AWRY (pronounced "orrie")?

I consider myself a decent wordsmith when it comes to the English language, something I can attribute to my voracious appetite for reading. I'm not reading Faulkner or Hemingway mind you, but I seem to get by fairly well. Admittedly, I am a bit on the lazy side when it comes to words I'm unsure of, so rather than puzzle over their meaning or pronunciation, I just kind of skip over it and move on. I never would have dreamed that this lazy little habit would one day bring to the forefront of my life a simple SAT like vocabulary word that just by its mere site or utterance could instantaneously transport me back in time to an era of untroubled days and a relatively carefree existence.
"Imagine if the world ended today and the only two people left alive to carry on the future of the human race would be them," my friend Scott strangely contemplated, gesturing towards our two unlikely traveling companions?
“That would be like completely…” he paused, looking for just the right word. “Orrie?”
Laughing, I could see the word in my mind and knew exactly what he was trying to convey.
“How do you say it?”
“I don’t know,” I answered. “A-W-R-Y, I’ve read it a million times.”
It was July of 1987; the two of us lounging poolside at the South Shore Resort Inn, Virginia Beach, reveling in that special time of life where spontaneity and impracticality were the primary rules we lived by. Having recently endured a horrific four hundred miles on the road, we reaped our well-deserved reward that afternoon in sun and beer. Fran and Robbie, of whom I was only casually friendly with at the time, rounded out our crew. There was not much more to the lure of the Virginia coast for me other than fact that I had never been there before. The only sights I’d planned on seeing were the beach, the boardwalk and the nightlife. Scott on the other hand had chosen this little piece of paradise with the distinct pleasure of visiting the world headquarters of the Association for Research and Enlightenment (A.R.E.).
At least one of us would get a little culture.
The plan to leave the New York area sometime during the pre-dawn hours had been an ambitious one. As it was Scott’s turn to take the wheel this time around, I had opted for a night spent partying at our favorite watering hole where they would pick me up later. My jubilation mounted in direct correlation with the several Budweiser’s I had consumed before switching to Coca-Cola to keep the blood flowing. I had planned to stay awake at least until we reached Jersey. I retrieved my bag from the trunk of a friend’s car barely noticing the scent of overheated engine odor wafting from the direction of the late 70’s era red Dodge Dart that was unmistakably Scott’s. The not so tough looking crew I had already come to consider as our small band of highway rebels looked none too confident as I approached.
“The trip’s off,” Scott disconsolately proclaimed.
I could just make out the last wisps of rising steam, colored amber by the overhead streetlamp behind him.
Looking to the others who nodded resolutely, I put on a concerned face while trying to mask my obvious disappointment. Barely listening to Scott’s very non-technical diagnosis, I became momentarily distracted as a light southerly breeze kicked up, taking with it the cloying scent of burning anti-freeze and leaving in its wake a strong aroma of fresh brewed coffee. I looked over his shoulder at the lights of the 7-Eleven next door. The decision was immediate.
Several months earlier, I had made my first real car purchase, opting for a same decade 1987 Dodge Charger. There was no doubt in my mind in the car’s ability to make the journey. My only trepidation was that no one else in the group was capable of handling a four speed standard transmission. I bought myself an extra large coffee and a box of caffeine pills, which I hastily ingested during the laborious process of switching vehicles. It was four a.m. by the time we hit the road, the car packed with luggage and the prerequisite cooler of breakfast beers.
