If you've ever seen the movie The Patriot you might recall the opening line. It goes ... "I have long feared that my sins would return to visit me, and the cost would be more than I could bear." Ah yes ... words of great wisdom indeed. Why I am recalling that line while deciding to write about my days of yore, could only mean I have something to confess. And to this poor, sweet lass, who has undoubtedly passed the test of time with flying colors and moved on with her life, I sincerely apologize. Now, where do I start after that opening line? From the beginning, I presume.

The summer of 1980. I had my license for over a year now and had done my best to do what damage I could to Mom's car and even my grandparents' car. This was a malicious act with the intent that if I did enough damage to theirs, they'd consider letting me buy one of my own. I was a working lad, after all. I needed to get from to and fro and had to have transportation. It was the obvious choice. I don't recall how we found her; a 1970 Plymouth Satellite with 23,000 miles on the odometer. The back seat still wrapped in factory plastic sheeting, with a slant six .225 engine. Oh ... the glory days. It was the original "little old lady from Pasadena" story. Except this little old lady lived in New Hampshire and not California. Nonetheless, it had manual steering and she couldn't handle its girth. After her husband passed away, it was stored in her garage collecting dust and awaiting a $750 cash offer from my grandfather to purchase it for me. My first love.

The symbolism of a car to a teenaged boy is simplistic in terms. It is freedom on wheels and hardly any man alive will argue this fact with me. Why we consider it this is beyond all realm of comprehension. It's not freedom per se. You have to make the payments, let alone the insurance and dive into the unjust world of realizing just how screwed you get by the auto insurance industry for being male. You also have to gas it up. Everything about the car is financially restrictive. So why do we consider it symbolic freedom? Well ... the girls, of course. The girls love the idea that a guy has his own car. And we're in the stages of playing exploratory baseball with girls and certain parts of their anatomy ... having a car to use as a ball field is just an easier outlet. I mean ... what else are you going to say to her? Hey, honey ... wanna go out in the woods with me? Um ... no. That never works. At least not with the kind of girls you'd want to bring home and introduce to momma.

So I drove the Satellite home and had all kinds of visions and adventures were going on in my head. Summer was coming after all and after last summer at the beach, this year was going to be even better. Why? Because now I had my own ride! Beer, babes, and beaches, oh my! What a wonderful world we lived in back in 1980. Bad hair, music trying to escape the inevitability of changing from the 70s and, the residual corduroy bellbottom pants. We were entering the disco decade. Eh gad. Somebody hit the brakes! If I knew then what I know now ... I probably would have knocked up some young lass and be in worse shape now than ever before. Thank goodness the world works in mysterious ways.

So ... we've covered "Freedom." Everyone understands that cars are freedom to young lads. Now ... let's talk about the French. My dear grandmother is French Canadian so let's get that out in the open before anyone accuses me of racial slander. I have nothing against the French. Hell, I'm part French and I kiss French and I eat French Fries ... so bite me if you think I'm a racist. Sorry. Obviously, I still have some pent up issues to deal with. To say what I'm about to will involve Old Orchard Beach at the same time as explaining about the French. In the summer time, at least from days ago, the French Canadians would flock to the stateside beaches of Maine and one of their favorite haunts was Old Orchard Beach. The prior summer, we had experienced this newfound treasure being Coasters of New Hampshire, by a fellow Freedom Driver a year older than us and already equipped with his drivers license who opened a whole new avenue of unexplored territory in the female gender to us. French chicks in the thousands. Oo-la-la!

There was one particular week and I do not recollect who went and who didn't. I may not even have driven that particular night ... but I remember it was night time when I met her. Why I can envision her so clearly and not recall her name is beyond me ... and you'll come to understand why as I complete this tale. She was small framed but built well, with fair eyes of bluish green and long, light brownish colored hair. I walked past her in a crowd and turned to see ... her other profile ...and was elated to see she was doing the same to me. I smiled the international language. She returned the gesture. I can't remember if we talked right then or rediscovered each other again later. Too many years have come and gone, too many cobwebs cluttering the attic of my memory. I remember ... suddenly sitting on the beach with this girl. She smoked Canadian cigarettes and she knew I didn't approve. Although if she had had a Columbian cigarette, I would have toked with great earnestness. But her beauty, although maybe wouldn't have won any pageants, to me she was drop-dead gorgeous ... she spoke broken English ... very broken and the only French I knew was the kissing kind. It was a match made in heaven ... for the summer that is.

