More from what I did to the Ford in that Air Force end time:

• Drive it to a South Arkansas lake for water skiing, singing loud all the

  "...the top of her one-piece suit..."

  way, alternating among favorites of the day: Wake Up Little Suzy, Alley Oop Oop. I can't think of any others. Water skiing was a revelation, and I was surprised at how easily I learned it. It took a little anti-instinct activity to keep balance among the tow and float forces.
  
  One of the girls, wonderfully endowed, didn't let go of the tow rope before hitting the lake on her first try. When she came to the back of the boat the top of her one-piece suit was around her waist. A delight to behold. The girl in the boat told her to cover up. Rats.
  
  
• Drive it to Lake Bisteneau, just down the road from the base. The guy with the boat was Mike, a young fellow from Indianapolis. His parents brought it down to him at Barksdale AFB, his first permanent station. They took a cabin at Bisteneau for a week or two. I was being Barracks Chief at the time, and could spend most afternoons at the lake.
  
  I'm embarrassed to say I never found out how Mike's dad came to have

  "...I found her under the pier..."

  one short leg. Polio, maybe. He limped, but it wasn't important. It must have been simmering in my unconscious, because within his hearing I said something about a "Side-Hill Galoot: you know, someone who was born on the side of a hill..." Was I an embarrassed jerk? Yes. He took it with good grace, of course.
  
  During one of the several barbecue parties at the cabin the well-endowed girl responded to alcohol and angst by disappearing. I found her under the pier. She was fast asleep, semi-floating, chin wedged in the vee of some bracing members.
  
  When it was time to go back to the barracks the Ford wouldn't start. Five or six of us sat in the top-up convertible slapping at each others' mosquitoes and wondering if we were stuck for the night. The park ranger came by to say he was chaining the entrance shut, and if we were going, we better do it now. He used his chain to tow the Ford up a little hill, expecting to leave us to our devices and useless car outside the gate. Wonder of wonders, it started with the tow and the key.
  
  Rolling back to the base, all subued-like, I was telling some story or other when I realized everyone else was asleep. What a grippng story I must have been telling, eh? Something like this story, maybe.
  
  Art Ramirez, from Robstown, Texas, had a nice new Chevy. After Mike's

  "...Mike was selling tickets at the Esses gate..."

  parents decided to leave the boat for another week, they drove home. Art had agreed to tow the boat to Indianapolis. He and Mike and a couple of the girls went off to do it on a weekend, and had a rollover accident on a bridge. I think Mike was the only one with serious injuries, and I'm not sure they got back to the base before I left...
  
  When Don and I went to a NASCAR race at Riverside, January or February, 1967, I think, Mike was selling tickets at the Esses gate. He recognized me. If he hadn't said his name and where we had known each other, I'd have had no idea who he was. He was stationed at March AFB and said he was doing good. I said I'd come back and chat, but I didn't find him.

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