Just Creepy: Scary Stories - 5 TRUE Scary Horror Stories | Wilderness, Hitchhiking, Ocean

Episode Date: August 2, 2024

These are 5 TRUE Scary Horror Stories | Wilderness, Hitchhiking, Ocean Linktree: https://linktr.ee/its_just_creepy Story Credits: ►Sent in to https://www.justcreepy.net/ Timestamps: 00:00 Into 00:00:18 Story 1 00:16:14 Story 2 00:32:03 Story 3 00:46:37 Story 4 00:56:41 Story 5 Music by: 'Decoherence' by Scott Buckley - released under CC-BY 4.0. www.scottbuckley.com.au https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wM_AjpJL5I4&t=0s Business inquiries: ►[e-mail] #scarystories #horrorstories #JustCreepy 💀As always, thanks for watching! 💀

For the longest time, my best friend since childhood was obsessed with Northern British Columbia, up in Canada. I guess to some people that might sound like an odd place to become fixated on, but once I saw some of the pictures on her Instagram feed, posted by hiking influencers who often visited the region, I started to understand why. Northern BC is one of the most beautiful places in the entire world. Although Lana, my BFF, wasn't an active hiker or anything, she fell in love with the place. She said it was one of her dreams to visit Atlin Provincial Park,

all because of this mountain they called the Cathedral. Just below the peak, there's a strip of flat land with a small lake on it that turns piercing blue in the summer. Lana was totally obsessed with it. She had one photo of it as her phone background for months on end. When she finally switched it up for another, it was yet another picture of the cathedral. The last straw was when she started saying things like, It sucks I'll never get to visit it. I don't have anyone to go with. I guess I just wanted to be that kind of friend that helped her dreams come true,

so I started looking into how to get there. I found out that we could catch a seaplane to a place called Peggy's Island, and from there, a wilderness tourist company could take us all the way over to the foothills of the cathedral by boat. After that, it was really just a case of climbing the cathedral slopes, which apparently weren't all that steep. And then, there you go. We were at my best friend's number one favorite location on earth, a place she thought she'd never, ever see.

I figured if I planned the whole thing in secret, told her to expect a weekend vacation to Cancun around the date of her 29th birthday, and then actually pulled the whole thing off. I'd be the greatest friend in the history of friends. It took a load of saving and planning, but eventually I was able to spring the surprise on her. For months, I had been telling her. her that we were headed down to Mexico for a few days in the sun, which is how I made sure that she had a valid passport without alerting her to my real plan. Then, on the very same morning that we were due to fly down to Cancun, I got to see her face

when I told her that we weren't headed to Mexico, we were headed to Port Hardy on Vancouver Island, where we would catch a seaplane all the way up to Peggy's Island and the cathedral. She was ecstatic, and although it meant that she had to totally repack, I'd made her dream come true, But if I had known what I was getting us into, I wouldn't have been so happy at all. We caught our flights up to Vancouver, made our way to Port Hardy, and then flew all the way up to northern BC in our very own tin bucket of a chartered seaplane. That flight alone could have made for its own scary story, but we made it up to Peggy Island safely and set up our tents at one of the campsites they had there. After that, we had our first face-to-face with the person who would be our tour guide the following day. Charles was around the same age as Lana and me, late 20s or early 30s.

And to be totally honest, he was a very beautiful man. You could tell that he worked out a bunch and wore a tight ranger-style uniform to show it off, but he also pulled it off. He had deep brown eyes and a mustache that somehow didn't make him look like a creep, but only more masculine. He was handsome, charming, funny, and we thought that we'd hit a total jackpot with him being assigned as our tour guide. after walking us through the plan for the next morning, we went back to our campsite and relaxed until it was time to sleep. The next morning, we met up with Charles bright and early, had a little hot breakfast over at the tour center,

and then climbed into the boat that took us across the lake to where the cathedral was. Charles was just as charming as he had been the day before, even in spite of it being so early in the morning, and he even took us on a small tour of the lake, stopping so we could take pictures before heading over to the shore on the other side. It took us a while to get up to the flat part of the mountain. We'd been going hiking together in the run-up to the trip, putting Lana through some unexpected mountain climbing training,

but even with all we'd done, hiking up the cathedral was tough. We were spent by the time we reached the flat section that we'd seen so many times on Instagram, but when we did, it was every bit as magical as in the pictures, which meant each of us got very emotional. Charles just watched on with a smile, letting us have a little moment together. Then at some point, I looked over to see him talking into his radio.

Charles had been checking in with the tour center every so often the whole time that we'd been out, so seeing him talking into his radio wasn't unusual or concerning in the slightest. Lana and I carried on doing our thing, taking pictures and videos, etc., Until suddenly, Charles called out that we had to end the trip prematurely. I remember turning around to see him looking kind of anxious before asking why exactly we needed to cut things short. We'd agreed to climb a little more of the mountain so we could get some more shots of the views on the other side.

So as much as we were happy to be up there, we felt a little short change that our guide was suddenly calling time on the proceedings. I remember asking why we needed to head back early, and I'm being 100% honest, when I say that if he'd given any kind of half-decent answer, I would have complied without complaint. But when I asked why, all Charles said in a very uncharacteristically rude way was, don't question my decisions. I guess that on paper that sounds fine, and that maybe some kind of unforeseen problem had arisen,

but I literally cannot over-emphasize how much don't question my decision, sounded like because I said so. I asked again why we needed to head back early, and was almost stunned into silence when the same man who'd been veritably Prince Charming just 24 hours previously suddenly became incredibly rude and abrupt. And not just rude, this might be hard to describe, but Charles almost seemed scared and scared in a way that he was trying to mask it with bravado. And this led me to keep asking him why we had to leave early,

because naturally, if we were facing any kind of real danger, like a storm or something similar, then we wanted to know about it. We'd also paid for a whole day's worth of our tour guide time, so we wanted to know if we'd be getting a partial refund or something to that effect. I guess this makes us sound like total Karens in a way. But I swear to God, if Charles had just said something like, OK, ladies, we've got a sudden storm front heading in, so we just need to conclude this tour a little earlier than expected. We both would have been like, okay, no problem, let's go.

