HALCYON DAYS

By the time spring break rolled around, I was a sorry sight. All the hours I had spent indoors trying to churn out my thesis made me an even whiter shade of pale. My late night diet consisted of oreos that I washed down with Pepsi. Upon our final meeting, my adviser stopped in his tracks to ask me if I was all right. "You don't look so good," he told me. But all this did not matter when one thought came into my head--BAHAMAS!

Yes, after all this suffering, after months of whining, I was finally handing in my thesis and flying off to the Bahamas with four good friends for what promised to be a week of mind-numbing frivolity. Here there would be no talk of job offers (or lack thereof) or anything even remotely related to academics. Everything that I had been deprived of, including partying, relaxation, quality time with friends and most of all sunlight, was now well within my reach.

Because my friends and I had gotten one of the most economical packages available, I knew we would have to endure a few minor inconveniences along the way. Sure enough, we found out that our plane, which was fully equipped with half of the Harvard population on it, was scheduled to take off from Logan at 11 p.m. and land in the Bahamas around 3:30 a.m. In actuality, the plane did not take off until past midnight and we arrived in the Bahamas at 4:30 in the morning.

After getting off the plane, we suddenly found ourselves packed into a big yellow schoolbus with the other dazed "vacation-goers." A valley-dude with brightly dyed-blond hair, jeans that were several sizes too big and a questionable level of sobriety, got behind the wheel. "I will finally end up on the front page of The Crimson," I remember thinking to myself, "as one of those tragic stories where a student dies in a freak accident during spring break." Luckily the guy, who reminded me of Otto from "The Simpsons," was not the bus driver.

Our real driver took us to the conference room of some posh hotel where other students who had purchased the same vacation package had gathered. It was now 5:30 a.m. and none of us had gotten any sleep. The purpose of the gathering was to convince us to purchase passes to the various festitivities around the Bahamas.

So there we were at this ridiculous hour being handed a little pamphlet that described the activities and how much they would cost. A man holding up colorful posters explained that there were two main rules to follow in the Bahamas. Number one, no sleep was allowed. Number two was to "double-fist it." By this he meant that at no time should anyone be carrying less than two drinks in each fist. He assured us that if these two rules were judiciously followed, "at four in the morning, someone is bound to look good to you."

Now that we had been instructed on what we needed to do in order to find that meaningless someone to hook-up with, it was time to decide what, if any, passes we would buy. There was the $30 per person "Booze Cruise," which promised to get you as drunk as possible without inducing a coma and then dump you into the sea for some snorkeling. A friend who miraculously did not drown on this cruise later told me that there were no coral reefs where they had been taken to snorkel. I guess the event planners were hoping that people on the cruise would be too drunk to realize this. There were lots of other amusing and expensive entertainment activities listed on the pamphlet such as the "Last Chance Dance" and the nightly club scene that included a "hot buns" contest.

After much discussion, we settled on the $40 megapass. With it, we could enter any number of clubs for free before 11 p.m. In retrospect, even this comparatively modest purchase may have been unnecessary. But at 5:30 in the morning, I am surprised we were able to make any rational decisions. We were so tired by the time we got to our room that we noticed very little of our surroudings besides the three double beds, two of which were bunks. It was quickly decided that since the only guy in our five person group would be getting his own bed, he would have to pay the price by sleeping on the bottom bunk. He argued that if that was the case, he'd be willing to sleep with one of us. Nice try. At 6:30 a.m, he found himself falling asleep alone on the bottom bunk, with about three inches of space separating him from the bed above.

We finally roused ourselves out of bed at 2:30 pm the next day. I was the first one up and hopped into the shower, ready to start our vacation. My friends were horrified when they heard me shrieking from the bathroom. Apparently, our luxurious accomodations did not include hot water for showering. We later complained and the temperature of the water improved somewhat. However, we all agreed that it would be best if we spent as little time as possible in that hellish, closet-sized hotel room.

The first two days were cloudy and cold. We hung around the beach in sweaters, just enjoying the view and sipping tropical drinks. When the weather improved, we explored some of the others islands and found the perfect beach on Paradise Island. It was completely sheltered from the wind, with pure white sand and almost no people. That beach was a beautiful sight--I really wish I was there now.

We did the usual beach stuff; working on our tans, swimming, building a 10-person pyramid when we met up with some other friends, and catching up on sleep. I made numerous pathetic attempts to do some reading, but after getting through three pages, I would fall asleep. Sleep comprised a key component of my daytime activities. Whether I was on a beach towel, in a hammock or on a reclining chair, somehow, I managed to pass out for hours.

All the rest I got during the day made me even more excited about the prospect of hitting the clubs at night for some crazy dancing. The clubs were real meat-markets, complete with skanky men and overly eager high school boys who hit on every female in the place. Sweat, hard dancing and alcohol dominated the scene. The DJ would frequently stop the music to announce "Yo, yo, yo-Budweiser-two for $5." However, the lines to get alcohol were so long that by the time people got their drinks, the buzz from the last drink they downed had worn off.

The whole thing was overwhelming for someone who wasn't used to the traditional all-American spring break. I remember standing with my friend looking over the balcony of a place called "The Zoo," watching everyone below bumping and grinding as lights flashed and smoke was injected onto the dance floor. I felt like an excerpt from an MTV Spring Break '98 Special, but it was a nice change. My biggest concerns for most of that week were whether the DJ would play the rap version of "Staying Alive" and whether I was tanning evenly.

The only real annoyance we encountered was when in the middle of our stay, we were told that our hotel room was being down-graded. Although our previous room was awful, this place made it look palatial. There were two bunk double beds and two bunk single beds, with very little space for us if we all decided to stand around at once. The room's only saving grace was that it did not have a hot water problem. However, we soon found that the hot water issue was replaced by a drainage issue. After showering, the water in the tub would come up to our knees. We had to use a trash can to bail out the water so that the next person in line to use the shower would not drown or flood the place. We feared that tensions would flair up and we'd kill each other in such confined quarters, but after a while, we found the situation comical and made the best of it.

My vacation was not one that would be featured on "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," or even "Lifestyles of the Middle-Class," but I had a great time. The spring break senior year in college is probably the last time in your life that you will be so carefree and it's important to live it up. I'm glad I did.