SMITTIE had to get his rocks off, So he went to Bermuda and got them off, several times.

Smittie told us about it back in the hotel the first night as he handled his 12th beer. "We were all sitting around up in the Montgomery getting wrecked on beer." He said he was about to give up on this party. "Then this guy arrived with ten broads right behind him!" Smittie burped. "I really needed to get my rocks off."

"Let me tell you, these broads down here really want it. I ended up in bed with this one, and she wasn't bad. Not bad at all. And do you believe, I got laid twice? You ever gotten laid twice in a row? But then she started telling me she'd loved me from the moment she first saw me, so I got the hell out. I can't hack that stuff. I told her I'd see her later."

The three of us pondered Smittie's night. College Week III in Bermuda; like College Weeks I and II, is a seven-inning ballgame, and old Smittie was back in the dugout with a big head over whoever his opponent was. He was sorry to hear we hadn't scored. But unlike Daytona, there isn't that heightened sense of male competition in Bermuda. Of course, Smittie figured he was paying dearly for such services, to the tune of $45/day, so he deserved everything he could get. "Jesus, I really had to get my rocks off," he reflected. "Now they're blue."

BUT what of the Jenny Cavilleris? Had they saved up all their hard-earned money only to get to Bermuda and find a glorified pajama party?

This was the thought that passed through Judy's mind as she sat at poolside Sunday at the St. George Hotel. While guys like Smittie spent the week getting their rocks off, what was to become of a poor Rhode Island girl who didn't go to Radcliffe? She couldn't afford to buy herself drinks for seven nights. That would leave no money for postcards.

A Harvard frisbee champion was sitting by her beach chair. "Have you seen Love Story, Ken?" Ken, projecting himself as the intellectual type commonly associated with Harvard, said he'd only read the book. He called it "corny."

"Oh, I didn't think it was. It was simple," Judy asserted. "I've been really close to a boy, and that's really the way it is." Somewhere back in the States, Erich Segal was slipping a big bill out of his wallet to pay for his noonday steak.

That night, Murray tooled up to St. George's on his motorcycle, He'd heard the place was full of girls. Murray didn't call them broads; he was from Harvard. He got a drink inside him and then, all of a sudden, there was Judy. She was at a table talking with a guy, but Murray skated over and asked her to dance, and she was up. "She was talking to some Mafioso. I could tell she was bored," Murray explained later.

Judy liked the fact that Murray was a senior at Harvard. Then her heart skipped a beat. Murray told her he was a hockey player. Actually, a goalie for his House, but what she doesn't know won't hurt her. As it turned out, Murray was rich, and he was from Massachusetts.

So it goes on the island in the sun. For one whole week, Judy was Jenny Cavilleri. But then Saturday came, College Week III ended, College Week IV began, and Judy died.

It's that sort of happiness that agents like Crimson Travel Service hope their clients find when they pack them off for Bermuda with their little travel bags saying Crimson Travel Service on both sides. But the three of us wondered what sort of happiness Crimson Travel had in mind when we were shown to our ten by ten room with its cot and narrow double bed. We wondered why we were paying almost $14 a day each. In Daytona Beach for eight dollars a day I sort of deserve a double bed, but how could it happen again? Will I never ask what I'm getting for my money before I hand it over? Have I learned nothing from 21 years in America? Apparently.

Later on we were talking with Mrs. Ferrarer, who ran the place. By then we had realized that seven of us were to share a bathroom with one toilet, sink and shower. Mrs. Ferrarer said she was getting $11 a day for each of us from Crimson Travel, leaving nearly $3 unexplained. Another surprise was the $10 deposit we had to put down on the motorbikes which we had paid rental for in advance. We would get it back just before leaving Saturday, a handy time.

So it was exciting Monday at Elbow Beach, where we kicked off College Week, to see a guy in Bermuda shorts and sunglasses walking around with a Crimson Travel portfolio under his arm. Suddenly we were upon him, chewing him out for 20 minutes.

Poor Mrs. Ferrarer. Two hours later we returned to our suite, and as she cleared the sheets off our beds, said, "I don't want anyone who's unhappy to stay here. I've found you a new place." And so it was that we ended up at Skytop in a nice room for three and the Crimson Travel avoided a big splash in the CRIMSON the first day back.

MEANWHILE, people were getting killed. Maybe they weren't really dying, but they were getting smashed up, and what's the difference? Thousands of college kids-most of them girls, of course-had been out on the road trying to master their bikes and the left side of the road regulation. And there's something about riding back to your room from the Terrace Bar at 2 a.m. thinking you're Rin Tin Tin that makes an accident a very real possibility. Naturally we only saw a couple of girls with casts on since most victims were in the popular Bermuda Hospital.

Smittie tried to imagine getting his rocks off with a girl who had a cast on her leg. "Geez, it'd make a hell of a guest book. I wonder if you'd sign it before or afterwards."

