Craig lived a few doors down from me my freshman year of college.

Just across the hall on the fourth floor of Rinker dorm, he lived and moved and had his being.

Hailing from the West Coast of Florida, from a little piece of earth called Sanibel Island, Craig came to us a drummer, a prankster and—in the hearts of his fellow suitemates—a legend. 

Now it’s really quite impossible for me to convey to you the full realm and reason of Craig’s existence, but let me just say that he was a bit of a free spirit. And if you don’t know what I mean (and, of course, unless you lived there, you won’t know what I mean), well, my hope is in the few words that follow, I can begin to pull back the curtain into the magic and mystery that was Craig Stewart.

I came to Palm Beach Atlantic University at the tender age of 18 with all of the wild hopes, dreams and obnoxious energy that seems to accumulate in one’s veins during that long-awaited summer between high school and higher learning. When you’re a freshman, you call it excitement; but by the time you’re a senior, you call it nauseating. Like a shaken can of Mountain Dew (which I can assure you, I drank plenty of), I arrived on campus that first day, ready to burst with life and optimism.

It was the fall of 1999; but coming to south Florida from the great state of Virginia, one would have to watch the Weather Channel in order to have any idea what season it really was. I guess I just wasn’t used to September requiring sandals and sun block; and so I admit, it was pretty disconcerting at first. I was thinking sweaters, pants, shoes….you know, all the things normal people wear in autumn. But no. Not West Palm Beach. It’s shorts and T-shirt or nothing. If you even try to wear pants in September, you’ll be swimming in your own sweat by the time you get to your first class. So needless to say, it was a difficult transition that first month. But after a few rather nasty sun burns, followed by the illumination that I could go to the beach every single day of the calendar year, I’d say I acclimated rather quickly.

But for Craig, growing up on an island down at the bottom of the United States, he came to school prepared for hot days, warm nights and plenty—and I do mean plenty—of practical jokes. I lived in room 410, while Craig and his suitemates were just across the way in 408. Oh, 408, how I miss you boys. And for those of you who haven’t started upon your college experience just yet, let me explain a suitemate. A suitemate is essentially a roommate who lives in a  separate room, but closely connected to your room. In this case, each suite contained four rooms therein, where you would live with a roommate and also six other suitemates. You’d share a set of bathrooms and a lovely living space, where many of the strangest, funniest and most memorable moments would take place.

Now like I said, Craig loved his jokes; and when we weren’t his target, we loved them, too. The best times came when we could all get it on the action together. All for one—at the expense of one—for all of us. You know how it goes. Flour in the face, water balloon from a well-positioned balcony… practical jokes are just as much a staple of dorm life as Little Debbies and Ramen noodles. And after a good solid semester of fun, sun and occasional studying, the spring semester of 2000 was upon us; and we were ready to embrace her with grander schemes and fresher victims.