2018: The Summer of Bob

Usually around this time of year I make a boring post about getting ready to leave Pensacola, Florida for my summer job flying helicopters up in Washington. I've been doing that job every year since 2010. It's incredibly fun, and I always look forward to going up there and working with a great bunch of people.

Not this year. It's time to take a break.

I turned 62 this year, and became eligible for Social Security. While this does not weigh heavily on me, it is a number than I cannot ignore. I still think of myself as a fun, young guy. But the image in the mirror tells the real story. I don't feel 62...at least I don't have the various aches and pains that sometimes trouble people my age. I'm not on any medications and I don't have a doctor that I see regularly (other than my flight surgeon every year, briefly). In fact, since I broke my arm in that motorcycle accident back in 2010, I haven't seen the inside of a hospital since.

At 195 pounds I'm not in the best physical shape of my life but I can still ride my motorcycle, and if my buddy Matt and I would get off our asses, I could probably still hike down into Tallulah Gorge - and back up - without the assistance of a medevac helicopter. Or I could paddle a canoe down a slow river.

I used to do a lot of those outdoorsy things. Not so much though in the past seven years. That stupid summer job has meant that I'm away from Florida during the best part of the year. And yeah, it's the best part of the year in Washington too, but I'm committed to at least 120 days (and usually more) of continuous-duty work during the cherry season. Aside from that, there's just not a whole lot to do up there, believe it or not. The people up there are more into winter sports like skiing, hunting and playing on snowmobiles than summer sports like hiking and canoe-camping. (Also, there are bears.)

Last summer, my friend Chris and I wanted to kayak down the beautiful Okanogan River. Trouble was, there were few put-in and take-out points. We scouted all up and down the river, but were unable to find good enough locations to make for a nice long day trip. It was pretty frustrating. We ended up not going.

Plus, I love the beach! I like to cruise to the beach on my motorcycle. I'll find a nice secluded stretch somewhere in the National Seashore, and lay out in the sun. And yes, there are still stretches of Pensacola Beach where you can do that - during the week at least.

And so, before I get too old to do the things I like, I'm going to take this coming summer off. There was a "Seinfeld" episode in which George found himself unemployed but with three months of severance pay. He decides that he's going to be really active – that it will be “The Summer of George!”

Welcome to The Summer of Bob.

Cab Driver Stories: A Very Strange Encounter

And how's your day going? How's your life? Most people, when you ask them how they're doing, they'll give you answer like, "Oh, I can't complain - nobody listens anyway."  I'm never sure if they really do want to complain and want me to probe further. I usually don't. I hate long-winded stories.

(Unless I'm writing them, of course.)

I got a call to go pick up a woman on Monday morning out on Pensacola Beach. The driver who gave me the trip knew this woman; she was evidently a frequent visitor to our town. She was traveling by herself, which is kind of odd. People who come to Pensacola on business usually don't stay out on the beach, especially in the winter.

The weekend had been blah weather-wise. It had rained on Friday; Saturday was “okay,” but Sunday started off foggy-foggy and later turned rainy.  Then on the way to the beach on Monday morning, I ran through some of the thickest fog I've ever seen. Visibility could only have been 500 feet or so.

I arrived early, well prior to the scheduled 0930 pickup time, and was surprised to see her walk right out of the hotel to my cab. She seemed preoccupied. She was holding her phone (doesn't everyone these days?) and already had her headphones on. Her general attitude was one of, “don't bother me.” And in fact she seemed kind of surly as we greeted each other.

On the way to the airport I asked, as I always do, where she was headed back to?

"Allentown, Pennsylvania,” she replied without much enthusiasm.

I sympathized. It's been a weird winter for most of the country. She said that they'd just got dumped on with snow...in March!...and that she was tired of it.

I asked what brought her to Pensacola Beach of all places?

”Ohhh, vacation,” she replied flatly. ”I needed to get away from my job. Things were pretty crazy. If I didn't leave I probably would've gotten fired.”

Well damn! Since she brought it up, I asked what she did for a living?

”I'm a nurse.”

When I asked about the stress at work, she just stared out the window into the nothingness beyond the guardrail where Pensacola Bay should have been.

”I don't want to get into it,” she said quietly but firmly.

Fair enough. You can't force people to talk.

