On Hydroplaning

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” –Maya Angelou

My best friend Chris nearly melted when I got my driver’s license. It was Christmas break our junior year of high school, and, up to that point, I had proven myself to be a wholly, erratically, uncoordinated individual. I had never been good at the types of sports that required the hand-eye dexterity of getting a ball into a goal (let’s call a spade a spade here: I was captain of the water polo team because I was, presumably, generally well-liked and remained buoyant in the water), and I spent most of our Super Smash Bros. melees as Yoshi avoiding physical contact with others and falling off the side of the board all on my own. I once drove a lawn mower backwards down the side of a hill into a tree (and more recently, come to think of it, reversed a boat into the dock during class – sorry Ron!) and even blew through a stop sign during my short-lived lessons with a Driver’s Ed instructor (he was the one who called it off). I was (not sure if I still am) a hard-working and intelligent individual (jk I still am) but, at the time, had all the emotional grace and street smarts of a lemming JUST TRYING TO FIT IN.

Furthermore, my luck just sucked. In the fall, my group of friends decided to start Rock-Paper-Scissoring each other (not as dirty as it sounds, get your heads out of the gutter) for basic life activities. These included (but were not limited to): $50 meals at TJ’s or Bagel, having to complete the Ricky’s Candy Store “Gut-Buster” (15 scoops of ice cream in 15 minutes), and walking home from Crystal Diner in the snow at 2AM (but damnit if that French Toast wasn’t the best drunk food east of the Delaware River). It should be to the surprise of no one still reading this that I was forced by the rules of the game to do these things, many of them more than once (why I continued to condone and partake in such an idiotic idea is beyond me, but remember: I was just trying to fit in – and I still had my dad’s credit card). Wow, I just used a lot of parentheticals.

And so, everyone waited with bated breath each morning that winter to see if I would make it into school unscathed. My copilot, Emily, reported back almost ten years later that, “driving to school with you was terrifying,” while it was commonplace for me to send a text to Chris that read, “it’s raining and I just spun out and then a deer jumped out,” to which he would typically respond, “HAHAHA you idiot.” One morning in mid-February, the Buick was cruising along in the left-hand lane, the rain a slight drizzle, when my eye spotted something big, shiny, and annoying standing in the way between me and Exit 7B. A painter’s ladder (I know, right?) had strategically positioned itself in the middle of the road, and I had two options: swerve to get around it or plough right over it with the hopes that the Buick would survive the impact (probably not). And so, I went with Option A, and, instead of doing a little beep–boop around the ladder, we went into a full-blown tailspin straight into the grassy median, my leg cramping up as a slammed on the brakes (bad), I-95 South approaching ever more quickly (badder). We came to a halt just barely before entering oncoming traffic and, acknowledging that this was NOT MY FAULT BUT THE LADDER’S, proceeded on to school (but only after waiting a good five minutes to get back on the road – those Jersey drivers are real assholes).

Editor’s note: just so we’re clear, I’ve only ever been pulled over once, and it was while playing designated driver for Kristen; the police officer applauded our responsible attempt at proper planning and let us on our merry way. Princeton cops are sometimes the best, but mostly the worst.

Shaking off what I considered some bad luck rather than sheer ineptitude, I went on living my life for the next three years. I got into college, I got a new dog, I didn’t get a fraternity bid (thank goodness), and I was lucky (read: unlucky) enough to find a ride back to school after Thanksgiving 2008. For anonymity’s sake, we’ll refer to my generous (yet ill-equipped for trauma) driver as Jessica and just hope she never stumbles upon this blog. Jessica was from my hometown and we were introduced through a mutual friend, conveniently several weeks before the holidays, when I was looking for a cheap means of transportation to and from Charlottesville. Jessica was, as I learned that rainy afternoon post-Turkey Day, a family girl and wanted to eek out every last minute of quality time with her mom, dad, siblings, and grandparents before heading into finals week. Look, I get it. I’ve learned over the past year that it’s like pulling teeth to get me back on a train to Boston (which might be more a function of me just wishing I was getting on a train back to the beach), but I had class at 9AM, and the day was quickly approaching dusk.

