Dad announced that we were hiking Becker Hollow Trail the day after Marilyn Monroe died.  "First Kruschev and now this," he muttered, as our Chevy puttered to a stop at the base of Hunter Mountain.

"But  Dad," my brother whined, "I don't want to go hiking again.  This isn't a vacation!"

Dad tossed him a canteen of water.  "It builds character," he said.  "Share that with your sister."

"I'm not thirsty," I announced.  "I want to go home."

"Well, you can't go home.  We're having fun!" cried Dad.  

I cried, too.  "It's not fair!  Reverend Brown asked me to babysit for Michelle this weekend!" I was saving for a Chatty Cathy talking doll.  If I babysat for  the rest of the summer, I'd  be able to buy a McCall dress pattern, too.

Dad started up the steep-faced side of the mountain.   Silently, we followed.   Even after a diamond-backed rattler slithered across our path, and mom screamed like a  Chubby Checker fan, I kept my lips sealed.  Even though I was dying of thirst, I didn't take one sip of water.

Finally, woozy after two hours of steady climbing, I spoke.  "Dad," I pleaded.  "Can't we go home tonight?"

My father snarled.  "That's enough!  If you say one more word, I'll tell Reverend Brown that you let Michelle cross the street ... alone!"

Alone.  Like Cuba in that summer of 1962, we were islands fed by nervous tension and surrounded by water.   I was insatiable that August.  So was my father.