But we felt like we were being kept in the dark by a guy who's sudden, turn in behavior was deeply alarming, and that just didn't sit right with me at all. Eventually, Charles said, F this, turned around, and then started walking off towards the trail, which led back down the mountain. But he didn't just wander off either. It looked like he was walking off as fast as he possibly could. And considering he was a tall, fit guy, and an experienced hiker, it wasn't long before he'd put a very worrying amount of distance between Lana and me. who by that point had no choice but to follow quickly. We kept yelling for him, calling out Charles' name,

and begging him to wait up so we could catch up to him, but he didn't stop. He didn't turn around. He just kept on walking down the mountainside, putting more and more distance between us as time went by. It got to the point where Lana and I thought that he was going to leave us behind, and all we had with us was our bags with a little bit of water, some snacks, and some water.

waterproof material. We had no maps, no compass, nothing to tell us where we were exactly or which direction we were going. So if Charles actually left us there alone, we would be in a lot of trouble. It was Lana who first suggested that he might just leave us there and drive off in the boat, and when she did we both went into full panic mode. We started screaming, like full on screaming for Charles, begging him to wait for us and not leave us behind. And then finally, he stopped. but he didn't just stop dead on the trail, and he didn't start walking back up towards us either. He just started pacing back and forth and talking to himself. And I say talking to himself, but it was more like he was walking in a circle, fists clenched,

and every so often he'd yell something that either we could or couldn't understand. As we got closer, he started yelling things at us in the same sort of way, like he was literally so furious that you could only make out every other thing he was saying. I managed to catch things like, always got to have things your way and never think about anyone but yourselves. But the rest was pretty much garbled yells. I guess instinct kicked in for me because I started apologizing to Charles over and over. Because by then, I'd have done almost anything to get him to calm down so we could just leave in peace. Lana started apologizing too, but it didn't seem to do any good.

He just kept pacing around and yelling about how we needed to listen, how no one ever listened to him. And how was he supposed to act when no one listened to him? It was only then that it occurred to me that something else was going on. There wasn't an emergency, or at least there didn't seem to be one, if Charles was content to just stop on the trail like that. But then something had definitely happened to make him start acting that way, and the change seemed to occur after he talked into his radio for a minute. I still had no idea how the two things were connected,

as in like, what was said that made him go crazy. But it definitely seemed like he was having some kind of breakdown right there on the mountain side. We kept apologizing, begging him to just calm down and take us back to the tour center. And although we eventually agreed, Charles's mood did not improve. He yelled at us to follow him and not fall behind, and then he marched off again at the same speed that he had previously. Luckily, we were much closer to where the boat was parked, so we didn't fall too far behind, and we were able to make it to the shore just as he was

starting up the boat. He was still yelling when he told us to climb in, and he also seemed to be gradually calming down, like he was on the back end of whatever he was going through. Only with that in mind did we climb back into the boat, but Charles hadn't finished just yet. As he drove us across the lake, Charles carried on that thing of being quiet for a while, and then yelling a curse word or something. But he also drove way faster than he had before, to the point that it was actually scary. and I kept yelling, slow down, and at first he just yelled stuff back that was drowned out by the sound of the engine and the water. We went a little further, and we started yelling again for him to stop, and then suddenly, he did. He stopped the boat right there in the middle of the

lake, turned around, and just sort of seethed at us. He was so flushed. His whole face was pink, his fists were clenched, and I swear I've never seen anyone's eyes go so wide in my whole life. I thought he was going to hurt us, kill us even, and out there in the middle of the lake we had nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. It was like he was thinking about it, really weighing up his options, and the voice that was saying, don't hurt them, was only just barely winning. For as long as I live, I'll never ever forget the sound of Lana saying, please don't, in this really shaky voice.

I think that actually made him snap out of it a little, because after that he turned around, got back in the little driver's seat, and then carried on driving the boat back to the dock or whatever, and only by this time, in complete silence. All Lana and I did was sit there in the back of the boat, eyes glued to the back of Charles' head, shaking with fear, while we each hoped that he wouldn't turn around or stop the boat again. As soon as we arrived back at the dock,

Lana literally jumped off the boat onto the wooden dock before Charles had a chance to even bring the boat to a complete stop. I was quick to follow her, but as Lana ran all the way back to our tents, I turned back to give Charles a peace of my mind, basically about how we were going to get him fired for the way he treated us. Again, total Karen thing to say, but it was literally the first thing that came to mind, and all I was thinking about in the moment was warning his boss or co-workers

that he was having some kind of violent episode. I guess I was feeling brave because we were back on dry land, but as Charles climbed up onto the dock, I kept on berating him, which admittedly was not the best idea ever, because after finding his feet, he walked towards me, wrapped a hand around my throat, and started to squeeze. It was probably the single scariest moment of my entire life, seeing those wild eyes come back again, knowing that he could crush my neck if he wanted to, and worst of all, I felt like an idiot. I should have run back to the tent with Lana or straight to the tour center to warn Charles's co-workers, and I paid for it by getting choked so hard that I thought I was going to die. Luckily though, people had already heard me yelling at Charles and were approaching the dock. By the time he grabbed my throat, within just a few seconds, we were being separated by a bunch of guides and campers.

Two of Charles's male co-workers walked him off someplace, and we didn't see where, and as the people around us started asking what had happened. We broke down into tears as we told them. Charles had been fine one second, then the next. It was like he was a totally different person. It was honestly so scary to see that kind of change in him. And we had literally no idea what had happened to make him act like that. The head of the tour company then brought us to their office, got us some coffee, and offered to contact the seaplane people so we could leave that day if possible, and they were honestly super awesome about the whole thing, probably because they were terrified of getting sued. But all we wanted was a promise that Charles would be fired,

and to know exactly what he'd been told that made him go crazy like that. The head of the company didn't know everything that had been going on in Charles's life, but she had been the one to pass along that piece of news on the radio. Apparently, she'd gotten a call from his wife, asking if Charles was available to talk. Obviously, he wasn't because he was out conducting a tour with us. The head of the company then asked Charles' wife if she'd like to call back, and she said no, and that she never wanted to hear from him again. All she wanted was for the company head to pass along a message.

