I don't recall much of my interactions with Dave during our junior year, except that by its end, Dave had become one of my closest friends—and it wasn't just Dave, but also Barbara, Floyd, and eventually Adrienne who became part of my extended family.

With hopes of steering her son straight, Barbara sent Dave to the beach that weekend. Dave didn't miss a beat on his first night. "Let's get some beer," he declared. Luckily, our over-21 roommates were more than willing to help us stockpile a treasure trove of cheap beer and wine coolers. Armed with a duffle bag, we made our way to the beach and swiftly became the heart of the beach's social whirlwind, a ritual we branded "Hollering." Many nights followed, spent lounging at a deserted beach house tucked between Rehoboth and Dewey Beach. That empty haven became our go-to for nights filled with drinks and camaraderie on the back porch.

For two brief weeks in our senior year, we shared a room at RMA in the coveted former staff apartment on Band Squadron in the main building—a stint that, unfortunately, didn't end well for either of us. This was a very nice room with an "elbow" in it and roughly twice the square footage of the typical cadet room, and I had managed to install a mid-sized couch for optimal hanging out. When I was punished for being involved in a serious car accident and stripped of my rank, it more importantly cost me my room and my roommate Dave. For Dave, he lost the room as well since whoever got it would choose their roommate, and it wasn't going to be him.

Dave was a spirited and outspoken jokester. Once, in jest, he made what many would consider a lighthearted comment about the nature of a ranking cadet's girlfriend, to which they responded by breaking Dave's jaw. This necessitated an extended convalescent leave from school and ultimately resulted in his departure from RMA in the midst of our senior year. And this certainly shaped Dave's life as well.

We drove back to Palm Harbor, and just like our summer in Rehoboth Beach, the first thing he wanted to do upon arrival was have me take him to the beach. So I dropped him off at the beach, and he spent his days traipsing around Pier 60. Inevitably, as only Dave could, he quickly developed a bustling social life, and I acquired a passing, temporary girlfriend—the best friend of the girl he met on the beach—and together we enjoyed many fun-filled afternoons of eating and other enjoyable activities.

Dave's life was a series of adventures, from the basement to the beach, to the snowy slopes, and every road trip in between. Once, post-9/11, I visited him in Crystal City, staying in a room straight out of "Being John Malkovich"—tiny, with a makeshift outdoor shower and a futon precariously balanced on cinder blocks. It was the kind of place that made you appreciate the simple things, like a solid roof and indoor plumbing.

Here's to Dave...