It has driven over 300,000 miles but still runs smoothly. There’s a one-armed wobbling tiki man holding a solitary maraca affixed to the dashboard, right beside a swaying shark playing a ukulele. Stickers plastered in the back windows loudly display a plethora of surfing-related euphemisms and bikini-clad women.

The exterior is a shiny blue. When the windows fog up, flourishing finger paintings become visible. My signatures are prominent among them, sandwiched between hearts and lightning bolts.

The windshield wipers don’t perform too well. Every seat reclines, and the trunk is as spacious as any crossover SUV. Music blasts through speakers near the floorboards, playing from my iPod synched to the stereo or the six-disc CD player under the driver’s seat.

It has traversed parking lots and rolling beaches, but right now it rests on a gravel driveway. The sun peeks through the trees and dances across the windshield, obscuring the invisible artwork. Papers and textbooks are strewn across the back seat, and empty soda bottles fill the cup holders. Retracted windows allow a throbbing melody to escape.

Before I can cross the grass, the passenger door opens. I can feel static electricity from the seatbelt and the fuzz of gray upholstery under my fingertips. The all-wheel drive has no trouble with the potholes in my driveway. It hugs the curves of the subdivision, steady under the sure hands on the steering wheel.

It has held scolding parents and glossy guitars, hyperactive siblings and abused surfboards, sweaty teens and bagged groceries. But right now it holds freedom.