I caught him cheating again. I'm taking the kids, and he's never going to see any of us ever again. Personally, I'd have waited until after the tour to tell him, such life-changing piece of news, but I guess the head of the company thought it was the kind of news Charles needed to hear right away. That part did make me consider hiring an attorney, but like I said, they'd promised to fire Charles, and were good enough to tell us something they had every right to withhold. So I decided not to. Filing a lawsuit would have destroyed their company all over one dumb mistake, and above all, it was Charles's decision alone to act like such a

monster, no one else's. And besides, no amount of money could help with the guilt I felt afterward. Lana said that she didn't need an apology, that it wasn't my fault, and I understand that. But I still feel terrible for promising my best friend the trip of her dreams and pretty much having it turn into a living nightmare. Chronic migraine is 15 or more headache days a month, each lasting four hours or more. Botoxalineum toxin A prevents headaches in adults with chronic migraine before they start. It's not for those with 14 or fewer headache days a month. It prevents on average 8 to 9 headache days a month versus 6 to 7 for placebo. Prescription Botox is injected by your doctor. Effects of Botox may spread hours to weeks

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toxins, as these may increase the risk of serious side effects. Why wait? Ask your doctor. Visit Botox Chronic Migraine.com or call 1-800-44 Botox to learn more. When I look back at one of my hitchhiking adventures, I now realize just how lucky I was that I wasn't raped or murdered. At the time, I was having fun in the 60s and never considered that anything really bad could ever happen to me. I mean, come on, it was the decade of free love and acceptance. New Agers and hippies were trying to see the beauty in life, not the heinous. Sometimes being naive could blind someone to the realities of life, or even certain situations like hitchhiking. I have to give you a little background before you read about the truly

scary part of my story. The summer after high school, I worked at my parents' gas station in trade for tuition at a business school in the fall. I tried to be good, but got myself kicked out shortly after I mastered typing and lost the art of shorthand. Whereas this has always been a valued skill, it was really all I learned. So I didn't bother finding another job in 1969. The lore of drugs and rock and roll, coupled with teenage angst and hormones, gave me one choice. grab life by the balls and run as fast as you can. I kissed the hippie lifestyle and embraced every romantic notion to become a full-blown hippie, headbands, smoking pot, listening to music society deemed unacceptable,

entertaining ideas of a different age. I moved down the road a little bit to Eugene Oregon, a university town with a football team and everything. It was a bit of a culture shock, but with my new perspective on life, a culture shock was kind of what I was looking for. I wanted things to be new, different, and above all, exciting. My very first communal house was on Gate Street, just blocks away from the student union, also known as the Cannabis Campus. I didn't hitchhike around town much because I was young and either walked or just got a ride with rich friends who had cars.

I saved myself for the righteous times at the coast, and that was only about an hour away. I'd stick out my thumb, hitch a ride in a slug-bug with hippies that shared their brew and pot. Sometimes I would even get invited to gnarly parties with hunks and jamming music. What a gas. This is a true story. My best friend and I decided we were stoked to go to the coast and watch the sunset. A big, hulking, greaser-type guy picked us up in his Dodge Charger muscle car and took us the final 20 miles. He'd recently come home from Vietnam, and even though we weren't warmongers, he thought we'd be stoked to show him a groovy time.

We partied for a long time with a bonfire on the beach, weaners on a stick, and some boss weed. She married that man. And you know what else? After her brother came home from Vietnam, I married him. We both got divorced, but she's still my best friend, after 50 years of growing up and now growing old. I hitched mostly alone, went to places like San Francisco just to say I did so. Other times, when someone would want to go somewhere, I'd offer to be the freak in charge, guiding us down a major highway with our thumbs out.

It never soaked in, past my drug-dilated eyes, that something bad might have happened to us on one of these trips. I was, and still am, naively confident that I can take care of myself. Nevertheless, sometimes things happen that scare me now a lot more than they did back then. This was another time and a different friend that wanted to go down to Kukamanga, California. When she said the name, I thought she was screwing with my head, and I told her I needed to see the sign before I believed it. It was such a stupid name. That's how easy it was to find somewhere out of sight to waste our time if it had a weird enough name.

That was a reason to spend a weekend hitching there. We beat feet on a hot summer day. The rides were short, but so was the wait time. I suspect our perky youthful attitude was apparent in her big chest and my cute butt. I know what you're thinking, that I'm exaggerating, but these were the real bartering pieces of the road. When we hitchhiked with a man in our company, we had to do our best to hide the freaking guy, because we knew girls were more likely to get picked up. Once we got a car to stop, we put our bubbling faces up in the window,

and the driver didn't care if it was a guy or two, as long as a lady sat up front to do the entertaining. But if it was just me or one or two of my pretty friends with nice bodies, we were flying down the highway, having people fight to give us a ride. That is such a scary thought to me now. What the hell were we doing exposing our bodies on the street in order to get a stranger to stop? Like I said at the start, I'm truly amazed that I was never murdered. Around Medford, we could see the Cascade Mountain Range and were ready for cooler temperatures and a change of scenery. Our last ride was a bug with working windows in Primo weed. We were having a blast, excited about catching some California rays.

Along comes this fancy new F-100. We P.E. signed each other for luck. This truck would surely have some AC, and the chrome dome would be safe. I slid to the middle, and my friend squished her tall frame next to the door. Less than 10 miles down the road, this guy starts talking in riddles. I love the way this generation accepts everybody, is open-minded about new things, he said. He rambled on, then explained how he's into flower power and free love.

Out of nowhere and in a flash, his thing was out, and he asked, You don't mind if I get off, do you? My face turned towards her. My eyes got so big they nearly popped out of their sockets. What the hell? I said. I turned to look out the window. This was slowly turning into a nightmare. This was real danger, and I didn't have any means of escape.

