Uncle Harvey 1987

September 2, 1987.

The tape cut in with a sharp and electronic sound. It was followed by the muffled click of the record button being pressed. The framing was instantly shaky, catching the bottom edge of a plastic cooler before tilting up to find her.

Lisa Little sat cross-legged at the very edge of the tide line at Mission Beach, right where the wet sand turned dark and packed. It was golden hour in San Diego. The September sun was a massive, melting apricot bleeding into the Pacific, casting a long, glittering highway of orange light across the water. The breeze started to kick up, carrying with it the salt smell of the ocean, but the air was still filled with the residual 85-degree heat of the afternoon.

Right next to her towel, sitting hazardously on a plastic block, was a dual-cassette Sony boombox with a peeling "Debbie Gibson" sticker on the side. From its tinny speakers, Whitney Houston's voice competed with the rhythmic, heavy crashing of the surf.

"Oh, I want to dance with somebody..." blared into the sea air.

She was fully in her element. She wore an oversized, faded grey San Diego State University (DSU) crewneck sweatshirt that had seen better days, the university mascot barely visible after countless washes. The heavy cotton sleeves were pushed all the way up to her elbows to reveal tanned forearms with a faint freckling across the knuckles. They were worn over her hot-pink, high-cut bikini bottoms that contrasted sharply with the muted grey of the sweatshirt.

Her lower body was anchored into the cool, damp sand, but her upper body was a whirlwind of rhythmic energy. She danced from the waist up, shoulders rolling, hips swaying slightly to the synth-pop beat. She treated a half-empty bottle of Bain de Soleil suntan oil like a microphone, gripping it tight, throwing her head back so her thick, salt-crimped hair tossed over the collar of her sweatshirt. A thin silver chain with a small surfboard charm caught the last rays of sunlight as it swung from her neck with each movement.

Lisa Little belted out the chorus with such force that her voice cracked on the high note, totally unbothered by the pitch, her eyes closed in pure, unadulterated late-eighties ecstasy. The effort brought a flush to her cheeks that rivaled the sunset.

She pointed the bottle at the sky like a rock star on an MTV special.

"I've been in love and lost my senses!"

She handled the line with pure joy. She was totally unbothered by being a little out of tune. The Bain de Soleil bottle left a greasy shimmer on her lips as she sang.

Behind the lens, the heavy Panasonic camcorder shifted slightly on her friend's shoulder. You could hear Amy's distinct, stifled giggle muffled right against the built-in microphone capsule, accompanied by the wind-ruffled static of the beach. The camera's weight had already left an angry red indentation on Amy's collarbone, visible only to her.

Suddenly, she opened her eyes, caught the steady red recording light on the camera, and stopped singing. A massive smile broke across her face. Her teeth flashed white against her tan, the bridge of her nose still smeared with a faint, melting streak of neon-blue zinc oxide sunblock that had begun to run in the heat. She pointed the suntan oil bottle directly at the lens, leaving a perfect fingerprint on the glass.

"Amy, stop laughing! I'm giving a performance here!"

She shouted over the music, though she was laughing too, her cheeks flushed with exertion and amusement.

Just then, the audio caught the scuff of footsteps on the sand. A trio of college guys in neon-splattered Gotcha swim trunks and backwards baseball caps walked past, cutting right between her and the sunset. One of them slowed down, looking down at her, and let out a loud, theatrical wolf-whistle that cut right through the Whitney Houston track. His feet left perfect impressions in the wet sand, quickly filling with seawater.

"Whoa! Looking good, Aztec!"

One yelled, flashing a goofy grin that revealed a mouth full of braces.

"Hey, put me in the movie, man!"

Another one shouted toward the camera.

He waved a hand in front of the lens before turning back to her, his movements clumsy with teenage confidence.

"You're beautiful, sweetheart! Don't let her cut that scene!"

He said, his words slightly slurred.

They jogged backward down the beach, kicking wet sand, but before Lisa could even roll her eyes, two more guys built like SDSU volleyball players, with deep tans and sun-bleached hair abruptly stopped right in front of her towel. They completely blocked the camera's view of the sunset. The taller one, wearing a red Body Glove tank top that clung to his muscular torso, literally dropped his jaw in an exaggerated, comedic display of being completely stunned.

"Hold on, hold on," the tall one said.

He ran a hand through his sun-bleached hair.

He looked from Lisa to the camera, then back to Lisa, his eyes widening with recognition.

"Dude, look at her. Are you guys shooting a real movie? Because you look like a literal movie star. I'm not even kidding." He said.

The second guy, sporting a pair of mirrored Oakley sunglasses that reflected the dying sunlight, stepped closer, shaking his head. The sunglasses left tan lines across the bridge of his nose.

"Seriously. You are stunning. Are you a freshman? What's your name?" He asked.