The next thing I knew, we had decided to walk the park again, and to anyone who knows what Old Orchard Beach is about ... it's an amusement park chock full of ancient arcades and a boardwalk and amusement rides. When you're young, it feels so enormous. Getting older and revisiting it one day later on in my life, I couldn't believe how small it actually was. How ... divey it seemed to be ... but the days of yore had ways of changing what you experienced. They were truly magical, those days. This beach is undoubtedly unchanged from the test of time, and yet the comparisons from then to now are worlds apart only by imagination. That's magic, people.

Walking down a certain street, I noticed a young lad who appeared to be following us. She was perplexed with me and did not notice. Young love. I took notice and waited for the right moment. I could have been wrong, so I paid an ounce of extra attention and sure enough, this unknown creep was stalking us ... maybe her. I will be her hero, I thought and waited for a target of opportunity. The stalker spoke. She did not hear. I did. We kept walking and she kept looking at me ... why was she so engrossed with me? Hell ... I was just an average guy and she didn't even know I had a car yet! He said something subtle again and walked a little faster to catch up to us. Again, she did not hear him. Was she choosing not to? Was this her boyfriend from Canada? We did indeed suffer from a language barrier, but all we needed to really do was look into each others eyes, start kissing, and who the hell needed to talk anyway? Am I right? We both spoke French when we kissed, so who cared. Anyway ... this kid, a glimpse from the corner of my eye ... you see, I didn't want her to think anything was diverting my attention from her ... a helpless romantic ... and she bought and paid every cent; plus tax where applicable ... until he moved just close enough behind her, and I lunged her carefully into a storefront ... closed for the evening, guarded her by standing in front of her, and grabbed this stalking little bastard by the neck of his T-shirt to let him know ... he just made a huge mistake. She's with me, bucko. Ask a question and prepare to meet you maker!

"Daniel," she said, but pronounced it Danielle. French people. She looked at me with the utmost affection for my heroic deed, but there was something else in her eyes ... something I didn't quite understand yet desperately tried to. Her mind raced to find the words in English to make my density comprehend her. "My brother," she said finally in the most alluring French accent I had ever heard in my life. Daniel smiled a goofy smile and I think I caught him praying to St. Anne De Beaupre that he was still alive after the brief incident. I extended my hand and he gladly shook it. He said something to ... her ... why can I not remember her name and yet know what her brother's name was? I didn't French kiss her brother for crying out loud?! Weird. Nonetheless, they talked briefly in a foreign tongue that I did not need to understand and he bid me farewell and I him. The rest of the night was hers' and mine. We sat on the beach again later, kissing under the stars while listening to the waves crash against the shore. Her mouth tasted of stale cigarettes, but her passion was undeniable. My effort of heroism to protect a girl I barely knew, even if it was to her smaller framed and obviously weaker brother, paid dividends and left this poor French girl reeling.

I had walked her to her motel and bid her farewell. I would never see her again, I thought. I'm not sure what she was thinking. Next thing I knew, me and my local homies were all regrouped and on our way home sharing our stories of conquest. For some reason, and this is a true testimony ... they all witnessed me meeting her after all ... but I remained humbly silent and told them I had a good time with her and left it at that. They were all so willing to kiss and tell their own stories, that mine was accepted and forgotten. She was gone ... and she left this hollow pit in my stomach and after arriving home that night and falling asleep, I dreamt of kissing her and crashing waves on the beach in the darkness.

I woke up. It was morning. Something still didn't feel right. All I wanted to do was see her again. But even as small as Old Orchard Beach was, I would never find her again. I could never find her again. Could I? I ate breakfast ... and thought of French. I took a shower ... and thought of French. I told everyone in my house that I was going for a drive. I drove alone to Old Orchard Beach. I had to find her. I would find her. I knew where her motel was after all.