I was literally sitting right next to the psycho. We were flying down the road at 80 miles per hour. Even if we had to jump, we'd be nothing but a bloodstain on the road when it was all set and done. He's booking it at freeway speeds, his right hand doing the Johnson jerk at the speed of light. Thankfully, it's over pretty fast, and he goes right back to talking about politics or music or something else. It was all smiles, completely polite, when he dropped us off a few miles down the road. When his sperm-white truck disappeared over the hill, we dropped to our knees in a laughter that was mixed with hysteria and a little paranoia. We still had a long way to go, needed to flip-flop our head away from Peter Guy, and towards the bitching times ahead.

Whenever I swap stories with hitchhikers, this is definitely the most common one that I hear. It's like, everybody who's ever stuck their thumb out, man or woman, has ended up on the wrong end of some driver wanking it. It's super weird. I think it has to do with the power of actually driving the car, but who knows? It's fortunate that most of my trips were playful and exposed me to some interesting people. I was pretty insulated inside my rural community. The college town itself had very little diversity. I know how naive it sounds, but I met my first out of the city.

the closet gay as a 19-year-old. It was the wee hours in the morning on the outskirts of Chicago. I figured I would be standing by the exit rail till dawn. It was bone cold, I was dead tired, and a misery level four had just kicked in. Then I saw a car coming out of the fog. It slowed down and stopped directly in front of me. I didn't even have to run down the road, wondering if they would take off again when I got close. Sometimes jerks thought it was fun making fun making the stupid hippie run because, well, they always did anyway. They were cool heads, only a few years older than me. At first, they started a banter like they were movie mobster types. I'm not scared. I'm wearing my gifted paracord bracelet. I'm just an Oregon hick, and these

boys were deciding to educate me in the moment. It turned out one guy was an actor, and they were coming home from a place. They were going to a party at home with wine and house. hash and offered the couch if I wanted to rest. At this time of night, it sounded like a utopian dream, and I sure as hell hoped that they shared that hash. We continued driving through the well-lit streets to where the worn-out buildings are kept. I remember the stairwell was so narrow that my backpack banged against the walls. My goofy giggle echoed my awkwardness. I don't remember exactly how far up it went, but I do remember that they had this tiny window that looked out onto a neighborhood that, before tonight, I never knew existed. God, I was so young and unseasoned about big city ways.

The night unfolded with some wine, and they didn't Bogart the hash. It was weird how these guys never mellowed out. They geared up and became the most outrageously campy gaze I've ever met, like right out of a movie. They got more and more wild, more and more feminine before eventually clothes started flying off. I partied hardy as long as my hazy brain could last, but too much too soon and I had to crash. I lay on the couch, loaded to the max, trying to absorb all the groovy expressions and stories being thrown around. I felt so grown up, hanging with all these city people, and wanted to season myself with their worldly ways. I tucked that memory in tight and felt like the flavor of me had just gotten a little spicier. This experience was only scary

because at one point I woke up and two of them were trying to tie my hands behind my back. I yanked free and asked what they were doing, to which they both got very embarrassed, and started acting weird. They gave some form of excuse, something like they were practicing for another play scene, and it involved tying up a person on the floor. I said whatever, and went back to bed, but part of me thinks I might have interrupted something spooky back then. I do have another trip that got way too hairy. It was made worse by the Buffalo City pigs calling my parents in Oregon at midnight. What had their freaky firstborn done now? It was barely dark, and a passenger car had picked me up just outside of Buffalo. He said he was going to Albany, which would be a choice

ride. Usually the truckers are the only ones with the long freeway stretches. The locals were the hip-hop around or go through the big cities. To get into a nice, cozy car and be told it's going to be for a few hours, that's good luck, man. The guy was just typical. It didn't bother me when he said he had to jump off the freeway for a minute to check a construction site that he was running. He went down the exit about a mile or so, pulled into this little closed business parking lot, turned off the car, and as fast as a rattlesnake grabbed my wrist. What the hell is going on with this guy? What happened next is one of those many impossibilities that have happened in my lifetime. My right hand grabbed for the door handle. At least one leg was reaching for the ground.

Out of nowhere, a cop pulls up on my side. The guy immediately lets go. I yank my backpack over the seat and was safe outside of the car in just a moment. I should have felt grateful I was saved from getting taken or even murdered, but mostly I just felt panic. Oh no, oh no, I got a joint in my pocket. How do I get rid of this? Since nothing really happened, I thought when I told the cop what the guy did,

he would let me go, maybe slap the guy around a little bit. No, the damn pig decided I was lying. about everything, told the guy to take off, and he would take care of me. This nightmare scenario was getting worse, as the guy that was clearly about to hurt me just got let off the hook. Whatever consequence was coming had my name written on it now. I wasn't handcuffed, but I sat in the back of the car. I never found a time where I could eat or ditch the joint. I expected I'd be going to jail, well, forever. I was really sweating back there, as I knew there wouldn't be a quick way out. There's no sticking my thumb out this time, or getting carried away in a stranger's car.

I was already in a stranger's car, and that act alone might mess up my life forever. Thankfully, he didn't search me, but did call my parents and let them know what their daughter was doing. I can only imagine the helpless anguish they must have felt, as they didn't tell my parents that I was hitchhiking. They told my parents I was a hooker, soliciting in back alleys. I mean, that's what it looked like with the guy in the car. Now my relationship with my folks is on the line. This was actually the scariest part of the story, though being alone with that cop was just me and that one officer.

After he got done with whatever he needed to do to secure the scene, he came back and opened up my door, told me to get out. Whoa, no way. I guess this is my lucky day. Maybe he is letting me go. Wrong. He looked me up and down a couple of times. even asked me to spin around, then made some of the most disgusting threats I've ever heard,

explained exactly what he wanted to do to me, how hard he'd do it, just that typical slime ball stuff. Scary again, because I was powerless in this situation. This guy could do whatever he wanted to do, shoot me even, lie, and he would never see the inside of a jail cell. All I could do was take his threats and hope to God they stopped right there. After that, he put me in the back of the car, drove me to the station. While we drove, he reached a hand in the back seat like he wanted to cop a feel, but I was done being a pushover. I'd scream, bite one of his fingers if one of them wormed their way over to my legs for a little

touch, got to the station unmolested, where I was led into a holding room. I sat in the hallway for a few hours. Eventually they let me walk out the front door and down the road. I found a little hidden spot behind this dumpster, decided to just lean back, smoke the evidence, and let well enough alone for the night. There was clearly no help to be had in the city. Nobody I could turn to. So, being on the street kind of frightened me. I wouldn't be caught walking around in the dark, so I just hid back there till sunrise, then did my best to hustle a safe ride home. I was young, clueless about how dangerous hitchhiking could be.

