When I was a child, my grandparents built a retirement home in a small beach town in SC, and we visited them often. Visits involved a lot of family time, but we managed to break away from their daily routines for fun on the beach and other escapades. As we aged, my sister and I sought more freedom to do teenaged activities when we visited. There is a story from the beach during my teenage years, which my sister and I vowed to never tell. Want to hear it? Come closer. Lean in and I’ll whisper in your ear. Shhhhhh...
ready to hit the beach town
Next door to my grandparents lived a family whose daughter was about the same age as my sister and I; I'll call her T. We enjoyed hanging out with T when we visited, and because she was a local, we often got to do things that typical tourists might not do. She showed us the ropes, how teenagers live at the beach. One day, T told us about a small carnival that was setting up in a neighboring town. She told us that some of her friends were going, so my sister, another friend, and I agreed to go with her. We had no transportation, so T convinced her mom to drive the 4 of us teenaged girls to the carnival, about a 20 minute ride. The plan was for us to meet her friends there and ride back home with them later.
Turns out, the carnival was a real sleaze job. There were a few games, a few rickety rides (one look at the operator and you knew you would never get on that thing), and not much else going on. It was out in the middle of a field. It took about 3 minutes to survey the whole thing and realize it was a dud. And, not only that, but to realize that T's friends, in fact, were not there. Let me take you back to 1974—when you were away from home, no one had cell phones, or GPS tracking, or Uber. There was, basically, no means of getting in touch with anyone who wasn’t nearby.
If you were lucky enough to be near a payphone kiosk and you had a dime or a quarter, or whatever coin you needed to make a call, then you could call for help. There was no payphone at the carnival. No help desk. It was just us and the carnies.
The 4 of us girls stood in the middle of the rundown, filthy midway trying to figure out what to do. We had no intention of staying there, but we also had no ride. Since our friend T was the local, we let her take the lead and we followed dutifully as she cased the joint and approached various people, looking for help.
And that’s how we found ourselves in the Hippie Van. Imagine an old VW van, rusty and lived in. Am I remembering the shag carpet and the fringe curtain correctly, or have I enhanced the memory? I’m not sure, but even if they weren’t there, they certainly could have been. We were invited into the Hippie Van by 5 or 6 hippies who were climbing aboard. They referred to themselves as gypsies.
The gypsies were laid back, heavily adorned, are-you-going-to-San-Francisco-with-flowers-in-your-hair characters. We got into the Hippie Van and proceeded to direct the gypsy driver to our house, as best as we could, missing turns and backtracking along the way. Our friend T was notoriously bad at directions, even though she lived in the area. The ride took over 40 minutes. It was quite the scene, man. The gypsies were good natured and talkative. I think a guitar appeared and we broke into a song along the way. We did not see any contraband in the Hippie Van, and the dudes and dudettes were well-behaved.
We didn’t have the sense to ask them to let us out down the street; no, we had them drive right up in front of my grandparents’ house to let us out. We shouted ‘Thanks!’, and they replied, “Far Out!’ and then, just like that, the gypsies were gone. It was then that we asked our friend T who exactly they were, and she told us that she had no idea—she just saw them getting in the van and asked if we could have a ride. Even as teenagers, who sometimes struggle with sound reasoning, we immediately understood what a dangerous and risky game we had just played. We quickly decided to tell no one about the ride, which was easy for my sister and I, because we could truthfully say that T had gotten us a ride. She, on the other hand, had to make up a story to tell her parents, dropping a friend’s name as cover.
Zoinks! Why on earth did I put my trust in that vanload of questionable characters? I don’t know if the gypsies were connected to the carnival, if they were attending the carnival, or if they were just driving by and decided to stop for a groovy time. The 70s were cool and funky and all that, but this wasn’t Freddy and Velma and Shaggy getting into The Mystery Machine. These guys seemed to be all peace, love, and granola, but they were also free-wheeling dudes who looked a little bit like Charles Manson’s cult. I think that the reason that my sister and I agreed to hitchhike with the gypsies was that we thought our friend knew what she was doing. This, after all, was where she lived—we were just visitors. If she thought this was ok, then it must be ok. It wasn’t until we were delivered safe and sound that we realized that she was holding on by a wing and a prayer, knowing that her parents would kill her if they ever found out about it. So, we promised, mum’s the word. We'd keep this story on the QT.
So, now I have broken that promise. The cat's out of the bag. But, there is no one to offend, or no outrage to be had 45 years later. So, I think it’s safe to share my secret with you. I count myself among the lucky who can look back and say, “I cannot believe I did that and lived to tell about it!”, a sentiment I’ve said more than once over the years.
After all, I guess, all’s well that ends well. That’s why I Keep on Truckin’. Now, let's Blow This Taco Stand! Catch Ya on the Flipside!