The top was down as the bright yellow Ford Mustang glided its way along the curvy path. Sunrays were pouring down onto our skin, as cool ocean air massaged our faces and caressed our hair. Waves crashing against the boulders and onto the shore could clearly be heard as the car hummed along the highway. Even to this day, I can still remember the salty taste in my mouth and how it lingered on my lips. Most of all, I can still remember how the car filled with the aromas of the ocean like someone sprayed the scent in an airtight room. "It couldn"t get much better than this," we kept saying to each other and ourselves. This was our perfect trip and nothing could go wrong, or so we thought.

             Up ahead, towards the end of the straightaway, we saw some signs reflecting in the imaginary oasis. As we approached, the oasis drained and the signs became as clear as the daylight. Road Closed was printed on at least five different signs attached to the roadblocks. Pacific Coast Highway was closed and we didn"t have the slightest clue how to continue going north without going south. As we approached the roadblocks a road worker came out and explained they were repairing some sections of the road, therefore it could not be driven on. "If you need to go north, just go down about a half a mile and turn left on the next road you see. It will take you to the 101," he explained to us. The next left on the road was a small dirt road with barely enough room to fit one car. It was an uphill drive with nothing but dirt in its scenery. Dirt was flying everywhere, as we climbed along the snake-like road that we thought would lead to nowhere. At first, we thought we turned on the wrong road. A cloud was forming behind us as if the Tasmanian Devil was coming through. The lingering salt taste was quickly overpowered by the excess dirt buildup. My friend and I both sat in the car disgusted by our required detour.