However I did feel it necessary to mention that I envied her and all those like her. “People who work in the medical field are special,” I said, which I really do believe. I truly admire doctors, EMT's nurses...cops - everyone who deals with the public when they are not exactly at their best.  

I went on, “You guys see people at their worst. People never go to a hospital when they feel good. When they get to you they're usually in some dire situation.”  I was taking a stab, trying to make her feel good about herself and her chosen profession.

”Thanks,” she said weakly.

I added that I couldn't do what she does...didn't know how she did...how she dealt with that day after day. Finally I said that if society depended on people like me to care for the sick and the hurt, a whole lot of people would die.

”Well, some people deserve to die,” she remarked with an iciness that sent a chill down my spine.

Whoa.

What do you say to something like that? Honestly I did not know how to respond. I figured I'd better not say anything for the rest of the trip. And I didn't.

At the airport, I told her that I hoped everything would work out, job-wise, and said optimistically that the winter would be over soon. As I watched her walk into the terminal, I thought about the life to which she was returning. Surely the same problems would still be there that have made her so bitter and depressed.

And I drove away, reflecting as I do after such encounters. I thought about how blessed I am and how sometimes I feel a little guilty that my life is so great right now. I am debt-free (no credit card debt and all my cars and motorcycles are paid-off); I work when I want; and I'm healthy. For me, life could not be better if I were Donald J. Trump.  But it sure is not for everybody!

Cab Driver Stories: ...Drunker Than A Sailor

I was sitting on the taxi stand on a Friday night in downtown Pensacola some years ago. It was getting late and I was about to call it a night when two drunk Navy kids piled in. I mean, they were, as my friends up in Washington like to say, “drunker than ten Indians” whatever that means. Really drunk, I guess. And these two were.

The drunker of the two was a white kid. He immediately slumped in his seat, nearly unconscious. His black friend at least did not look like he was going to puke. The white one did. Other than that, they seemed like nice kids.

”Take us back to base!” the black kid said.

Before even moving the car, I turned around and looked at them for a bit. They seemed very, very young.

“How old are you guys?” I asked. “You guys 21 yet?”

There was an awkward silence: No answer.

Over the years, the Navy has had...varying...policies regarding underage drinking of their students at the NATTC (Naval Air Technical Training Command). Now, I hear that there that it's “zero-tolerance.” Underage drinking gets you “separated,” which means “kicked out.” But back then you might get away with it with just NJP (non-judicial punishment) or a visit to the “Captain's Mast” which is more serious and probably career-ending but might result in you staying in.

Back at the base, the boys would have to sign-in and get across the “Quarterdeck,” which is a reception desk of sorts where people monitor the comings and goings of their sailors. And these two never would've gotten away with it.

I told them that I wasn't taking them back to base. I said I'd take them to a fairly inexpensive hotel near the base so they could sleep it off and sober up, and that I'd pick them up and take them to base for free in the morning. I told them that if they could not afford the $70 for the room, I'd spring for it. After the usual macho bluster subsided, they agreed. I handed the white kid my puke bucket and we departed.

When I started driving a taxi, I'd work downtown on the weekends. This was before Uber came and pretty much put taxis out of business in Pensacola. Because of the fear of drunks getting sick in the cab, I bought some large plastic child's beach pails. They were, like, a buck at Walmart. I put some plastic bags in them and...voila! they look like little garbage pails. But they're not ;)

The black kid kept telling me about how the white kid was out partying with some older sailors (who could obviously hold their liquor better and) who'd abandoned him at some point in the night's festivities. The black kid took the white kid under his wing and assured him that he'd get them both back to base. He was very proud of himself for sticking up for his buddy and being The Protector. He was equally dissatisfied with the older guys.

We got to the Ashton Inn and Suites. The black kid went in to register. Then he disappeared (ostensibly somewhere to relieve himself, I'm sure). The receptionist, a woman about my age came outside to smoke a cigarette. She looked into the cab and saw my comatose young passenger, who was leaning forward in his seat, face buried in my emergency Bodily Fluid Ejection Device.

”He been that way for long?” she asked with a chuckle.

”All the way here from downtown,” I replied.

I gave the kids my number. I told them I'd pick them up whenever they wanted. With that, they stumbled away. I got up early the next morning, figuring that they'd call, but they never did. I assume they found their own way back to base.