Boy Crazy Girls

My father's custodial rights following his and mom's divorce meant I spent weekends with him. In the summertime that usually meant camping at our favorite spot at Lake Lillinonah just off Bridgewater State Park (Conn.).

We'd have the best of a couple worlds there because our little "island" (actually a peninsula) was accessible by car and boat. So, while we'd camp out mainly via boat, some supplies got driven in. Dad's friends also drove out for overnights on their choppers and souped-up cars for fireworks, beer and hand-rolled "cigarettes" that had a pungent smell and they smoked all "secretive"-like around the fire.

One sunny Saturday, Dad's friend's son and one of his friends drove out after we'd finished the morning waterski runs. Bobby was 16, and oh-so-handsome: sun-kissed curls falling almost to his shoulders, baby blue eyes, lean, tan body clad only in beat-up Levi's shorts--divine to me and my friend ("Elle"), two boy-crazy 13-year-olds. All I recall of Bobby’s friend was that he was older and drove the blue, 1968 Mustang.

They were making a quick store run and--being BOLD boy-crazy 13-year-olds--we asked to tag along. Understanding now why the adults didn't mind getting rid of us "kids," my dad acquiesced.

I got to sit directly behind Bobby. All the windows were open. The wind blew. The sun shone gloriously. Bobby's hair wafted almost into my face since me and Elle sat right up against the seat competing for his attention, talking over the wind and music.

At one point during the ride I was infinitely content; no one spoke and "Like a Hurricane" poured from the speakers. I'd never heard it, but somehow it fit. The wind whipped around the car, and all our long hair went with it, intertwining, "You are like a hurricane..., and I'm getting blown away."

Then we arrived back at camp and became "the kids" again. The moment was over. Yet, whenever playing that song, I'm back inside that car, smiling, my inhibitions blown away "Like a Hurricane."