Whos the caaptain?

A breakfast of dry roasted, roadkill and reefer sends us on our way at 9 am through the pretty French countryside toward our first destination,Dune Du Pyla,at around 200 meters the largest sand dune in Europe situated on the south west coast of France and a mecca for paraglider pilots from all over for reasons that will become obvious if you visit...the super consistent sea breeze and ultra soft landings are perfect for beginners first flights and pilots just wanting to improve their ground and wagga skills...Three hours or so into the journey and after some frantic teamwork reversing the roadtrain when I miss a low bridge sign chatting on cruise control (Joe:”do you think well fit there mate?”.me:”errr no”)Joe takes over the driving and I elect to take a thc induced nap in the first mates chair expecting and hoping to be woken when we arrive at the dune...what actually happened was that I was awoken by a rumble like a hundred thunder storms I haven’t head since the carpet bombing in ‘nam . The Skylark is hurtling down the hard shoulder with a blow out and a sweating grimacing Joe is fighting to keep us out of the ditch on the motorway verge.To make matters worse,not realising why we were out of control and still only half awake I spring cat like out of my chair and grab the steering wheel and Joe and I wrestle Abbot and Costello like left and right and begin debating which direction we should be going in.Whos the captain?No who is second in command.A brief and intense dialogue follows after which I concede that with only 3 wheels left we should probably be pulling over.We do so and we proceed to fit the spare.This is a straightforward affair except for the fact that the spare which has never been used is deformed and cannot be driven at over 30 mph without a wobble going through the steering which makes the Ben Hur chariot crashes seem like a Sunday drive in the country.A seemingly friendly French motorway rescue type pulls up and escorts us to the next truck stop which is only about a mile,sends for a tyre truck and leaves.Most helpfull methinks.The truck arrives an hour or so later but obviously still with Agincourt rarther than V.E. day in the forefront of the mind the odious toad proceeds to charge 1000 euros for a tyre.Its Sunday were in the middle of nowhere and weve got to have it.He should have been issued with a striped jersey and a mask.Thats the last time I fight a war for those bastards.
Still bad things come in threes as they say so between the ferry the low bridge and the tyre we are now pre-disastered for this trip and nothing else could possibly go wrong the way my freakishly optimistic mind works.We eventually arrive at Pyla that evening,find the main campsite(5e a night between us,hurrah!)stock up at a supermarket climb some handy stairs behind the campsite up the dune and up get roaring drunk and stoned.Too late to fly unfortunately with all the delays and still missing our friend Adam and his girlfriend Kate who were expected to be there before us as they were travelling by plane that morning.There is no sign of them at our campsite,his phone is switched off ,we don’t have her number and we are starting to wonder as things start to blur and we pass out that night if some hideous fate has befallen them also as Adam is an notorious and unrepentant stoner who has missed more than his fair share of planes,not that that makes him a bad person.In fact its one of my favourite things about him.