there’s this little place on pch, right at the bottom of the hill. they serve cold beer and fried shrimp. the final and ultimate line defining the separation between the real world and what takes place, each summer over looking the pacific ocean. during a hot day the stools along the bar and the few tables tucked into smoky corners would be filled with equal parts leather clad biker and sweaty jewish camp counselor. a strange yet perfect balance.

in the packed dining hall, pushing my way through trays of greasy grilled cheese and ranch dressing, i make my way over to the side table, swarming with bees and campers – lips stained red from bug juice – all hoovering over the peanut butter and tuna. as i busy my hands, spreading the peanut butter thinly on to the last piece of wheat bread, i catch his eye. “neptunes?,” i mouth silently. with a simple and direct nod of his head, i know we’ve planned our escape.

if we leave the top of the hill at 1 we are sitting with an icy corona by 1:20, and waste not a second as we clink l’chaim and shove our limes deep into the narrow bottles with our dirty thumbs. turning my head to watch the cars that travel by, the surfers pour themselves into their wetsuits on the side of the highway, the outside world continue; i think, i’ve never felt so far away.