The ROADTRIP, THE FERRY & THE TAMPON

It started with a meeting in the staffroom.

The plan was hatched, the route roughly sketched, and the car, a Toyota Corolla 1600 in gunmetal grey, was ready and reliable. These were the days before Google Maps, when finding your way relied entirely on your wits, your sense of adventure, and a fearlessness reserved exclusively for the young and foolish.

Four women. One borrowed car. No itinerary.

Just the open road, sundresses packed alongside tampons, and a trunk full of snacks, secrets, and the kind of energy that made onlookers at petrol stations stare, half in admiration, half in alarm at the wild souls spilling out of car doors left wide open at the petrol pump.

The road was wild and winding. And they were wilder still.

They sang louder than Rick Astley, took the curves of the Western Cape coastline like Formula 1 drivers, and laughed so hard someone might have peed a little near Hermanus. There were camping nights in Wilderness, swims under starlight in Sedgefield, and a suspicious incident involving a resort pool, a bottle of bubbles, and a breathless whisper: “Just take your panties off and get in.”

They danced in headlights, shared tall stories at the edge of cliffs, and slept under the stars until the fire no longer lapped at them with its warmth. They took the wheel and steered the Knysna Ferry toward the Heads like pirates in sundresses, the passengers applauding loudly as they made it safely to the dock.

One left a tale of new romance scribbled in a hiking trail logbook before devouring a plate of oysters drizzled with Tabasco at a tiny restaurant overlooking the lagoon. Her friend pushed her own plate aside, declaring the untouched oysters resembled snot. Another cried by the tidal pool, confessing she wasn’t sure if she actually missed him… or if he was just a bad habit that lingered.

There were mosquito bites, sunburns, and one truly glorious flood when someone (no one ever admitted who) left the tap running in the chalet after doing the dishes. They survived on braais, sandwiches, sodas, and stolen naps under beach towels.

When someone wore a tampon for the first time and the string vanished, panic gave way to hysterical laughter. Someone had to go in and retrieve it. She earned her badge of badassery that night.

They skinny-dipped more than once and pretended to be foreign tourists to talk their way out of a parking fine. They didn’t get the ticket, but it was close. Somewhere, a stern man with a clipboard may still be thinking about that band of sunburned beauties who were slightly too wild for his taste.

The drive back was quieter, but pleasantly so. Through mountain passes and golden haze, over the long haul past Gordon’s Bay, they headed back to the old fishery across the beach, where the smell of grease and salt felt like coming home to Hout Bay. They banded together, the four of them, teaching at the school in the fisherman's village on the hillside, on the wrong side of the tracks.

And then... Lansdowne. Summer beats shook the tiny car as they made their way back to the Southern Suburbs. The Corolla was dusty and unkempt from the trip, as were the four of them...salty, hair stringy, and skin golden from carefree days.

Soon, soap suds were flying on the lawn. In your twenties, everything is an adventure. Their giggles echoed between the houses as they rinsed off the miles and mischief, dancing barefoot with a hose in hand playfully  drenching each other clean.

They were four young women then, wide open to the world. Light on plans and heavy on trust in each other, and in a universe that still held its secrets close. The future held its share of broken hearts and challenges, moments that would require them to tap into the bravery of innocence before life taught its harder lessons.

Forty years later, they gathered again. Hips a little achier, wrinkles a little deeper, life having etched its passage beautifully onto their skin. In Plumstead this time, over tea, cake, and a bottle of something bubbly to celebrate.

Same 80's playlist, different tech. Some of the same loves, and at the heart of it all, an enduring friendship.

The stories poured out like water from a wide-open tap, memories destined to sustain them for years to come: The flood. The camp under the stars. The topless bathing spot that wasn’t meant to be, but somehow was. The men who came and went. The friendships that remained.

And then someone asked it softly, over the hum of conversation and the buzz of nostalgia: “Are you happy?”

And without pause, without qualification, the answer came: “Yes.”

Because there is no luxury greater than women who knew you then. Women who unlock the memories that fortify and bolster you. Women who will ride with you, top down, bare faces beaming into the next ridiculous chapter, ready to flirt with the law and fate if it means one more dalliance with freedom.

We ride for life. For laughter. For sanity. For the kind of wild joy only women completely in sync with each other can experience.

Next stop? Who knows. But the trunk is packed with snacks, granny panties, and the kind of defiance that only comes from years of squaring up to life in the fiercest way.