, and usually parts that are isolated from the brunt of the ocean's power. Where I stood, the nearest land to the east would have had to have been somewhere in Africa. This was the real thing, the Atlantic Ocean, a huge, sloshing sediment of saline water.

And it was a complete ocean. It had a wide variety of exotic long-legged long-beaked birds walking like high speed single-minded mechanical contraptions. Where the water lapped the sand they were rooting around, finding mysterious little unseen aliens to devour. There were no snail or clam shells, but there were lots of crab remains. I found it remarkable that in the midst of such relentless development, nature asserted herself so powerfully in the thin strip where the mighty Atlantic itself had finally stopped the progress of Man.

With the others, I played in the waves as they rolled in. I allowed them to push me about, though they were mostly gentle. I never quite mastered "body surfing," though Matthew tried as best he could to instruct me.

By now we were drinking from a 30 pack of Icehouse, and a mild drunken pleasantness seemed to amplify the comforts of the ocean.

Some two years ago, Matthew and Leah had been to Virginia Beach and had managed to sneak into the Ramada Inn, a towering adobe-coloured building near the beach somewhere near 50th street. They knew that in the Ramada is a hot tub and a swimming pool. Today, Matthew suggested we sneak into the Ramada again.

Adjacent to the relatively chilly pool was a hot tub, just then the semi-romantic haunt of a middle-aged couple.

It wasn't difficult. We came in from the beach, walked into the building's central plaza on foot, dove into the pool, and swam through an underwater entrance into the indoor section of the pool. Adjacent to the relatively chilly pool was a hot tub, just then the semi-romantic haunt of a middle-aged couple. The full brunt of our youthful contingent joined them, and soon we had the entire place to ourselves. To balance the overheating of the water, we periodically jumped into the main pool. I noticed that the warm water did wonders for my sprained thumb.

After the novelty of our trespass wore off, we became bored with the adventure and decided to leave. Matthew and I found some perfectly good uneaten french fries in the hotel hallway and we devoured them on the way back to the car.

Changing into our dry clothes in view of four lanes of traffic on Atlantic Avenue was not such a big deal given our intoxication. My private parts were fully visible to random motorists on several occasions. As usual, you see, I was wearing no underwear. At least Natalie had her "thong."

For most of the ride back to Charlottesville, I slept or at least tried to. The back seat of a Ford Bronco is not an especially comfortable bed, especially when you're wedged in with two other people. Still, I was too tired to join the others when they stopped at a Williamsburg seafood place.

I would have done anything to make amends, but there was no time and the moment was gone anyway.

B


ack at Kappa Mutha Fucka, we bid Natalie and Sarah adieu. Tomorrow they were to leave on a road trip to Montana. There was an especially strange disappointed sadness characterizing Sarah's goodbye to me. I would have done anything to make amends, but there was no time and the moment was gone anyway.

While we'd been gone, Monster Boy's parents had come for a visit and brought him his bicycle and skateboard. Now he no longer is forced to rely on his piece of shit Pontiac K-Car.

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