Chapter 3: The ROADTRIP, THE FERRY & THE TAMPON

It started with a meeting in the staffroom.
The plan was hatched.
The route was drawn.
And the car, a Toyota Corolla 1600 in gunmetal grey, was ready and reliable.

Four women.
One borrowed car.
No itinerary. Just the open road, florals packed next to tampons, and a trunk full of snacks, secrets, and the kind of energy that made people stare at petrol stations half in admiration, half in alarm.

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

They sang louder than the guitar playlist, took the curves of the Western Cape coastline like they owned them, 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 one of them whispering,
“Just take your knickers off and get in.”

They danced in headlights.
Shared tall stories at the edge of cliffs.
Took the wheel and steered the Knysna ferry to the Heads like pirates in sundresses.

One left a tale of new romance scribbled in a hiking trail logbook before devouring a plate of oysters and Tabasco at a tiny restaurant overlooking the lagoon. Another cried by the tidal pool and confessed she wasn’t sure if she missed him… or just knew him too long, like a bad habit that lingered.

There were mosquito bites, sunburns, and one truly glorious flood when someone (no one ever admitted it) left the tap running in the chalet after doing the dishes.

They survived on braais and sandwiches, colas, and stolen naps under beach towels.

Someone wore a tampon for the first time and inserted the string. It disappeared.
Panic.
Laughter.
Someone had to go in and get 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 fine but it was close.
A stern man with a clipboard may still be thinking about that band of sunburned beauties.

The drive back was quieter but not silent.
Through mountain passes and golden haze, over the long haul past Gordon’s Bay, back to the old fishery across the beach where the grease and salt felt like coming home.

And then...Lansdowne.
The summer beats back on.
The car dusty from the trip.
Soap suds flying on the lawn, giggles echoing between houses, rinsing off the miles and mischief while dancing barefoot with a hose in hand.

They were four young women then.
Wide open to the world.
Light on plans.
Heavy on trust.

And forty years later, they gathered again hips a little achier, laughs a little deeper.
In Plumstead this time, over tea and cake and a bottle of something strong, just because.
Same playlist, different tech.
Some of the same loves.
Different lines on the face.

The stories poured out like cola on a hot day.
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 stayed.

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 , who unlock memories that fortify and bolster, women who will ride with you top down, playlist up, into the next ridiculous adventure, ready to flirt with the law and fate if it means one more night of freedom.

We ride for life.
For laughter.
For levity.
For the kind of wild joy only women in cahoots can conjure.

Next stop? Who knows.
But the trunk is packed with snacks, silk granny panties, and defiance.

Let’s go.