God is my pilot, August 1966: Florence, SC

Perhaps the most fear-provoking aspect of relying on the benevolence of others for a ride, is when your pilot is heavily under the influence of alcohol. The first time this occurred, I was returning to New York from a summer semester at a Community College in Florida. There was no Interstate going up the east coast, so I was following the course of Highway 301. This was primarily a two lane road that began in Sarasota and would deposit me at the Delaware Bay Bridge leading to the New Jersey Turnpike. At around 3 AM, I was on the corner in Florence where 301 took a right and proceeded to the North Carolina border. Traffic was sparse and I felt grateful when a vehicle appeared, then stopped for me. Not too far into the ride, my gratitude turned to fear. My driver was an angry drunk.
As soon ,as we headed into the dark stretch of highway leading through the swampland before the border, he waved an almost empty bottle of whisky at me as a way of offering a drink. I declined. This launched a tirade about my lack of manners refusing a drink with him. Somehow, I managed to defuse this argument and we proceeded on. He next turned his anger at Chevrolet Automobiles for their building him a bad transmission, an example of which was on his back seat. He was returning from a stock car race, during which this example blew. He proceeded into the gloom as if he was still at the race. We soon were traveling well over 100 MPH. Luckily, except for a sharp left at Pee Dee, the road consisted of straightaways. Our ride was constantly punctuated by his stream of abuse directed at all the reasons he did not win his latest race. I was hoping we would succeed in this one.
A couple of times I would notice in the distance a set of tail lights most likely traveling at a much slower speed. Intuitively, I knew not to interrupt his focus on anger to point out this hazard. Here, I would ask whatever Influence he was under to maintain control and acknowledge none of it was under my control. It was terrifying to note I was only along for the ride as a witness. At close to the last instant, he would notice the other car, jam his brakes, curse at the other driver, veer into the passing lane, and proceed back to racing speed. I was unsure how I would exit from this ride. Eventually the lights of South of the Border appeared. This was a huge tourist establishment on the North-South Carolina border. Their road signs which seemed to stretch from Georgia to Virginia were characterized by a sombrero topped figure that repeated, “Pedro sez.” We slowed down, entered their parking lot, and my host announced, “Pedro sez, I got to take a leak.” I gathered my pack, thanked him for the ride, and wished him luck in his future races. We shook hands and parted. Whew.