It was just over a week ago when I was sitting at the airport on a plane that would take me away from the hellish Northeast winter. Feelings of arousal crept up my spine, my body filled with anticipation. In a few hours I will be lying on a beach in a sunny state, where the only thing I will study is the female anatomy and the drink menu at the bar. As we board the plane, visions of girls on the beach and coconut rum dance in my head. I turn to my travel companion Jim, who is swaying to the loud music on his headphones. From the wispy lyrics, I think I could make out the poignant words to Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone.” “Jesus man, what are you listening to?” “Dude, I’m getting turned on!” he yelled back. Different styles for different people. All I knew was that we were ready to let go.
Two hours later, the pilot’s voice came over the intercom: “In a few moments we’ll be landing in Daytona Beach, Florida. The weather is 83 degrees and it’s sunny. Have a great spring break and enjoy bike week.” . It was music to my ears. I didn’t know it was bike week, but the more the merrier, right? Jim and I approached the baggage carousel and eagerly awaited our bags. When the flashing red light began to turn and the conveyor belt motors began to rumble, we focused on the hole spitting bags; knowing it was the last responsibility we would have to deal with for the next six days.
Our bags finally collapsed, which we took immediately. Outside the terminal we meet our taxi driver; a scruffy, emaciated guy named Gilberto. His face was leathery from the years in the sun; It could have been an ad for sunscreen. This guy was a character and oh, did he have stories? He told us stories about girls, bikers, crocodiles, everything you can imagine, completely full of it, but entertaining. He kept giving us ridiculous information and he knew we were eating it. Thirty minutes, $ 26 and some good laughs later, good old Gil dropped us off at the Sea Spray Motel. It wasn’t the best lodging, but it would be enough for two boys on spring break.
Jim and I change into our bathing suits and head out onto the boulevard. We were new to town, so we decided to visit a bar that Gilberto recommended called “The Oil Spill”. When we entered the bar, it looked like something out of a movie – the crowd instantly fell silent. The music may have skipped. We approached the bar, ordered a few drinks, and the crowd seemed to continue their conversations and stories. What Gilberto forgot to mention was that the bar was a place for Hell’s Angels. Jim and I were sticking out like a sore thumb, to say the least. We relaxed and chatted about plans for the rest of the week, but got nervous when we heard a loud bang from outside. It sounded like 500 motorcycles were slowly circling our location.
That’s when Jim and I knew we were in trouble. A scrawny man with long gray hair and an even longer goatee looked out the window and yelled, “Banditos!” And with a word, all the motorcyclists jumped to their feet. What followed is too brutal to discuss, but there was a fight. Fearing for our lives, Jim and I sat at the bar and did the only thing we could; Hide in the corner under a table, until the waiter led us out the back door. Apparently an angel stole a loading ramp from the Banditos, which they didn’t take very kindly.