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| Yellow Submarine |
“Listen,” Daddy said. “You can come with me, explore new lands (first stop Disneyland!) and see the world.. Or go to live in the poor house in Osterville. You decide.” Tough choice.
So we went. On Labor Day weekend, we wailed goodbye to our friends at Penn Station and began our westward circumnavigation. We were really doing it.
A boy-crazy, self-absorbed and rebellious teenager, I began ninth grade in California, beach boys and surfing, Disneyland as promised, then on Hawaii, a tiny hotel on an obscure black sand beach… it all seemed pretty groovy.
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| Polynesian grass shack |
But in a grass shack on Bora Bora, where the passing of days -ten to be exact- was distinguished only by the rattling bicycle of a Frenchman bearing baguette, papayas and fish, I realized my isolation. With and within a family of five people I hardly knew, the year to come seemed an eternity. “Groovy… but BORING” was my diary mantra, punctuated by passages of "cool," "gross" and "REALLY SCARY."
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