I was so mad at that cop in the moment for getting me in trouble with my parents that it didn't even dawn on me what predicament I had just escaped. Clearly that man had driven me to some seedy back alley area of the city to hurt me back there. How bad, I can't say for sure, but I will say I later learned, and found out that that area was a known sight to dump off prostitutes. There were probably dead girls back there while I was getting arrested, It's how bad that area was. When you read this or hear this, I'm sure you're yelling or saying to yourself,

Stop, what the hell is wrong with you, girl? It's true. I had a lot more miles notched in my backpack than friends, but it seemed like my niche. Also, these were much different times when peace and love was the slogan, and challenging the status quo was the decree. I indulged in lots of pot and hallucinogens, but never got caught up in the hard drugs. I didn't trust myself. Still, I wouldn't change one minute

during this two-and-a-half-year stage of my life. Honestly, I wish I had the stamina and a long weekend to do it all over again, even if I still look back and shudder. Transport your senses with Sol de Janado's limited edition perfume mist collection. At Sephora, spritz on lush notes of rainforest orchid and crisp sea breeze with he fresco paraiso.

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We had seen plenty of people hitchhiking there before and didn't think much of it. It was the busiest roadway leading in the direction we were trying to go. The issue was that we had never actually hitchhiked before, and ultimately had no idea what we were doing. A security car pulled up with wailing sirens. A man in a yellow jacket jumped out, barked at us to put our bags down, and waited for the police. Not long after, a police car arrived,

and two friendly young policemen told us that hitchhiking was not allowed there. They ended up giving us a lift, the port at Dover, where we caught a ferry to Calais. The police seemed pretty understanding, especially after we spoke face to face, and they could see we were just a harmless couple trying to travel for free. They offered us some advice while driving us to the port, and even more after we landed in France. They were very understanding and got us on the right foot towards our ultimate destination.

Our real mistake was not finding an onward lift from our fellow travelers while on the ferry. The boat was packed with all manner of cars and travelers, most of whom were paired up. We were the only people on the boat without a ride the second we hit the port in France. Instead of networking during the ferry ride and securing a ride to the next township, we just sat with one another and chatted. By the time we crossed the channel, the other travelers were loaded up into their cars and ready to hit the road. Exiting the ferry at Calais, we walked out of the port and stood on the on-ramp with our

thumbs out, holding a cardboard sign with our destination stenciled on it in thick black ink. We were headed for Austria ultimately, with a deadline to meet family traveling more conventionally in Salzburg. It was naively optimistic to have a date in mind when hitchhiking long distances. As we walked out to get into our hitchhiking position, we watched with growing realization as everybody just rolled by in their cars. The problem immediately became obvious. The port is designed to get cars straight off the ferry and onto the motorway.

It doesn't lead anywhere else. So once every half hour or so, we'd get a single wave of cars rushing by. The rest of the time, zilch. Again, these are people with their own schedules, trying to quickly race off the ferry through town and into the mainland. We didn't have much of a choice, so we just stood there, watching each pack of cars stream past us. No one even slowing or looking in our country.

direction. We'd arrived early in the afternoon, and soon it began to get dark, making hitchhiking impossible and even dangerous. At this point, we were along a coast in a country that we weren't from, and no one seemed interested in lending us a hand. This is when the trip started to take a turn, and our energy teetered on that of defeat. We debated trying to get back into the port and catch a bus into Calais, but decided it was getting late, so we opted to camp on the coast and try again the next day. This was kind of scary at first. We didn't know what to expect in the dark, but we were committed to whatever lay in store for us. I was doing everything in my power to remain positive, even if it was just for my partner's sake, but I could see the situation starting to take a toll on her.

Once we reached the dunes along the coast, we realized that this stretch of coast is where all the migrants and refugees who want to get across to England camp out. It's a huge space for temporary travelers of every variation. Some folks had been there for weeks, even months. It seemed like a whole little community with its own economy, literally thriving right there on the fringes of the desert. It gave us a bit of comfort, as there were plenty of women and children around, and there didn't seem to be a huge cause for alarm from bandits or even thieves, just generally good-intentioned people waiting for their turn to travel. So there we were. two young Israelis in our little tent surrounded by Arabic-speaking families and lots of young men.

I'm sure we were completely safe, but we didn't feel it inside that tent. So many strangers around us were unsettling, but also kind of disarming, because none of them seemed to be dangerous or scared themselves. We just relaxed, cuddled, and slowly drifted off to sleep. In the dead of the darkness, though, I heard the last thing I wanted to hear. somebody fumbling with our zipper. I woke and just laid there, listening for a moment before my girlfriend woke up and jostled me,

urging me to take some form of action. I cleared my throat and shouted at the top of my lungs that our tent was occupied. We were armed inside and prepared to call the police. The person outside immediately let go of the zipper once I said this. I could tell they were alone, no speaking, no communication otherwise. I told them to leave and not return. to our tent, and that's what they seemed to do. No more issues for the rest of that night.

I don't know what they wanted, but it was beyond bizarre. It had to be a thief of some kind, right? Perhaps even worse. I think the fact that I was so loud drove them off immediately, not so much the threats. We were camped by some families that seemed to be good-natured, so yelling of any kind would be sure to get somebody else's attention. A few months later, We read in the papers that the police had raided the Calais encampment. People were beaten, tense trashed. This didn't happen to us, but I imagine it was terrifying for anyone caught in the chaos. The next morning, we woke up not feeling very refreshed and decided to try out hitchhiking again.