They were asleep before Brooklyn and stayed that way until roughly five hours later at the Maryland border, where I required some assistance in plotting a new course to correct the faux pas I had made earlier, having missed an important exit several miles back in Delaware. The best bet at that late juncture called for continuing South to Route 50 where we would veer east towards the shore. It looked sound enough on paper until we grudgingly realized that a large percentage of the state’s population had decided to hit the beach as well. We were deadlocked in the worst traffic jam that I had ever known. The only plus to this course deviation were the road signs touting Ocean City; a name I had stored in my subconscious for future vacation consideration, and the opportunity to drive over one of the most extreme bridges I had ever seen. At some point we would arrive at one of the nations more impressive transportation marvels; the Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel, which had become something of a Holy Grail in our quest to reach Virginia. It was our crossing at The Bay Bridge however, that will resonate in my mind forever. Sleep-deprived and moving at barely a crawl across its span, I luxuriated in the pleasantly disconnected feeling of floating in midair, high above the gently undulating water’s below. By the time we had touched down on solid ground, I was in a state of euphoria and felt the need to celebrate. I pulled over, opened the rear hatch and retrieved a number of long awaited (now well past) breakfast beers. Clandestinely handing the frosty contraband to my companions still seated inside, I very openly took a long pull from my own right there on the pavement, smiling and waving at the astonished onlookers as they drove past, some of them looking decidedly parched. I laughed, umworried at the prospect of anyone calling a cop.
Cell phones hadn’t been invented yet.
A couple of hours later, we had finally reconnected with our original route only to find ourselves shocked, dismayed and forlorn at the irrefutable fact that we still faced a minimum of four hours traveling time. Maybe it was the caffeine or the momentary beer buzz wearing off, but I was privately and inconsolably distraught. Not even the excitement of reaching the world’s largest Duck Decoy Factory, whose proud signs we had been passing for several miles could lift my spirits. Irritable and agitated, our long awaited arrival at the famed Chesapeake Bay Bridge-Tunnel came with little fanfare. The sparse recollections I have were of a gift shop located mid-span, the gulls that seemed to inhabit every lamp post, and the actual pavement with its constant rises and dips that seemingly created the nauseating sensation of seasickness.
Twelve hours after our early morning departure from Long Island, we had finally arrived, greeting the Virginia shore with a tired indifference, although Scott had perked up for a second as we drove past the sacred home of the Association for Research and Enlightenment.
Talk about your Holy Grail!
My one glimmer of hope appeared in the form of a lone parachute soaring above the ocean. Parasailing, a safe, sane version of skydiving had long been a dream of mine, which would soon come to fruition.
It is no wonder that in my exhausted state, I would lose track of some of the routine aspects of our impromptu getaway. There must have been some degree of excitement upon checking into our temporary residence. There was most certainly some degree of celebratory beer consumption once we hit the pool. Following dinner in the hotel restaurant a short time later, we finally ventured out to explore the beach and boardwalk where I clearly remember witnessing a number of minor altercations, which were most likely alcohol fueled. Scott’s concerns echoed my own in that there appeared to be an under-current of racial tension, luckily short lived, at least during the time of our stay.
Later that night we visited a club inside a high rose hotel across the street chosen for only two reasons; location and a live band. Still shell shocked from the drive, the night was wholly uneventful and would have gone unmentioned here had it not been for this bizarre ability I have of retaining some of the most mundane, unimportant little tidbits of information. The band was forgettable, yet to this day, I remember them only because they performed an obscure Inxs tune from the Listen Like Thieves LP, “Same Direction”.
The next morning, we dropped by the dock to reserve parasailing time. With nearly two hours to kill before our scheduled departure, it was back to the pool for some mid-morning brunch beers, this time at Scott’s behest.
“I don’t know,” I said doubtfully. “I never drink before flying.”
“You don’t have to do anything but hold on,” he chided!
Sated from grog, we gaily meandered back to the dock, trying to stifle any errant laughter that might give away our near state of inebriation.
What happens if I have to pee up there," I secretly worried?

The boat ride out to the ocean was both relaxing and insightful, providing us with an unimpeded view of the Virginia Beach shoreline. It was also the first time I had ever witnessed something called a Banana Boat, wherein riders towed behind a speedboat atop a banana shaped raft slalom in and out of the waves, soaring momentarily skyward, before jarringly returning to the unforgiving sea. Shortly thereafter, several of the happily dazed passengers would be found floating in the water like shipwreck survivors awaiting rescue.
We passed on it.