After arriving and parking my car, I made my way across the park and past it to the streets where the motels lined up on Atlantic Avenue. Route 1. I stood in front of her motel and the strangest revelation came over me. I wasn't nervous. Every time before this when I had to call a girl, even if I knew she liked me, there was this odd sense that maybe I was wrong ... that created this ... fear of rejection deep, down inside me. But not now. I had only met her brother and if I knocked on that motel door, I was certain to meet her parents and other family members. But for some reason, I wasn't nervous. All that was in my head was this undying urge to see this girl again ... and when I knocked and her brother answered the door ... and the door opened wide enough for her mother and father to see outside ... to see me standing in front of their motel door ... and smile at my arrival ... knowing how excited their daughter would be to see me ... knowing how excited she would be to see me there this day ... man ... my head was reeling! They had accepted me. They didn't even know me. But she came flying out of the bathroom, freshly showered and her hair was still wet. She wore shorts and a white T-shirt with a bikini underneath. She kissed me in front of her parents ... not French, but her parents smiled and was happy for their daughter. She told them we were leaving for the beach ... in French ... I didn't understand anything. I was lost in a world of wondering what it was about this girl ... other than her good looks that had me feeling this way ... that had me accepted in her world. I was going with the flow. My god ... I was in love with her. Was that even possible?

We spent the entire day together. Straight into the evening until just about the same time as we had the previous night. It was time to go again. I felt empty. Hollow. Lovestruck. For godsake, someone help me! We kissed passionately and I told her I was leaving and probably wouldn't see her again. Maybe next summer. She was only there for the remainder of the week and would be going back to Canada. We were worlds apart. Long distance relationships didn't work especially at our age and we both understood that. I left again. Again, I had this sinking feeling about this girl. Why? I can't even remember her name for crying out loud! Shame on me for that.

This time I let a day go between us. After I awoke the next morning, I sat in the living room and watched an interview with Stephen King on Good Morning America. He was on some beach with Joan Lunden and it looked vaguely familiar. She asked him questions and he answered them. And then ... right before a commercial break ... she dared to say it. "Good Morning America, here with Stephen King live from Old Orchard Beach." I screamed. There was no way I could make it ... Not now! He'd be long gone before I got there ... and then what? Her, you idiot! That's what! I didn't even really care about Stephen King. Maybe a little. But it was her and hearing those three words ... Old Orchard Beach. Oh my god. I felt like puking. I had to see her again. I couldn't let her go. I hadn't told her that I loved her. I couldn't tell her that I loved her. That would not be fair to her or me. After all, inevitably, we could never withstand the test of time. Too much high school was still left. We lived worlds apart. I stayed home that day and simmered in a pot of my own self inflicted misery. I was depressed. I yearned to be with her and even though when we were together we spoke so little to each other due to our barriers, it was our eyes and what we saw in each other that truly was the only language that needed to be spoken.

I couldn't take it. It was Friday when I woke up again and she'd be leaving in a day or two. To Canada until next year ... and god knows if or when I'd ever see her again. I wanted one more day with her. I showered and skipped breakfast and drove straight to Old Orchard Beach. The same knock on the same motel door produced a mother who smiled again when she saw me. In a thick French accent she said, "She's gonna be so glad to see you. She's on the beach." I thanked her and headed for the sands. She was sunbathing and unsuspecting. She looked so erotic ... so exotic ... so much like a tourist. I snuck up on her. I recognized the hair, the contours of her body, those lips ... despite her donning sunglasses ... she was stunning. Sweat and tanning lotion had glistened exposed parts of her body and I stood there and took in the few moments to navigate the scenery in silence before I announced my arrival. What an absolute dish. A sprig of parsley on the side was all I needed to go with this entrée.

