Still haven’t heard how the Crystal Squadron fared last Saturday (maybe they’re still aloft, in which case it’ll be some very long flights indeed). Anyway, until we find out if they ever landed, here’s another true yarn from deep in the desk drawer:
Two buddies were up soaring together while one was getting to know his newfangled camelback. It was still half full of Gatorade from a prior flight, so he smartly kept it in the fridge, topping off with some fresh on his way out the door several mornings later. A penny saved.
Midday, when he finally took a swig, the stuff had long since lost its chill. He mentioned it tasted funny and his pal said, “Warm Gatorade from rubber bag, who knew? Have some more, you might get used to it.”
At that point they were tigertailing a honcho boomer through eleven thousand, twelve thousand, thirteen five… Suddenly, louder than necessary and with uncharacteristic syntax, Mr. Camelback declared that the brew was tasting better each hit, more or less, but made his lips numb.
Take two was garbled and trailed off…
You guessed it, the poor guy was bombed on fermented Gatorade at high altitude under a zenith Mojave sun. And this is someone who doesn’t drink… How lucky was he, having a trusted friend there to squire him safely down?
Back on the ground, everybody had a laugh of course, and all agreed on who should drive home. Before they reached the highway, as they tell it, Mr. Camelback had fallen sound asleep (i.e. passed out cold).
About the next day’s headache, report pending.