The Boys
On my desk sits a picture of four men. They appear to be on a beach. They look cold. They also appear to be getting on up there in years, which is sort of a shock considering one of them is me.
This was taken on the Oregon coast in July, so I've pretty much recovered by now, although I still have the occasional bad dream. I mean, how would you like to spend time with a group of people who are determined to remind you of every mistake you ever made, every youthful indiscretion, every wrong move, every dumb thing you ever did? Over and over again. Sounds like a "Twilight Zone" episode, doesn't it?
I do this every summer.
It started at our high school in Arizona. My brother, Bill, met Randy in the spring of 1973 in shop class. I met Randy the next fall in biology class. Randy and Dave met in health class. Bill met Dave through me. I met Dave through Randy. My brother and I go way back, of course. And somehow, over the years, this complex web of interpersonal relationships turned into a quartet of guys who every summer take a weekend expecting to have fun and ending up mostly with indigestion, then do it again the next year. And they say pigeons are stupid.
It started as The Annual Camping Trip. Or, as we ended up referring to it, The Annual (supply rude word of your choice here) Camping Trip. One time it rained the entire time and we slept in Dave's Volkswagen. One time we couldn't get a fire started. One time Randy had discovered a love of fishing so the rest of us had loads of fun watching him do that.
One time we got separated while inner tubing down the Salt River and Randy spent eight hours wandering around dressed only in gym shorts while the rest of us attempted to traverse rapids at midnight and we saw a UFO and I saved Bill's life, although he won't admit this, and we finally found Randy in the back-seat of a park ranger's car and he refused to speak to the rest of us for months.
Stuff like that. Beer was usually involved, too.
It's been a spotty tradition. We pretty much missed our 30s, what with me moving to Washington and Bill having lots of kids and Dave getting interested in really strange music and Randy marrying a deranged woman who refused to let him leave the house. Seriously. I'm not kidding.
But now, settled somewhat in our 40s, three of us living in the Northwest and one still in Arizona but with a pathological desire to get out of the house, we make our annual trek, usually to somewhere in Oregon, and hang out for a weekend.
We talk. We wander around, try to find the best chicken wings in a particular town, argue about music and politics and bluntly discuss who has the least hair (Dave) and who has gained the most weight (me) and who is the shortest (Bill, hands down) and who married the craziest woman (guess). And there's lots of "Remember when..." and lots of laughter and lots of coffee in the mornings. Beer is still involved. And Randy always gets gas from the chicken wings and we make him stay outside for a while. Then we pack up and head for the airport or the highway and no one says much.
Maybe there's some sort of genetic imperative that drives four middle-aged guys to the Oregon coast every summer to eat bad food and rehash old grievances and memories and share one bathroom. And trust me: One bathroom is really, really not enough. My wife went to seminary and knows a whole lot about traditions and rituals, but when I get home from these weekends she just says, "I'm glad you're still alive," so I wonder. But not that much.
We go because we've known each other since we were kids and had hair down to our shoulders and actual waistlines.
We go because if we're out walking in the sand and one of us stops and says, "You know what? Life is sort of like a beach" we can hold his head under water until he promises not to ever, ever say something that stupid again, and there are no hard feelings.
We go because we like each other, because we have a good time generally, because life is complicated and friends are few and we know where all the bodies are buried, so to speak.
Or maybe it's just the chicken wings. Hard to say. Anyway, I'm going next year. Who am I to mess with tradition?
Besides, Randy really needs to get out once in a while.
5:34:18 AM 
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