As a high school graduation gift, Mama let me drive by myself with a girlfriend to the coast near Morro Bay to stay for a weekend on our own. It was something she and a group of 3 other girls had done when she graduated from high school 20 years before, and she spoke of it as one of the best times she’d ever had. I was excited to have the same kind of free-wheeling, girlfriend adventure. So, I called up a group of friends and tried to coordinate a last-minute get-away. Unfortunately, only one of my girlfriends could join me, but that was still fine by me.
Marie and I had been in several classes, choir, and drama productions together over the years. We made such a funny match. She was as dark as I was fair, her hair as wiry as mine was straight, and her face as thin as mine was round. We were like the sun and the moon, perfect opposites that attract. As different as we were made up on the outside, we shared a lot in common and we were clearly in sync for this trip. I couldn’t have imagined a better friend to share it with.
Soon, Marie and I were loading up my 1965 Volkswagen Bug, and heading toward the coast to flaunt and sunbathe on some sunny California strand of beach. From my car windows, we teased and flirted with the truck drivers along Hi-way 99, and sang out loud and free with the radio, while our long, feathered hair blew tangled in the wind.
Mama was not surprised to see me come home a bit sunburned from my beach excursion. Being so fair, I had always burned quite easily. I never held a tan for long. Any color I had from the sun would usually remain splotchy, and eventually peel off.
Not two weeks after I’d returned from the beach, I was back out in the sun again, lounging on a long, narrow pool raft in our doughboy pool in the backyard, floating where the light summer breeze blew me. I had slathered myself with baby oil, a tip I’d read about in one of my teen magazines, hoping to get a quicker, deeper color into my already faded skin.
Even though I knew the risks of skin cancer for fair-haired, fair-skinned people like myself, I occasionally threw caution to the wind. Being a native, blond-haired, teen-age Californian, I was determined to live up to the popular “California-Girl” image and bake until I turned a delicious, golden-brown. Besides, I was invited to join a friend’s pool party that next day, and I wanted to have some rosy color behind my white bathing suit, rather than look like a washed-out ghost.
As teenagers, we think that we are untouchable. We live precariously, take careless risks, and laugh in the face of danger, as if no harm could ever touch us. I should have learned by then, and from the many painful sunburns I had experienced over time, that you don’t play with fire, especially fire from the sun! Unsurprisingly, I ended up with a pretty nasty sunburn that afternoon, which left me feeling very uncomfortable that evening, and would play a part in the rare illness that took my hearing.
