Every time I hear a Cat Stevens song, it takes me back in time to the magical summer of 1987. It all started out at a party, as all my best decisions did back then. Jeff and I had been going out for about eight months, having met in our senior year in high school. We were hanging out with a couple of friends at Brian’s house one day, drinking beer in Brian’s room. Mrs. Matthews didn’t care if we drank, but it felt more licentious if we hid it from her. There wasn’t much else to do in the South Bay except drink and work, and we were getting bored. When Rob casually mentioned that he was moving up north to go to college in San Luis Obispo, Jeff and I perked up our ears. It sounded like a PDO - prime drinking opportunity. Over the course of the next few hours, we consumed vast quantities of alcohol and made our plans – to rent a house in San Luis Obispo with Rob and Brian; sign up for college; and throw massive parties.

I’ll never forget that summer. It was hot and lazy, and things definitely weren’t boring any more. Geographic moves are good for stirring things up. The four of us rented a large, three bedroom house in Los Osos, just west of San Luis Obispo and south of Morro Bay. Sure, we were there under the pretext of attending the local junior college in the fall, but our main motivation that summer was to party. So we made sure the house we picked was ideal for large groups; it had an extensive backyard, a barbeque area, a large redwood deck and an oversized Jacuzzi.

We laid our entertainment plans carefully. Rob and I were elected to introduce ourselves to the neighbors, as I was the only girl in the group and the most wholesome looking. Rob definitely had the charm. He handed out our phone number, mentioned casually that we were planning a ‘house warming’ party, and asked the neighbors to call if the noise level bothered them. Meanwhile, Brian and Jeff called all our friends from the South Bay and invited them up for the weekend. We ordered a couple of kegs from the local mini-mart, stocked up the fridge with hamburgers and hotdogs, and filled the pantry with chips and soda. Now all we had to do was wait for the weekend to arrive.

I laid out on the redwood deck a lot that first week, working on my tan and my poetry. My cats, Misty and Jasper, had claimed the backyard for their own. Misty stalked through the foot-high grass, occasionally pausing to pounce on some unsuspecting creature. She never caught anything, but took great enjoyment from her attempts. Jasper lay lazily beneath my hammock, flicking his tail gently and keeping me company. I could hear Brian moving around in the living room, and then music gradually began filling the air. I was entranced; I’d never heard Cat Stevens before. I rocked gently in my hammock, drank my wine coolers and smoked my Marlboros, and fell in love with that album. To this day, whenever Wild World comes on the radio, it takes me back to that idyllic summer. I can close my eyes and smell the heat rising from the redwood deck, feel the pressure of my old tattered hammock against my back, and see Misty’s feathery tail parting the long grass as she prowled. I still recall the poem I wrote about her green eyes and hunting skills, and the lighthearted way I felt as I wrote. I remember the feeling that my entire life lay before me, and it was all going to be good.

Everyone showed up around 3:00 p.m. on Saturday. We broke into the first keg, and things started heating up. I got drunk early, and got the odd idea stuck in my head that Rob needed a girlfriend and I was going to find one for him. After parading a bevy of beauties his way for a few hours, he finally caught on and told me to knock it off. Next, I turned my attention to Brian. There was a rumor going around that the girl he was interested in might have an STD, so in my drunken state I felt it my duty as his friend to inform him of the possible dangers inherent in his courtship. Brian gently but firmly told me to piss off. I took my injured pride to the backyard, where I soon got over myself and joined in the fun. People were splashing around in the Jacuzzi and some girls were getting thrown in with their clothes on, so someone came up with the bright idea of a wet t-shirt contest. I am proud to say I won that contest, hands down. The rest of the evening was a big, loud blur, with fights, breakups, hookups, and other assorted drama. I finally dragged myself up the stairs to my room at 3:00 a.m., smiling in contentment - people would be talking about our party for weeks.

The next morning I found bodies sprawled out in the living room and all over the back yard, some in sleeping bags, some not. There was still some beer left in the last keg, and a group of die-hards were gathered around, partaking of the ‘hair of the dog’. Rob cooked up a big breakfast with scrambled eggs, sausage and bacon. We grabbed a couple of gallons of orange juice and sat out on the redwood deck and ate off paper plates, as we discussed the highlights of the night before. We even made up categories for the winners:  supreme drunk, chief slut, most dramatic breakup, and my all time favorite, long-distance projectile vomiting.

As the day passed, more and more people drifted by to say their farewells and get some aspirin for the road. We had some major clean up to do, but that was all right. School didn’t start for another month, and we had nothing in front of us but more partying.

I look back now and realize that things were never the same after that weekend; the bloom was off the rose. The four of us started fighting over petty things like rent and personal hygiene, the tension escalated, and our friendships became strained. We all moved out by the end of the school year; Rob was the last to go.