Mark Davis

Once again I found myself on the hood of a 1967 AMC Rebel flying down a washboard gravel road in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska.

Out of respect for the adults they eventually became, I won’t mention who was driving and who was in the passenger seat. I doubt either was wearing the available lap belts.

The game was for one of us to ride on the hood, finding balance while the aging beast hurdled down the road. Then we would let go of the wipers and stand up as long as we could before once again grabbing the flimsy wipers for support. We called it road surfing.

This time was different. Though we were often out of control — at least that’s what my teachers and parents said more than once — there would be immediate consequences for this bad decision. The back end of the Rebel got loose, the driver overcorrected and we immediately headed for the ditch.

Sixty miles an hour doesn’t feel that fast inside a four-door made of real steel. On the outside while on a lonely road after dark, it can feel blindingly fast. I don’t know if I jumped or if I simply fell. I was sent over a barbed wire fence that could have shredded me and into a field of detasseled corn. I don’t know how long I was out, but I woke up disoriented and began running in circles trying to find my way out of the maze.

I eventually worked my way to the road, finding the driver and passenger furiously trying to dig the turf and tall grass out from under the totaled Rebel and screaming my name, thinking I was under the car. I was bleeding pretty bad from my face and head. My friends rushed to me, checking my wounds and saying the nonsensical things that come in moments of adrenalized fear. I had three bad cuts; one on my scalp, one above my right eye, and one on the left side of my upper lip. Other than that, I was miraculously free of broken bones. The other two boys only suffered bruises.

One thing the driver said that has stayed with me all these years is that he thought if we could get to the hospital within a couple hours I wouldn’t have a hair lip. Like I said, nonsense.

Suddenly we noticed the eerie silence surrounding the scene. We were miles from town and couldn’t see a home nearby. So we started to walk as I freaked out about my future scars.

Eventually we found a home with the porch light on. The owners reluctantly offered to make a call and gave me a wet rag for my face. I guess showing up in muddy and blood-covered clothing spooked them. We waited on the road by the mailbox in front of the modest farm home. They pulled back the blinds, watching us from the window while likely calling the police.

Our friend showed up first, driving us to the hospital. I think we went to Lincoln General because it was near home. The hospital was later featured in the movie “Terms of Endearment,” starring Shirley McLaine, Debra Winger and Jack Nicholson. I’m sure my mother’s memories of land surfing gone bad were triggered every time she saw an article or ad for the movie.

She wasn’t the only one disappointed by our actions, including the ridiculous lies in an attempt to hide the truth about the accident. Family members and teachers tried to warn us our stupidity could have ended in deaths. I’m sure the speeches worked with the driver and passenger. I don’t think they were allowed to play with me anymore.

They weren’t the first and they certainly weren’t the last to get caught up in my long series of poor decisions. It wasn’t until I was offered a temporary job in Tokyo as a photojournalist that I began to grow up. Unfortunately that process took many years. Now, soon to be a sexagenarian, I often grimace and occasionally audibly groan when memories of the stupid things I did and said pop into my head. Why didn’t I listen?

Thank goodness I grew up when I did. If I had been born in 2004 instead of 1964, I would have grown up with social media at my figure tips in my video- and photo-armed phone. There would most definitely be a permanent record of the greatest hits of my bad decisions for all to see.

Certainly there would’ve been video evidence of me either jumping or falling from the front of the Rebel. Had it gone differently, the video might have been evidence in a death investigation, had I been crushed by the speeding 3,500-pound vehicle or the two in the car been ejected.

It’s still a mystery to me how I wasn’t killed. I remember my mom said God still had a plan for me on earth.

I can’t imagine how much peer pressure there is for children in online circles full of those seeking a heaping helping of attention by doing constantly more outrageous actions. Considering my love for photography began at a young age, I most surely would have found myself engrossed in the sometimes deadly contest for clicks.

It wasn’t until I began to realize people I cared for were suffering collateral damage that I finally stopped my self-destructive ways. Ever since I’ve sought penance for the sins of my youth.

We had not been drinking or doing drugs. We were just stupid kids. It seems to be a condition of youth. I’d like to think there were some social issues — maybe being raised by television while mom and dad both worked overtime to raise five kids amid the rampant inflation of the late 70s and early 80s. However, the simplest answer is usually the truth. I was just (expletive) stupid.

My wife and I never had kids. I don’t have the slightest idea how to raise a child. But what I do know is, despite my rough and rowdy youth, many people had patience, though tested, and forgave me.

The driver became a wonderful teacher, the passenger a successful businessman and myself a repentant reporter.

No matter what I say, no matter what anyone says, no matter how much love and patience we give — either as parents or as a community — it seems there will always be youth who only learn the hard way. The question is, how much indiscretion is too much to forgive?