Citrus lined hillside pass, we rode it wayward rumrunners, farm honey dressing our lips. Drunk cheer bellowed from our missile van, four motivated passengers, riding triumphantly to shore. All bore a mischief, pride from nights inside the dense tropiforest. We skipped through rotting fields, rusted fruit trains, and trails of dried molasses. Our eyes colonized the virgin green mounds as we planned and planned.