My parasailing experience was invigorating at first as the anticipation began to build. Holding tight to two vertical poles on the boat’s rear platform, there was the momentary thrill of resistance as the chute fanned out behind me and I was suddenly airborne, amazed not only that I was actually flying, but that there was absolutely no sensation of movement. Soaring quickly higher, the droning of the powerful motors beneath me dissipated, leaving nothing but the light ruffling of the wind blown fabric above. It’s not an extreme sport by any means. Those eight minutes were among the most peaceful moments of the entire vacation. I’ve parasailed many times since then and would recommend it to anyone without a fear of heights, water, sharks…

I was always on the hunt for a girlfriend in those days. While other males on a four-day getaway would be on the hunt for something else, I simply yearned for a significant other. Tina was the poolside server who brought us a continual stream of beers and daiquiri’s. She was sweet, easy to talk to and we tipped her well. Had it not been for a single photo we had somehow coaxed her into posing for, she would long ago have faded into obscurity. Thinking about her kept a smile on my face during those few days while my mind pleasantly contemplated the what if factor. Alas, while romance was not in the cards, we had become pen pals for a short while.
Fran and Robbie; the other half of our unit were in no way romantically linked, yet they fought and sniped at each other like married people would. Their constant bickering had me practically begging Scott to take me with him on his afternoon sojourn to the A.R.E.! Choosing to ignore those pleas, he left, in search of something I would never understand. Met with a small degree of apathy by the others upon his return several hours later, Scott’s tales of crystals, negative ion’s, and atmospheric calm held my rapt attention long enough to usher him upstairs and begin a marathon of late afternoon snack beer consumption. I really believe that we acted mature enough for our age, choosing not to behave like rock stars hell bent on launching televisions from upper floor balconies, and as a result had never been evicted from any premises nor asked not to return. The letter we received from management as a gentle reminder to leave all of the furniture inside the room seemed a bit extreme. Any furniture removal was only in good fun. Coorsman; our own personal super hero came to life that afternoon. I don’t know what he was fighting for or how many people might remember the iconic character standing on our balcony smugly waving at the crowd below like a proud dignitary riding upon a parade float, but he lived in our hearts long thereafter.
Twenty-one years have gone by since the utterance of that unremarkable, trite little word. Scott relocated to the west coast in the early nineties, resulting in the inevitable waning of our kinship. He recently popped into town for the first time in nearly half a decade, allowing us the brief opportunity to get together one Sunday afternoon to do a little catch-up beer consumption. It’s always a bit awkward for me trying to reconnect with someone after a long period, but with Scott, we seem to have a knack for picking up right where we left off. It’s a special bond that while broken by time and distance on the outside still holds strong on the inside. It was during that short reunion, the two of us sitting at a lakeside bar in New York City’s Central Park, lazily rehashing the old days, when the magic word floated from my mouth, releasing this flood of memories.
“Where was that from,” Scott asked me with a look of confusion on his face?
I was dismayed to learn that the word didn’t hold as much significance with him.
“Virginia Beach, Fran and Robbie,” I prodded.
Laughing upon immediate remembrance, he looked at me and said,
“Man, you have a great memory!”
I do.
For certain things.
I call it selective retention.
His statement is the very catalyst, not just for this story, but also for the entire reason that this site exists. The photo albums I’ve kept from those years are helpful in triggering recollections, but pictures just barely tell the tale. I know there’s plenty that I’ve forgotten.
The remainder of our brief adventure has faded from my memory, although I must have connected with Robbie on some level. Ignoring common sense and the refusal to learn my lesson, the two of us spent our last night in some bar or club, while Scott and Fran had opted for sleep instead. The drive home went smoothly, clocking in at somewhere around six hours. The route was easy enough to remember, and would be followed again when we would make a return trip for the upcoming Labor Day Weekend with a larger cast of characters. I’ll leave the exploits of our Virginia Beach homecoming for another time. Should I ever decide to revisit that weekend in literary form, I think I’ll title it with one other unremarkably trite little word…
“Twice!”