I had just gotten my license and felt really good about it. It was a Saturday morning in July, a perfect day for the beach. I picked up a few friends and we drove out to Zuma Beach.
We spent the day body surfing and at about 5:30, I decided that we had better leave. Everything seemed fine until one of my friends, Mike, pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker scotch whiskey. I told him quite frankly that I don't drink. Somehow everyone in the car managed to coax me into tasting it, which I was sure couldn't hurt me. All this time, we were driving on Malibu Canyon Road which requires a certain amount of concentration and good judgement. I thought one would be enough, but after they had passed it around a few times, I decided to join in, slowly at first, but as my companions cheered me on, I started taking fairly good-sized swigs. The bottle was empty and I had become quite drunk. For some reason, I couldn't focus my eyes on the road. I figured it must be because the sun had set and it was getting dark. For this reason, I felt impatient to get home. My friends didn't seem to notice or care that the car was hitting 50 mph in the canyon. I felt very sure of myself until I came around a curve that was too sharp for the speed that I was going. The car spun out of control and was thrown to the opposite side of the road. A second later, I looked up shaking and my heart stopped. A big diesel truck was heading straight for us. I frantically honked my horn and luckily he saw us. He tried to maneuver the large truck around us but the back end hit us and the car was smashed. For some miraculous reason, nobody was hurt. Now one thought stood over everything else: How would I tell my parents? It is not as simple as it seems.
No comments:
Post a Comment