By Deborah Craig

On an arctic-cold night in January of 1975, I was studying my libretto from the musical “Stop the World I Want to Get Off” in my dorm room, when a flyer was slipped under my door.

  “Spring Break in Bermuda! Only $300,” the paper read.

  “7 days and 6 nights! Includes airfare, hotel, and breakfast!”

  I had never even considered a college spring break, as a warmer climate on a beach was too far away and unaffordable. For me, spring break was for going back to my small hometown, reconnecting with friends who also went home to their families, and helping with Easter dinner.

   But the price of the trip on this flyer enticed me. I already had more than that in savings from my part-time waitressing job at a nightclub. Later that evening, my roommate returned from the library with the same flyer, excited about the possibility of going. With her part-time job at Dunkin’ Donuts, she had more in savings than I did. Then my cousin called from her nearby college that night with the same news on the same trip, and asked if I would go with her. I took it all as a sign.

   So, three months later, on Maundy Thursday, with the blessings of our respective parents and a little extra money from them for expenses and a few new clothes, the four of us, my roommate, my cousin, her roommate, and I, boarded the largest jumbo jet I’ve ever seen or flown. From Boston’s Logan Airport, we flew the three hours to Bermuda.

   Being a complete romantic about love, as in meeting the perfect guy at a beach, a shop, or at a cafe, in a tropical paradise, my most ardent hope for spring break was to meet boys; maybe meet someone for a romance that would continue once returning home. Such an enviable scenario that would be at my small women’s college.

  So when I noticed on the flight of 400 or so of us, that the girls outnumbered the guys at least 5 to 1, I wasn’t concerned at all. There were probably flights carrying large travel groups of fraternities on other flights. That’s what I thought when the four of us checked in that afternoon in a small room at the Bermudiana in downtown Hamilton, and took the little golf cart shuttle to the beach, a place as beautiful as the day was warm and brilliantly blue.

We lay our towels on the sand and became re-acquainted with summer, something that back home would not arrive until mid-June.

See part two in next week’s Item.