We chose a spot where there was room to pull over, and enough of a straight for people to see us and then slow down. It was the most logical place for us to stick our thumbs out. It also got us away from the majority of the desert dwellers that we had just spent the night with. We spent that morning getting cleaned up and presentable, as that was key in my mind. Clean travelers seemed to be more likely to get picked up. 8 a.m. Wush. A dozen cars whiz by. 8.30. Wush. 9 a.m. Wush. 9.30. 10 o'clock. 11 o'clock. Noon. Wush. Wush. We were getting seriously. We're getting seriously.

demoralized by now. Out of our four days to get to Salzburg, we had spent the first day and a half standing in Calais. This was before cell phones, so there was no way to let our family know that we were running late or even if we were okay. It was starting to dawn on me that this was a mistake. We were potentially stranded without any idea of how long it would take us to get back. 1 p.m. comes and goes. 2 p.m. the same. Nobody even slows down. My girlfriend at this point is is just sitting dejectedly on our bags while I try to look cheerful. Nobody's going to stop for miserable-looking hitchhikers. At this point, though, there are large gaps between the rushes of cars,

and for some reason the ferry traffic was slowing down, and with it our chances of getting a ride anywhere. I could feel the hungry prying eyes of the desert-dwelling campers behind us, eager for us to return to the camp for the night so they could try their hand at raping or robbing us. This isn't any kind of racial slight. It's just the reality on the road. Bad things can happen to hitchhikers going international. 2.30, nothing. 3 p.m., nothing. The usual wave of cars just whizzing by us. But then, out of nowhere, a squeal of brakes. A big black BMW at the rear of the pack comes to a complete stop, a good 300 meters beyond us.

Everybody else disappears over the horizon as our Savior slams into reverse and accelerates the whole way, then squeals to a stop right next to us. Get in, our Czech hero says. His wife beside him handed him a red bull every 100 kilometers. I don't remember their exact business, but the couple seemed pretty well off, affluent, and very busy. In hindsight, I think they were high, probably on Coke or some other stimulant. They talked loud and fast and were interested in any kind of discussion. I will call the driver Jacob and his wife, Cat.

Jacob's foot is lead heavy. He has a radar jammer to foil police speed traps, and he does not go below 200 kilometers per hour, all the way through France and Belgium to Frankfurt, which is where he dropped us off. And I'll admit, it felt only like 10 minutes later, but was actually 600 kilometers closer to our destination. To say that we were flying was a drastic understatement, but we were grateful either way.

Jacob decided to stop here and stretch his legs, while Kat used the toilets inside. While we unloaded and eyeballed the area, another big black BMW came over. Jacob started having words with the driver in a language that we didn't speak. Before Kat even returned, both hatches lifted. Jacob and that stranger began unloading duffel bags and suitcases from the car that we were just in, then loading them into the other BMW that had just rolled up, some kind of bait and switch. The cars were literally identical.

Even the drivers looked similar. It was honestly kind of funny to watch, like a pair of cartoon characters. As we unpacked our own stuff and slowly moved across the parking lot, we watched as a nearby policeman took interest in the pair of blacked-out BMWs. At first, it just started out like a basic line of questioning, but within 10,000. 10 minutes, a whole fleet of investigators descended on the checks and their suspicious vehicles. My wife and I watched in horror as the police exposed Jacob and Kat as drug runners, or illegal transporters of some kind.

I never saw what was in the bags, but by the sudden turnout of law enforcement, I knew it had to be drugs or guns getting taken over the border, and we were just sitting in the car with them. Had we pulled over, especially with Jacob's erratic driving, we'd all be under arrest. and God only knows for how long until things got cleaned up. Jacob was a godsend for us, but by the end, the real fortune was being able to step away before he went down in the books. Our next lift came much faster now that we were on real roadways,

with a friendly truck driver pulling up not 30 minutes later. He welcomed us in, and the cab actually smelled fresh and clean, with hints of herbs that he liked to cook in there. My wife was run ragged by the road, and she wore it all over her face. The truck driver was kind enough to let her sleep in the bunk in the back of the cab. She did not hesitate to climb right in and promptly fall asleep. That just left me and the trucker, and we'll call him Johan.

He was, I believe, a German citizen, based on his looks and dialect, but across the sprawling border of Europe, it's hard to be sure of anybody's heritage. We listened to music at first, but he quickly grew bored and decided to talk with me instead. We shared our basic pleasantries, where we were from, how he started trucking, and why we were hitchhiking. It was all a very simple discussion, and as we talked, Johann asked me some basic things about my wife as well, which I answered, not thinking much of it. We rolled on to Munich, and the driver explained to me that this was all a very healthy hub for travelers going in any direction. Getting to Austria would be what he called smooth sailing. We'd easily find out. find a ride within a couple of hours. Finally, this trip had turned into everything I wanted it to be.

He then explained he was headed in a different direction, so he could no longer help us. I thanked him a million times over, explained that he had literally saved our entire trip, and he was very fortunate to have the company. Still, I tipped him what I thought was a respectable sum of cash, the least I could do, except from the driver's perspective, it really wasn't. He rolled his truck into a service station, further explained that we could possibly find a ride, even without leaving the parking lot. Lots of truckers would be going through Austria and would even be able to help for free, or for a decent price.

I slowly was getting my things together, half listening, also preparing to wake my wife. It wasn't until I turned my focus on Johan for a minute that I noticed he unzipped his pants and began stroking himself. I sat there completely stunned, unsure of what I was seeing was actually real. He didn't even blink, just continued to talk casually, looking at me and out the window. I didn't bother asking. Clearly, this was part of whatever plan the trucker had in place. I gathered all of our bags and shouted my wife's name to wake up.

It's time to leave. Johan became immediately agitated, saying he let her use the bed. The least we could do was stick around and break it in with. with him. Honestly, I wasn't sure if he wanted to do it with me or my wife, or both of us. Maybe he just wanted to watch. Whatever the case, we were literally trapped inside the cab of this man's truck as he continued to pleasure himself and slowly undress. My wife popped up, confused but alert, simply followed me through the passenger door. Yohan never shouted. He didn't grab at us. I guess he knew better. He knew we were already creating a scene.

