Neptune's Net

there's this little place on pch, right at the bottom of the hill. they serve cold beer and fried shrimp. the final and ultimate line defining the separation between the real world and what takes place, each summer over looking the pacific ocean. during a hot day the stools along the bar and the few tables tucked into smoky corners would be filled with equal parts leather clad biker and sweaty jewish camp counselor. a strange yet perfect balance.

in the packed dining hall, pushing my way through trays of greasy grilled cheese and ranch dressing, i make my way over to the side table, swarming with bees and campers - lips stained red from bug juice - all hoovering over the peanut butter and tuna. as i busy my hands, spreading the peanut butter thinly on to the last piece of wheat bread, i catch his eye. "neptunes?," i mouth silently. with a simple and direct nod of his head, i know we've planned our escape.

as the rest of camp heads back to cabins to lay silently on their individual bunks, sweating, limbs sticking to warm and worn sleeping bags, we head down the hill bottoming out as we hit every speed bump with full force, honking as we swing around every corner, my hand hanging out the window, catching the wind, the air filled with static radio reception and true tales of summer drama.

if we leave the top of the hill at 1 we are sitting with an icy corona by 1:20, and waste not a second as we clink l'chaim and shove our limes deep into the narrow bottles with our dirty thumbs. turning my head to watch the cars that travel by, the surfers pour themselves into their wetsuits on the side of the highway, the outside world continue; i think, i've never felt so far away.

but time continues to tick and by the time he is up at the bar, getting our second round, i am looking at my watch, thinking, this can't last forever. i notice the news on the tv above the kitchen, and the two large men at the table next to us discussing the scores from the latest baseball game we didn't even know had been played. and as i pick at the dry, peeling skin on the ridge of my nose, on the tip of my chin, from my latest sunburn; and as i look down at my jean-shorts spotted with the brown paint we had used to paint over benches that had been painted over so many times before, i realize that this isn't where we belong. we pay our tab and as we get in his blue volvo he hands me a breath mint. we sing the camp cheer at the top of our lungs as we race up the hill, even more quickly than we had tried to escape.