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It was Friday, November 13. 1992 or 1993. I think it was ‘93 but I am terrible with dates. Brule, a small, midwestern style ski resort in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, was opening early and Ryan, Pauly, and I decided to skip school and head up north. The conditions weren’t too bad for so early in the season and it was definitely a better day than sitting in school for hours and hours. It was actually a great day. A good decision.

At the end of the day all of us were tired. Ryan was too tired. Pauly agreed to drive the four-and-a-half hours home and we loaded up. My skis were too long to fit in the trunk of Ryan’s goldish-brown Audi, of which he was extremely proud. His pride was warranted. As a high school kid, he had worked hard and saved his money and bought the car he had always wanted. It was a really nice car, only for about four more hours though.

Ryan and Pauly’s skis fit in the trunk. My skis were placed between the two front seats and split the back seat in half. I volunteered to sit in the back because the only way you could really fit was to lay down, under the skis. I got in, laid down, tried to stay awake as long as possible, and fell asleep. After it was over, while I was riding in the ambulance with Ryan, who was totally immobilized because he had fractured a vertebrae in his neck, the paramedic turned to me and explained to me that I was probably only alive because I was asleep when it happened. My body and my mind were relaxed enough to not fight the motion. If I had fought, if my body was given the chance to do what it naturally does extremely proficiently, I would have likely been cut in half by my skis just inches above my stomach. Whoa!

We were almost home, just outside Appleton. So close, but none of us could ever have known how truly far away we actually were that night. I woke up when I heard Pauly scream out, “Oh, Fuck!” I raised my head just a little from where it was laying on the passenger side door so that I could look between the two front seats. What I saw was concerning. It was dark, eerily dark, with patches of fog and a slight mist that made the oncoming car’s headlights a bit blurry. I could see the speedometer and we were moving at 76 mph. Because the way my skis were positioned, I was somewhat pinned in the backseat. I lay my head back down upon the car door, closed my eyes, and just listened and felt everything that happened next.

Ryan, in the passenger seat, was also apparently sleeping before Pauly updated us loudly on the situation. I heard Ryan screech, “Get over!” as the Audi simultaneously moved back into the proper lane, just missing the oncoming car and cutting off the car Pauly was trying to pass. As the Audi moved back into its proper lane, on a cold, wet, fog-filled night perfectly made for black-ice conditions, the back end of the car fish-tailed to the right, and I remember thinking, “We are in trouble” and also saying a real quick prayer, “God, I don’t mind if I get hurt, but could you just let me live?”

For a few seconds, minutes, years, whatever it was, for however many moments, the car straightened itself out and kept rolling smoothly down the highway. It is true, at least from this experience and others, that when we are involved in an accident, everything slows down. I can remember moment-by-moment things that were happening. Time is different. Thinking is different. Your body is different. I can remember seeming to have so many thoughts at the same time. I can remember sounds and smells and the motions. I can remember thinking, “We are safe. Wow, Pauly is a really excellent driver! Thank you, God! This means a lot to me. I really appreciate it. I will stop being a fuck-up and make something of my life. I mean it. I won’t let you down!” Then the wheels found dry pavement and promptly directed the car into a waiting Wisconsin cornfield, at approximately 75 mph.

I have been involved in two very serious car accidents in my life. The sensations I can remember most clearly are the sounds and the movements. When we first hit the dirt in that cornfield, I remember experiencing the loudest “thud” possible. It was a muted explosion. It is a very strange sound, and one I don’t necessarily recommend to others, but also one I feel lucky to have experienced. It is like trying to create the loudest, quietest noise ever. Strange, but cool. Directly after this “thud”, glass explodes. Not shatters, explodes! And then we begin to somersault. The car flipping from the front bumper to the back bumper and back again, seven times. I remember counting the rotations of the car in the air, like a matchbox car when I was a kid and I crashed it on purpose. I remember the sounds of rocks and dirt entering the cabin of Ryan’s Audi and bouncing off everything, making noises that seemed incredibly loud. It was a similar feeling to being on a roller coaster ride, without knowing how it would end. Actually, during this accident, I did the same exact thing I try to do on roller coasters. I relaxed as much as possible and simply told myself, “This will end.”

Ryan was a pretty funny guy. He had a great personality and was always a lot of fun. I don’t know if he was in control of himself when he said these words or if shock had taken over and he was simply on autopilot. Either way, once his precious Audi came to a stop, resting upside-down on its top, Ryan calmly stated, “Alright, rides over. Everybody out!”

Everybody did get out of the car that night. I do not know how. I am not someone who needs you to believe in the same God and Angels that I believe in, but I am certain I am alive today because someone or something reached down from above and simply said, “Relax, Hylan. This will be over soon.” In a way, writing these stories might be an attempt to fulfill the promise I made to my God that cold, winter’s night. Either way, Ryan, Pauly, and I survived that night, and I am grateful.