"Yo, wake up bitches. We're back at the hotel."
As I open my eyes, the breaking sun greets me.
"Dude, it's dawn? How long've we been in the car for Peter?"
"Peter's knocked out in the backseat. We switched drivers
while you were asleep. Nice going, Mr. Navigator,"
I jump up and notice the time.
"What the funk? It's almost 7 a.m.?! We left the bar at 4!"
There's one aspect of driving everyone hates. It doesn't matter whether you're male or female, drifter or drag racer. It happens to the best of us, and it sucks: getting lost. Whether it's for seconds or hours, time seems to stand still when you're lost; even longer for males, since we have a built-in aversion to asking for directions. It's like we think our penis'll magically jump up and point us in the right direction like a dowsing stick.
Now, I've been lost plenty of times. Complex freeways, poor signage, or foreign languages in major metropolises are the usual culprits. Recently however, I was lost inexplicably for three hours in a span of 10 miles of road, in what essentially is a geographical box. What's constitutes a geographical box? An island. In this case, Oahu. Paradise, yes, but a box nonetheless.
Forty-four miles long and thirty wide at its greatest, Hawaii was the destination for my boy Peter's bachelor party. Four of us decided to go and on our first night out, we went to a neighborhood dive for what was supposed to be a drink ("a" meaning one). But after meeting some cool locals, they convinced us not only to stay, but to go to an afterhours joint a couple miles down the road.
On the way home, Peter was at the wheel with me as the designated navigator. I got us back on the H1 highway, and right before I passed out, told him to go about 10 miles to our exit. The next thing I know, we've lost three hours of our lives and had a driver change. The worse part? We don't exactly know how. By sheer distance, velocity and travel time, we should've passed our exit three times (it is an island). Oh well. I'm sure there's a moral somewhere in this story. Like stopping and, gasp, asking for directions. Or just staying awake. But between all the plate lunches and party-hopping, it drowned in the surf.