I always say that a true friend is one you can reunite with after eons feeling like no time has passed, and that's certainly how I felt when I rejoined forces with my old friend spontaneity. Having quit my job at the first mention of a travel opportunity, thus sacrificing any tentative plans for the next month, I was eager to plunge off society's diving board and back into the pool of freedom.
Shrimp, my soon-to-be travel partner, had conversed with me a total of about three times in the past. One of those times ended up in us sleeping together. Another of those times resulted in us deciding to tether ourselves together for a month as we climbed and cavorted and crawled across vast and unfamiliar central American landscapes. The latter was, obviously, the most recent discourse.
Any travelling veteran can spot the idiocy of this decision. Travel partners should be meticulously chosen, if at all. Many prefer to travel in solitude and rely on the beauty and unfamiliarity of those they meet on the road to keep them socially satiated. I should have realized the error of my ways - in hindsight, I realized I'd been working to convince myself that Shrimp and I got along better than we actually did - but I had itchy fucking feet and I didn't care who I went traveling with or to where.
This was our fourth time conversing. In our excitement, we made sure to test our sexual compatibility and rocked my van back and forth for a while. Alright. Compatible, to some degree. It wasn't like trying to screw in lag bolts with a Philips head - we could have fun.
We slept together that night in my camper van, having packed our bags and readied everything for the morning. Well, we didn't sleep together, per se, but slept close to each other. Sort of. We weren't cuddling, but we weren't in different beds. But we might as well have been - we wouldn't have been any less connected.
I chose not to analyze our sleeping positions. There would be plenty of time for that.
Six AM rolled around. Blaring alarm clock shrieks rolled around the van. Me and Shimp rolled out of bed. Jumbled thoughts rolled around my brain. We climbed into the front seats, my thoughts steadying themselves enough for me to realize how excited I was. Shrimp was up and at 'em; yammering excitedly about the prospects of the journey. My eyes were glazed and I felt like I was watching the world through a broken set of binoculars.
Mornings were not my fortè, and this morning acknowledged that and chose to mock me. The van wouldn't start. I tried the ignition a good half dozen times in the stupid semi conscious state that everyone seems to fall into when their vehicle won't start. A million thoughts coursed through my mind.
It's too good to be true. I'm dreaming. This trip's not happening.
Another episode of BLACK AND UNLICENSED: DESTROYING THE ASSROADS OF NANAIMO.
Shrimp's going to hate me. This is my fault. She's going without me.
I'm an idiot. Why hadn't we checked the batteries?
I wish I was stuffing my face with boobs.
Fortunately, Shrimp's morning amiability (or other such optimistic synonyms for excessive blathering) was inherited from her father who was more than eager to come jumpstart my van. He was there by quarter after, we were at Shrimp's house by six thirty where I left my van parked, and her mom had dropped us off at the ferry terminal by eight. The sun had hardly risen.
The island waved to me as it always did when I embarked on another journey. I was awake enough now to grin a bit as Shrimp and I leaned against the ferry's upper railing, watching Vancouver Island shrink in size while forever retaining its majesty.
Goodbye, home. I'll see you in a couple months!
...so I thought.
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