The worst accident of College Week III happened our last night when some drunk guy piled into a roadside rock with his motorbike. On the way to the airport Saturday, Ralph told us about it since he'd been there. He said the guy had had a big gash in his head, and he remembered seeing a big pool of blood. The guy may be dead.

The newspapers at Marshall's Supermarket warned us about death Mid night's front page read: "Airplane Pilots Mentally Disturbed, Your Next Pilot May Fly You to Your Death." At least we were prepared when we got to the airport at the week's end.

But what is Spring Vacation in Bermuda? Is it getting your pockets emptied and your legs frisked by two customs officials the moment you get your bag? Is it going for a College Week cruise of the Island Thursday in the rain? Is it being in the Pudding Show and throwing out 200 hamburgers at your reception? Or is it really just getting your rocks off?

But what of Flip? Bermuda was none of those things for Flip, who met Mary on his 23rd birthday. He called her pirate's treasure (a sunken chest). but Flip thought a lot of her. Drinks at the Terrace, dancing at Elbow, and then romantic walks at Horseshoe Bay. This girl Mary could even keep up with Flip and his quick bike. The week moved toward a climax, and Flip talked to her in terms of future get-togethers. Then came the big last night, and Mary flashed her engagement ring at Flip. Think what Bobby Vinton could do with material like that.

One night Flip was at the Forty Thieves, a nightclub which lives up to its name. There he watched the Bermuda Strollers, the Rockin' Berries, and a famous American group no one had ever heard of go through their routines. While he was there, he was entitled to buy drinks at Club prices since he'd paid his $2 admission. A Singapore Sling went for $2.25, a banana special for $1.75. Everyone who visits Bermuda has to go to the Forty Thieves, but no one can go back a second time.

What Flip needed was a crimson frisbee with a big white "H" on it. Phil had one, and the "H" was in phosphorescent paint so that it would light up at night. "Say it loud, say it proud." Phil kept advising us through the week. So all he had to do was ask a girl on the beach to throw the frisbee with him and ask her where she went to school. Within 30 seconds, the girl was in his arms, if all went by plan. If all didn't, then the only explanation was the girl's stupidity, or perhaps her lack of taste.

BACK in the major leagues, Smittie was approaching the top of the fifth inning. Night life had been consistently sweet for Smittie, and though he was tiring, the drive was still there. He stepped into the cold water shower, a trademark over at Mrs. Ferrater's place. He was set up with Tina for the night, and he'd been given numerous hints by Tina's friends that she'd give him a real workout. He thought back to the elementary school up on the bench the next night. Yes, they wanted to make this night memorable for Smittie. So it was that there was an extra bulge in Tina's panties that night, and when we look for explanation we are referred to Tina's older brother, an employee in the novelty shop at home.

"Yeah. I hear she loves it. Smittie!" Dave yelled as Smittie slipped into his clothes.

"I don't know why I bother dressing anymore," Smittie said, Indeed. Two hours later he had maneuvered Tina into a bedroom at the Montgomery. He was running ahead of schedule. But Smittie left early that night, and he left in a hurry. When he got back to Mrs. Ferrarer's he just went to bed with a cold six pack.

In concentrating on night life, however, we overlook Lolita, girlish wonder of Coral Beach. Lolita strolls the beach all day with her mother, and sometimes makes catches. Tuesday, Murray and I ran into Lolita and her mother. Momma, after telling us quickly about her boy friends, wanted to know our college backgrounds. "Harvard? Gee, you must work awfully hard. Come on, you must. No one could last four years there without doing something," We tried to be honest.

Then Lolita led us along to her cave along the shore. She hid behind a rock in it until we spied her. The mother noticed a bikini top lying on another rock there. "Oh, do get a picture of that! Just the bra sitting on the rock." Meanwhile, Lolita had found us flowers, and then she flitted up a stone stairway in the cliff to the grassy top. Why do the birds go on singing?

REALLY, though, we had something to contribute to life on the island ourselves. Our money, for one. But more important, we killed spiders. One night up at Skytop, the B.U. girls in the next cottage knocked at our door at 2:30 a.m. A big spider was after them, so they needed some tough guys to go kill it. Two of us went, but Len was engaged, so he stayed. We killed it with Crimson Travel bag, and the two B. U, girls lived happily ever after.

The next day we set up Skytop stayed. We killed it with my Crimson Travel except we offered our services free. We put up ads all over the Elbow Beach Hotel announcing our tours by motorbike of "the island's finest beaches." Gas was free, as was jellyfish repellant, and we said we'd give body surfing instruction even though our timing was off by about five seconds. Maureen was the first to call, and others did later, but Skytop boss man Harry just wrote down the messages and never gave them to us. So we never gave the tours, and all the repellant went bad.

To top it all off, the girl seated next to Len on the flight back passed out.