He even kind of apologized through the door as I closed it in his face, turned my back on his truck, and hurried my wife to the trucking station. There were all manner of what seemed like normal people to create this buffer between ourselves and that creepy truck driver. From there, I guess it really was smooth sailing. We reached our destination well before the deadline. After that trip, though, my wife and I swore off hitchhiking forever. She still to this day doesn't know how close we came to trouble in that case.

cab. She just knows something was about to happen. It's my job to protect her, just like it was that day, even if it's just from the strange, ugly truths. You said this place was steps from the water. We just haven't found the steps yet. How much did we save? Enough. Enough to get lost. Or you could book a stay with Hilton. Welcome to your ocean front room. Just steps from the water. The Hilton sale is on now. book on Hilton.com or the Hilton app and save up to 20% to get the stay you expected. When you want savings, not surprises. It matters where you stay. Hilton, for the stay.

Back in the late summer of 2009, I was working on a tugboat that was assisting an oil tanker off the coast of Louisiana. There had been some storms and rough seas, so although we weren't in any immediate danger, our tug had been helping to stabilize the tanker, which was more vulnerable to the large waves. I've always loved the water, and I still do, but on the morning of August 17th, as we were guiding that tanker along the coast, something put my love for the sea to the test in a big, very bad way. I was in the bathroom when it happened, probably the worst place you can be when you get hit by a freak wave. I had been awake for maybe no more than 10 to 15 minutes, and then, out of nowhere, everything got turned upside down. One second the toilet was on the floor,

and the next it was on the ceiling. I tried to open the bathroom door, but all the lights suddenly went out, and I could hear the bathroom slowly filling with water. I couldn't tell if it was blood or seawater stinging my eyes, and then, I finally got the bathroom door open. But I didn't have long to celebrate at all, because I felt this heavy thunk as the tugboat touched down on the seabed,

at least 100 feet below the surface. When we got the door open, everything was dark. Water was everywhere, and I had no idea which way I was facing. Our propeller was up, our wheelhouse was down, and in the alley next to the watertight door, which led to an exit hatch. I saw two of my coworkers struggling with the hatch as the water levels continued to rise. I panicked, thinking we'd all drown if we failed to get that door open, so I did something completely against my instincts, and dived into the water to look for a different way to escape. I don't imagine many of you have been in a shipwreck before,

but when your ship goes down like ours did and takes on a ton of water, it rushes through your ship in very odd patterns. Imagine pouring a gallon of water into an ant farm and watching how it reaches some tunnels faster than others and creates little air pockets here and there. Well, that's how I managed to get swept into a second bathroom, this one attached to the second engineer's cabin. With the door having been swept shut as I pulled in,

it in. It created one of those air pockets I had just mentioned. At first, the water continued to rise, and I thought that I was going to be trapped in there and drown, but to my relief it didn't fill the bathroom completely. It only filled up about a third of the way, and then just suddenly stopped. Part of the reason it didn't fill up was because we routinely kept all the cabin doors closed. We did this mainly as a security precaution, but it also secured parts of the ship from flooding and meant that I could cling to a wash basin in my own private air bubble at the bottom of the Gulf. As I stood there in the darkness, I started to hear my co-workers screaming and yelling. I couldn't make out what they were saying, but I figured that they might have gotten

the hatch open, and so, with that in mind, I decided to do everything I could to swim back to them. But when I tried to pry the bathroom door open, the door handle snapped off in my grip. I remember feeling a panic rising up in me again, one so intense I thought that I might lose my mind right there and then. But then suddenly, it just stopped, and I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me. Everything that had happened over the previous few minutes had been so chaotic and terrifying. But after that door handle snapped off in my hand, it felt like I had control of the situation. I knew where I was. I knew what I needed to do, and I had no choice but to solve the problem of opening the door. It was that, or die trying. As crazy as it sounds to just think

it to myself, all these years later, that brought about that strange sense of calm. It was just me and that bathroom door. Whatever came next, we could cross that bridge once we came to it. I remember spotting a vent and thinking that if I pulled off the steel grill, I could probably use it as some kind of tool. Luckily, it was strong enough for me to use to force a open the bathroom door, but that wasn't an instant thing. It took a lot of time and effort, and during the attempt I heard the cries of my coworkers going silent one by one. I thought they had escaped, but now I know different. Once I had the bathroom door open, I was back in the second engineer's cabin. I saw two life jackets, each with a small flashlight attached. I put one in my

mouth, lodged the other in the elastic of my underwear, and then attempted to swim for the escape hatch outside of the cabin. All the corridors were full of water, with no air pockets for me to use, meaning every time I ran out of breath, I had to stop trying to open the hatch and swim back to my air pocket in the engineer's cabin to take a breath. The first time I swam back, I almost missed the door to the engineer's cabin. It was dark. All the doors looked the same, and I knew that if I got lost or confused, I'd most likely drown. I later found out the exact same thing happened to a coworker who drowned in the mess room after confusing it for someplace with an air pocket. To stop myself from getting turned around, I tore off some fabric from one of the engineer's coveralls,

tied it into a rope, and then attached one end to the door of the cabin, so I could use it to guide myself back whenever I ran out of breath. I tried again and again, but still the hatch wouldn't budge, and I eventually decided that I should save my strength, stay in my little air pocket, and rethink my attempts to escape. I had to just stay put, stay calm, and think. And I'm not kidding when I say hours went by. I ate tin sardines and drank canned soda just to keep my energy levels up, but I had to keep my legs out of the water. I knew I'd scraped my leg during one of my escape attempts. And at first, I thought the stinging was just the salt water getting into the wounds,

but I quickly realized it wasn't just the salt water. It was little crayfish, swimming up to pick at the peeling skin around the wound. I also thought the water level would remain stable, but after a while, I realized it was slowly rising from how it seemed to be creeping up the wall, and that's about the time I just accepted that I was going to die. I kept thinking about my family, and it brought me a strange sense of peace, knowing that they'd be there to carry on without me. Sure, it had hurt some.