Within the ocean breeze and the crashing waves, I uttered her name ... a name I wish for the life of me would return to my memory banks ... did I just imagine this poor girl? She looked up and tipped her sunglasses down towards me. Her face was both in shock and happiness. I had seemingly answered her unheard beckon call. Maybe she had some spell over me ... I don't know. She was elated and leapt up from her beach blanket and embraced me. Stephen King was sitting here 24 hours ago, I thought briefly to myself as I hugged her back ... all slippery and sexy. Again, we spent the entire day together well into the late evening. This would be indeed the last time we got to spend together ... at least this year, but our love for one another had grown from a mere passing and notice that the other was checking each of the other out ... like window shopping at the mall if you will, and there He or She is and how good they would look wearing the other... into ... this unpronounced love with extreme barriers and distance that threatened every ounce of its existence. It could never work. We were too young. It would never work. End of story.

Sitting on the darkened beach again that night, we stopped kissing in time for each to catch our breath ... content with listening to the unseen waves crashing in the near distance and I saw her head flicker towards mine and she said it in the darkness. "I love you, Jody," she said. I stupidly smiled and looked out at the ocean as if I could see it. She saw me smile. She knew I chose not to return her devotion. I did love her, there was no doubt. The realization that our love would never last consumed my behavior and left me blank. She said it again to confirm I understood her in her accented English. I silently grabbed her hand and pulled her head onto my shoulders and embraced her ... still not returning her devotion. What she must think of me ...

As time passed, the night grew old and it was time to go again. I had a long drive home alone and this by far was the best day that I had spent with this elusive French girl. We exchanged addresses. Pen pals. She gave me a puca-shelled necklace to remember her by. I took her to my car ... (shut up) ... I had to have something to return in gesture. I was always a writer of sorts ... self proclaimed ... whatever. My ex-girlfriend from last year had written a story and I had told her I would rewrite her idea and give it to her. She was not a writer ... and had no qualms about not being one ... her story was self proclaimed as "stupid." It was kind of, too. But I rewrote it with her intent and she was somewhat offended that I might take her stupid story and do a better job with it. Women. And there that story was ... all hand written our and crumpled up in my glove box where she made me put it after refusing to read it. It was right next to my Ray Ban's. I wouldn't need those tonight ... I thought with a sudden case of insanity. Hey ... I love you French girl whose name evades me, but those are Ray Ban's, honey. Here ... take these crumpled pieces of paper with a story in it and remember me. She did and expressed how thrilled she was. Did she even notice the Ray Ban's? Ah ... too long ago.

I left and actually mustered the urge to cry over her that night on my way home. I would indeed never see this French girl again in my life. Not next year or the year after that. Never again. She was but a mere chapter in a book with many others written about my life and her existence was but three days worth of encounters long. She was lost ...

Well ... not exactly ... quite yet anyway. School started, I met another girl ... And the French girl wrote a pen pal letter. I responded nicely ... somehow that feeling in the pit of my stomach when she wasn't around ... the way she would look into my eyes ... the expression on her face when she did ... all dissipated in my memory ... as obviously did her name ... poor, little French girl. Heavily involved within another relationship ... one of which I reached an entirely different base with another game of exploratory baseball, I had tired of the puppy-loved, long distance relationship with ... whatshername.

Another letter arrived and I ignored this one too but suddenly came up with a brilliant plan. Recruiting the assistance of my sister to respond a brief letter back to her in a women's handwriting ... I produced, directed, and starred in a brief eulogy of my own demise. We sadly reported to the French girl that I had been killed in an auto accident in my mother's alleged handwriting. We told her how much I had mentioned and thought of her and how sorry (my mother) was and that she need not write any more letters ... to a dead guy ... and guess what? Uhuh ... she mailed a frickin' condolence card addressed to my mother ... of course, which I had to explain. My mother wasn't happy ... and neither was the French girl, I'm sure ... but I moved on. Or did I? I often think of this poor, French girl and the anguish of which I might have caused her. Did she cry over my imaginary death? Was that fair of me to make someone do? So ... my past actions do indeed haunt me sometimes and I am truly afraid they will catch up to me ... and the price is greater than I could bear. Please, French-girl-whose-name-evades-me, forgive an old man who was once in love with you and was young and foolish enough to make such a stupid decision. I'm sure you're obviously better off without the likes of me and my conniving ways.