There is a road that runs along
The mountains of the Oregon Coast.
It is serpentine, weaving in an out
Of small sheltered bays.
It is on this road one Saturday night,
That my friend and I ride together
In a stunted, yellow school bus,
With our coach at the wheel.
We were the returning losers,
Wrestlers coming home with no medals.
But we didn't care.
We were dead tired,
And we were happy to be heading home.
Something that must be realized
Is how dangerous this road is.
Not only does it require constant turning,
And not only is it a two lane highway,
But on either side of it is sheer cliffs.
One that spires upward, a gray rock face,
And the other a straight drop,
To the rocky sea below.
On the best of days this road is difficult.
That night, it was near lethal.
The problem was the coastal fog.
A simple, common nuisance,
Which held out lives in its hands that night.
The fog come on suddenly.
We were all talking in the back,
When the black of the night,
Was replaced by the white fog--
A mass of dark-whiteness.
It seemed to us to be acting
Like a boa constrictor,
Squeezing the life out of the bus,
Priming it for death.
It restricted our vision,
Making it hard to see the road,
Directly in front of us.
Then, out of nowhere,
A gigantic blue semi materialized,
Its horn shouting into the ether.
Everyone was quiet then,
Gripping onto whatever they could,
Hoping to make it out alive.
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