Jessica finally texted to tell me she was on her way, and I grabbed my bags, gave Roommates a hug, both Sadie and Holly a kiss, piled into the gold Toyota, and we were off. The drive to UVA is a relatively straight shot through Philadelphia, Baltimore, D.C., and the boons of Virginia, but I could tell that Jessica was nervous. It was dark, it was late, and it was raining. Luckily for her, I hadn’t yet embraced my natural ability to fall asleep in any moving object and kept her awake and attentive by talking about God knows what. Shortly before 9PM on the beltway, we were rounding a bend when I began to feel that all-too-familiar feeling of the back of the car giving out behind us. “Well this is just perfect,” I thought, as girlfriend began to lose her shit next to me. Instinctively, I stuck my arm out in front of her, repeatedly reassuring her that “We’re ok, we’re ok,” as the car entered another full-blown tailspin, and all I really wanted to say was, “We’re fucked.” I know it sounds like I’m making myself out to be the hero here, and I was.

What happened next was an immediate blur. The passenger side door slammed into the – this time, concrete – median, with the back windshield exploding into a million little glass shards. We came to a dead stop, with oncoming traffic either slowly approaching us and moving on or, as we quickly determined, piling up behind us. Jessica was really losing it now, phoning her parents and then her ex-boyfriend, who went to Towson. I did not want this to turn into couple’s counseling, and so I called AAA and then my aunt and uncle from Maryland just in case things got dicey. I’m pretty sure all forms of law enforcement involved in the ordeal blamed yours truly and co. for what happened, as they pretty much ignored us for about two hours, much to Jessica’s ire. Finally, as the clock approached 11PM, our AAA tow-truck arrived and – let’s call him Barry – realized that, per the insurance plan, he would have to drive us the remaining three hours to Charlottesville. Barry was a rather large man who smelled like an ashtray, and the look on his face when he told us to get in was one that could kill puppies. Jessica’s alternative was to stay in Baltimore with her ex, and so there really was no good choice here (Barry it was!).

And so there we were, sitting three across in the front seat of a tow-truck (through some cruel joke the universe was playing on me I was in the middle), making our slow, slow way to Jefferson’s heartland. Feeling sorry for myself, I told everyone I knew that I had gotten in a car accident for any shred of sympathy they could give, but at this point, the whole situation was straight-up comical. Almost immediately, cranky Barry pulled out a cigarette and let it slowly burn as he clenched it between his crusted lips. And just as immediately, Jessica squeaked from the corner, “Um, excuse me, do you think you could maybe not smoke in here?” Looking for the nearest self-eject button, my insides screaming, “LET THE MAN SMOKE, JESSICA,” I leaned over to Barry and said, “It’s fine, you do you.” In an effort to make up for his nicotine habit (which, looking back, I really should have bummed one off of him), he offered up his CD catalog for us to flip through, advising that the Kelly Clarkson one was his favorite. YAHTZEE. Sold. Put it in, Jessica.

Right about the time “The Trouble With Love Is” decided to join us, we pulled onto The Corner and, being the chivalrous hero the night required, I insisted that Barry drop Jessica off first and I handle the bill (she could Venmo me later – oh wait). And so there went Jessica, smelling like an ashtray and all. Pulling into Dovecote, I turned to Barry and thanked him for his services, wishing him a safe ride home and suggesting that he must have a nice wife and family to go back to. “Well, I’ll probably just go sleep with my girlfriend,” he offered. “Oh, that’s nice,” I replied, shuddering at that whole image. “Yeah,” he continued, “my wife’s probably not gonna be too happy about it, either.” And…scene.

Sometimes, life throws you situations you can’t control. Sometimes your ride back to school is a real flake, sometimes your car unnecessarily spins out of control everywhere, and sometimes you’re diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. The art of surviving a hydroplane is to #1) find a pleasant tow-truck man to drive you to your final destination, #2) turn in to the spin, and #3) don’t brake. I like the idea of turning in to your challenges and unpredictabilities, facing them head on, and, as Queen Maya suggests, not being “reduced by them.” Sis could have reacted in many ways to the news she received almost four years ago but, for her, putting the brakes on her life was not an option. She controlled the things she could and was at peace with the things she couldn’t; that led to a fuller, richer, at times more challenging, and altogether more meaningful final stretch of her life. Sometimes you just have to take in all that’s happening, smile, and turn on some K Clark.

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