June 1982. I had graduated from MIT by this time after a gut-wrenching year capped by Scuba School. I went to nuclear power school and spent so much time dating and goofing off (I was burned out at 24) that I almost flunked my heat transfer class, which had been my major at MIT. Smooth move, and one that brought the heat down hard. The Z-28 Camaro in the picture was a wonderful ride. On the way north between Orlando, where nuclear power school was held and Connecticut, where nuclear prototype training was in session, I was on I-95 in North Carolina when, after setting the cruise control at 105 mph, and chatting on the CB radio, I happened to notice someone so close behind me that he appeared to be in the back seat. And he was wearing a smokey bear hat, unfortunately. He was also so close I couldn't see the bubblegum machine on top of the car. I pulled over and stared into the angry face of the state trooper. "Good morning, officer," I said, offering my drivers' license and my military ID. "Son," he said, "It ain't a good mornin' for you." Things got much worse as I found myself inside the jail cell. The first thing I told the officers at prototype was that I'd had a little scrape with the law. Prototype training turned into seven day a week, twelve hour a day rotating shift work. Nothing like eating lunch at three in the morning on a Sunday after working for six days, knowing there's all of a one day break that we'd have on Monday (ever try to have fun on a Monday day off after working seven 12s knowing that another seven 12s are coming on Tuesday?). That was one long six months. Fortunately it yielded to Submarine School, which was actually fun.