Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
avec esprit de corps
, and it was never more than one or two sniffs per day.” By the 80s the toot
defined us, drove us, thought for us and provided confidence beyond caffeine.
Doomsday would not be denied. You can't take illicit white powder to sea for practical
reasons. It melts in the humidity—unless it's sealed tight in a humidor and left unopened.
Fuck that. Besides practicality are many more reasons for going ahead and tooting up the rest
of the toot. Many, many. You can get more at the far end. Tooting it up the night before was
also addictive and destructive, but then failure accepted seemed better than failure's inevit-
ability. Given proper perspective on timing, getting rid of the drug seemed most prudent in
sustaining momentum.
In short order, two grifters arrived in the tropics, charm and spirit unvanquished, to meet
a steady stream of tourists waiting for the adventure of a lifetime. Thirty grand a month in rev-
enue felt great, and thirty-five in expenses didn't seem so bad. The tide would turn. Or could
or should turn.
But it didn't turn, because it wasn't a real tide but another imperfect analogy, all ebb, down
to survival mode in a backwash of monthly deficit, drugs and denial. Some women wanted
to share the drugs and apparent prosperity. Circling below were insolvency, foreclosure and a
federal marshal seeking a “stolen” yacht. The bank foreclosed, delineating the formative pro-
cess from the situation defined. When you got nothing you got nothing to lose. Which could
be the most frequently disproved lyric in music history.
Moving to an idyllic beach felt easy and anonymous. Charters could run so young couples
could realize the romance. Free of pesky debits, a questionable future seemed easy as a mar-
ginal past.
Dreamlike and ephemeral, incognito life on a beach was fantasy fulfilled. Delivering day-
sail adventure in a fool's paradise. Kenny asked when we would be arrested. I didn't know. We
would hit the road with a judgment against earnings and make our way to retirement, which
shouldn't take more than thirty years or so.
“Won't we go to jail first?”
A favorite pastime on campus was a layered goof called slo-mo football, which was just
like real football—tackle football—but with no pads and stoned stupid. Pass plays reverted to
real time briefly, but the game taught how much was possible with no time on the clock, if you
went slo-mo.
We ran an ad for a yacht priced to sell—call it a steal, and the new owner was eased into
payments with no lingering grudges. Okay, tapped into payments, but still. It was the ultimate
hot mud sale. Just add water.
Kenny advised a legal career or banking for me. But banking is boring, maybe terminal,
and no career is legal. Life circles are rarely concise as a good story, but that lap seemed tidy
enough. On another pass through the doors of perception, a shipwreck in Hawaii felt lucky.
