When Ten Oxbridge Kids Get Lost for Six Hours

I could tell you all sorts of things about my trip. I could ramble about the beautiful beaches in Croatia, the islands of Hvar and Loupod, the sun and red melon glinting in the sea. I could go on about Barcelona, discussing tourists, markets, the World Cup. I could tell of lavender fields and pine trees pushing towards the ocean, and of swimming with fish, with salt. But there is too much there, too many little details.

So instead, I’ll focus on some of the highlights… starting with Hell Night, or The-Night-of-Agony-and-Poor-Decisions.

Hell Night was preceded by a lovely day in Petrcane, Croatia. Nine Oxbridge students and I danced on a boat in the afternoon.

The DJ kept emphasizing the boat. “You’re on a boat!” He exclaimed. “You’re on a (expletive) boat!” It was helpful.

Then we danced our way through Soundwave Music Festival. “You’re at the sea!” DJs chanted. “You’re at the (expletive) sea!”

By 1 a.m., we were flush with our geographical knowledge. “We were on a boat! We’re on the sea! Let’s walk home!” One Oxbridge student suggested.

“Right-o!” Agreed another.  ”We’ll save money and be environmentally friendly!”

Off we marched, guided only by moonlight and our own lack of foresight. The rocky ocean path was boarded on one side by the sea, on the other side by dense forest. We quickly lost traces of all civilization.

“Don’t worry,” said a friend after an hour of walking. “I see a sign.” The sign was in Foreign, but we knew what it meant: Go ahead, young souls. Carry on.

So on we went. “It’s like a horror movie,” I murred to a fellow American. “Ten scantily clad Oxbridge students, alone near the Adriatic by night. Danger. Crazies.”

“Who will be killed first?” He asked.

“The Italian. I will live the longest because I am in a swim suit. They always keep the nekkid ladies.”

Stories gave way to grunts of pain, as the semi-stable beach became sharp, jagged rocks. They cut and tore into our feet. My shoe broke, requiring hair ties to hold it on.

“Maybe you should tie some fabric around your foot,” offered American.

“I have no fabric.”

“Don’t worry!” Cried someone in the front. “I see lights up ahead! I see lights just around that corner. I see li-oh wait. That’s just a sign.”

We had walked now for nearly three hours. Exhausted, we huddled around the sign. “There is barbed wire up ahead. Perhaps we should just scoot around it.

“The sign says it is a military base. It says keep off. But let’s try!”

“You do not scoot around barbed wire.” I noted as I sat, pulling out a bag of dry oatmeal and offering it to my disheartened companions.

My suggestion was to call the Croatian police, which was perhaps (as the others argued) a bit extreme. “I have no shoe.” I lamented, eating porridge.

We were not so happy on Hell Night

We tried the police. “Stupid tourist?” Someone explained into the phone. “Come get us? Stupid tourists?” The police didn’t speak enough English.

“We could sleep here for the night! Now -that- would be an adventure.” Suggested one British girl, who was shot down on account of us being outside a military base, and on hard, ceramic rocks.

Resigned, we walked an hour back to where we last saw a road. The moon hovered red on the horizon.

Along the way we started to sing. “Oops, I did it again,” and a bit of NSYNC filled the air, interspaced with hisses and grunts of pain as one of us stabbed or stumbled.

Again, happier than I was that night

Finally, finally we made it back to some semblance of an actual street (but not before passing by a cemetery. Seriously.) We sat on the side of the road, the sun already up, our shoulders slumped and dusty.

A taxi drove by and we flagged it down, going in shifts back to the campsite. We arrived around 7 a.m.

Sometimes, Oxbridge students don’t make the best choices… but at least they make good stories.