My kids would grow up without their father, but they'd no doubt get a big payout from the company, and then on top of my life insurance, they might just get a big enough check to keep them comfy for the rest of their lives, I imagine. And thinking those kinds of thoughts was all I could do to comfort myself, and I remember just sitting there trying to conserve whatever oxygen I had left in total silence, just waiting around to die. Then suddenly, the silence was broken by the sudden sound of metal on metal. It was like a hard clunk. And although I couldn't see what was going on outside the boat, I knew that there was a good chance someone was out there, someone that might be able to hear me.

I didn't scream or yell, as that would have burned valuable oxygen. Instead, I started to hammer my fist against the bulkhead, hoping whoever was out there would recognize that someone was a inside the tub. Minutes later, I saw a light through one of the portholes and realized that there must have been divers swimming around outside. I took a deep breath and then dived back into the water. My goal was to find a porthole through which I could see the divers, so I went room to room, prying open doors, then heading back to the air pocket for another gulp of oxygen. Then back I went, repeating the process over and over, until finally I caught sight of the divers outside. side. I remember pushing my hand up against the safety glass, and one of the divers later said

he just thought it was another body at first, but when I started trying to bang on the glass, they realized I was alive. I wasn't taken straight to the surface. You'd think that that might have caused more emotional turmoil than it did, and after being trapped in a wreck like that, most would want to return straight to the surface, but you can't do that. The sudden change in pressure might actually kill you, so I spent a real long time at a diving bell, sucking air from a spare oxygen tank, before I was allowed to resurface. The divers told me I'd been down there for almost 14 hours. I don't even think it felt like three. I guess my sense of time was disoriented, but resurfacing to the night sky instead of daylight made it feel like I time-traveled or something.

A bunch of medics checked my vitals to ensure my temperature and blood pressure were okay. And then they advised that I go visit a hospital, but all I wanted to do was get home to my wife and kids. So, although I wouldn't advise anyone to ignore medical advice like that, I went straight home and gave them all the biggest hugs of their lives. I had some real bad dreams for a long time afterward. Sometimes I'd feel like my bed was sinking, and I'd wake up with sweat-soaked bed sheets, which I guess prolonged the process of realizing it was just a nightmare. Other times, I dreamt that water was rushing in via my bedroom windows and that my wife was unconscious.

I'd pick her up, carry her to the door, but it wouldn't open, and the water would just keep rising and rising until I woke up. Some friends suggested that we just take a vacation someplace really landlocked, you know, and that helped a whole lot. I stayed away from the pool for a whole week and a half, though, until I finally forced myself to face my fears. I guess the context of that vacation helped, knowing that I was safe. And like I said at the start, I've always loved the water. All. Pay off your home, travel for life, drive a Ferrari. In celebration of the world premiere of the Monopoly Big Board Buckslot Machine by Aristocrat Gaming,

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Please gamble responsibly. Monopoly is a trademark of Hasbro. Hasbro is not a sponsor of this promotion. When I was 14 years old, my family and I went on a boating trip out of Melbourne's western Port Bay. I remember being at the helm with my father, steering the little boat over the waves.

Then the next thing we knew, my big brother was shouting that water was coming in. It all happened so fast, mom and dad were shouting for us to stay together. Then suddenly, the boat tipped over, and we were in the water. We later found out that the bottom of our boat had been almost completely rotten, and its owners had been extremely and willfully negligent in renting it to us. We had no choice but to start swimming.

Since it was late in the evening, no one had seen us go down, so it was up to us to rescue ourselves. I was a reasonably good swimmer, and we all had life jackets on, but it was still around two miles back to shore, so land looked like it was a long, long way away. Darkness fell as we were swimming, but my dad started to struggle, and my big brother swam back to try and help him.

My mom and I stuck together and kept going, but we soon lost sight of my father and brother. Seagulls cried out above me, and I kept imagining that they were warning me of an attack from sharks that were no doubt swimming in the waters around us. I could see land, but it didn't seem to get any closer. Finally, after more than three hours in that water, I felt the sandy bottom against my feet. I'd reached the mudflats of what I believed was the mainland, but my mom, dad, and brother

were nowhere to be seen. I was weak, cold, and exhausted. I dragged myself through the mud, which at some points was almost up to my waist, and this was even more terrifying than the swimming. The mud kept sucking me down, and I was terrified that I'd sink and be sucked. My muscles ached, my lungs burned, and I felt like I was about to pass out at points, but at the same time I knew the clock was ticking. It was essentially down to me and me alone to get help for my family.

When I finally made it ashore, I realized that I was on French Island, an island with an old disused prison on it that has only about 50 residents. I ran through the bushland, using up the last reserves of my energy, feeling thorns scratching against my legs and arms. I ran for a long time, stopping every so often to catch my breath before continuing through the bush. Finally, I found a house, and, after banging on the door, someone opened it. I told them what had happened.

I just remember crying and crying as they tried to comfort me and how I begged them to help find my family. They told me everything was going to be okay, and that they'd contacted the Victoria Coast Guard. I appreciate that they were just trying to console me, but I knew they were wrong. The next morning the bodies of my mom, dad, and older brother were recovered from the water off the coast of Fair Haven.

Words cannot express how devastated I was, and I was filled with this overwhelming survivor's guilt, thinking that I should be the one dead. For five long years I was a wreck, and I think I might be dead from drink and drugs if it wasn't for the birth of my first child. For a long, long time, I avoided any kind of large body of water,

which included swimming pools, before my therapist suggested that I undertake some exposure therapy. This would involve brief trips to a local pool, but at first my anxiety was so bad that even if my head was above the water, I just couldn't breathe. I tried for four months, but nothing worked until a local swim coach heard my story and offered some help.

Then, over the next year or so, the therapy started to chip away at my fear, until finally, I was able to look at the sea without feeling like I was about to have a panic attack. My proudest moments have been taking part in a charity swim across the rip, which is an infamously rough stretch of water. We helped raise money for a domestic violence charity here in Australia, which is a cause very close to my heart for reasons that could well make for another true scary story. It might have taken me 20 years, but I no longer let my fear control me. I now understand that what happened wasn't my fault,

but the irony of needing water to heal the very trauma that it created has never been lost on me.