November 10-12, 1974

As we took off, the streets of San Francisco sparkled in neon. Sailing through the sky is unreal, all the more so in a luxurious, modern lounge combined with restaurant and theater. The jumbo jet was no less incredible than when I flew one of the first 747s in 1970. The excitement of flying, for me, was like a return to the magic of childhood. My enthusiasm burst forth as reality engulfed me. Faces were alive now; the briefest eye contact erupted in smiles. Many vacant seats left our group alone in a private section of the plane. There was no reason to restrain our enthusiasm; we had a private party passing swiftly over the Pacific. Our steward must have enjoyed our youthful energy because he joined in the spirit of the affair with the offer of free champagne. We drank until there was no more—24 bottles consumed by fifteen to twenty of us. We sang. We ate. We listened to headphone music and watched movies—George C. Scott or Barbra Streisand. We talked. We played cards. We laughed. Needless to say we were bubbling unintelligibly upon our arrival in Honolulu. Two hours later, viewing the group at reboarding, the exhaustion and the effects of alcohol were apparent. It was 6 a.m. our time. Nevertheless, I remained among the obnoxiously energetic and enthusiastic through the first continental breakfast of our continuing journey. As the plane departed again I had succeeded in naming all members of our group. Admittedly the majority were tired and rather unimpressed, but I repeated the gesture for James, our long-haired, red-headed Texan who was as enchanted as I by all the faces and smiles. Energy and appetite diminishing, I donated my breakfast, as I had my dinner, to Paul “easy” Rider, our tall, lanky, short-haired Texan. For the remainder of the interminable flight I settled down to quiet conversations, piped in music (Jim Croce and Carol King), and occasional strolls, though I certainly never slept. Michael and Michael, to everyone’s chagrin, spent hours en route to Guam singing off-key rock tunes (Eagles especially) in atrocious harmony. I smiled. There were several of us whose energy never entirely diminished. However, during the brief layover at Guam, the heat, exhaustion, and suffocating humidity was foreboding. In the non-air-conditioned rest rooms, it was if someone was taking a steaming shower, only beads of moisture were visible in the mirrors, no reflections. This was 2 a.m. Would smiles continue in such an oppressive climate? When we finally arrived, customs agents ignored us. Still the Manila airport was a hassle after 36 sleepless hours and a week of late nights. The six a.m. bus ride through Manila was a shot of adrenalin. Mike McQuestion, our Notre Dame Irishman, sat beside me making cryptic observations, I laughing. Upon the passage of some neatly dressed Manila businessmen on motorcycles, McQuestion made the motions and sound effects of an engine being revved up as he shouted so inappropriately: “Hells Angels of Manila”. Laughing and remarking, I kept up my end of the last of the lively conversations. Barely able to maintain sitting postures we were then subjected to form-filling, welcomes, and group (un)dynamics. Advice was given to stay awake as long as possible for “jet-lag” adjustment. We were now sixteen hours ahead of San Francisco. Fools we were to take the advice and off we went, a group of seven, to roam the streets of Manila, its parks, the bay, and the cultural center. I realize now that we could have walked no less than fifteen miles, returning to the hotel at dusk to “nap” before dinner. When James called me for dinner at nine, nothing could have deterred my head from immediate return to that pillow. My new roommate, strawberry blonde, giggly, Kathy, never awoke.