We were at the beach -- my parents, myself and one of my best friends. Most of the time, my friend and I lingered in the sun by day and spent evenings talking of everything and of nothing, as teenage girls are wont to do.

Looking back, the breeze blew through my hair a certain way then. I was far past believing the world was tiny, and yet its sheer enormity still stood some distance away. A carefree vestige remained with me, and if I knew then how utterly fleeting time was, perhaps I'd have held onto those moments a bit tighter.

But I couldn't see that then. Mercifully, time has eased the intensity of growing up, but I remember the insecurity of wondering who I'd become, the restlessness of wanting to know what waited ahead.

One evening, we went on a double date. My friend's boyfriend lived nearby, and he brought along a friend for me.

This enchanted evening began with my date indicating some beer in the backseat as he drove along. He proceeded to describe what other libations he'd already partaken of before picking us up. Whether his claims were true, I had no idea, but only two facts mattered to me.

My seat belt didn't work, and I was suddenly terrified.

My friend, as good a soul as she was then and still is today, was happily ensconced in her boyfriend's embrace. The ability (or inability) of the car''s safety features was not a high priority to her.

We stopped at a grove of trees beside a deserted lot, where a good deal of the beer was consumed. When it was offered to us, my friend and I chose not to have any.

I noticed that the previous glow of hormones in overdrive had faded for my friend. We studied one another, communicating silently as only friends who have laughed and cried together can. Whether it was our decision not to drink or my date merely considered us dull, it was more than acceptable to me when he suggested dropping us off so he could attain other entertainment for the night.

Then we adjourned to the car with the front passenger seat belt that refused to work.

I made a few deals with God as we sped in and out of traffic. As we swerved once or twice, not only did I want to see my parents, I wanted them to see me, in one piece, as intact as the last time they'd seen me. When the car was finally in park and I could hear the ocean waves landing upon the shore, their consistent sound was beautiful to my ears.

My parents only said, "You two are home early," with a quick glance to their watches.

Later, after the three of us were at home, I told them why. Not because I had to, and not just because we were always honest and open with one another, but simply because I could.

I remember how surreal it felt to be in a situation I couldn't have foreseen, and one I had had no intention of being in. I remember the dread as I realized that, for the time being, the outcome was entirely beyond my control.

I think about this night each time there is an accident involving teenagers and alcohol. I pray for everyone involved, and my stomach clenches in remembered fear. I keep healing hopes long after my body relaxes because there is no rightful place for my latent memory in the present face of another's pain and loss.

And yet, like I did over 17 summers ago, I find myself saying thank you for the gift of time.