Has any one seen my Karma?

Caught after my son chummed up his own fish

I had the opportunity to spend New Years with special friends at Bakers Bay, Guana Cay.  Bakers Bay is a high end development on the north end of Guana geared towards individuals who demand the anonymity and security afforded by an exclusive out island in the Bahamas.  The beauty of the reefs on the ocean side is unparalleled.  Imagine Pebble Beach with colors of the Caribbean.  Who would have thought that with all this affluence and breathtaking vistas that someone would have usurped a portion of my Karma.

My friends came in three boats to Bakers.  One of them being the most spectacular 300 foot vessel I have ever seen.  The “Mad Summer” was crewed by 35 people, all very professional and genuinely friendly.  One of the stewards was a gentleman from Sri Lanka named Nihal.  Nihal was a very engaging Buddhist.  This philosophy is a valuable trait in a steward because there is never a worry that he will stumble up to the upper deck hot tub in a drunken stooper to pour the champagne.  Little did I know that the only bad habit Buddhists have is collecting Karma.  They only seem to “borrow” good Karma.  I would have no issues if he had helped himself to bad Karma and was able to dispose of it  only as a  true Buddhists can.   I have always considered myself to have good Karma.  I am still alive despite having provided myself with several opportunities to die a violent death.  I think I have very few enemies and I live and work in one of the most spectacular locations in the world.

New Years started off in a stupendous fashion with the company of my son and great friends.  The party moved to Bakers Bay Marina for more libations and fireworks.  By one in the morning the group started to die off.  I spotted a friend and her husband from Treasure Cay and invited them back to the boat.  Before I knew it there were ten people in the tender waiting to shove off…apparently there was supposed to be 11.  All we heard was a loud splash.  The Conch Bar on Baker’s dock has one design flaw.  The dock railing stops somewhat abruptly before you get to the seawall path.  One of our party was flailing in the water in high heals, designer pants and top.   Despite her diminutive stature it took  great effort to load her into the rigid inflatable.

The next day Mike and Mike (father and son captain and mate) took us bottom fishing.  These two guys have the best fishing skills that I have encountered.   Mike senior has been a boat captain or involved somehow with the ocean his entire life and has taught Mike “junior” (somewhere around 6′2″ 250lbs) well.  This is when it became painfully obvious  that there was a small void in my broad area of Karma.  I caught nothing.   Everyone caught something.  I am usually a very productive angler.  To make things worse my son started hurling.  We needed to be in Green Turtle for the Junkanoo by 2:30 so pulled anchor and left.  I think my error in judgment came when I video’d the woman who took the header into Bakers Bay while on the Mad Summer.  In replaying the video to my horror I noticed Nihal in the background.  I am sure that somehow he felt I had captured his soul in my video and in retribution dekarma’d me.

Things haven’t been going so well since then.  I won’t elaborate more.  Lets just say they concern issues with the U.S. court system and my soon to be ex.  I am burning candles and have dyed a sheet pink for my Hari Krishna gown.  Soon I should have a small poney tail.  Surely these efforts will bring back my missing Karma.  Nihal, where ever you are..I hope you are listening.

Priceless

Wahoo shishkabobs…$50, double Padron margaritas $156, Regina falling overboard in Hope Town Harbor on the coldest day in 20 years..Priceless.

My son is here to spend some time with me this month.  The plan was to go to Hope Town and catch the swell I anticipated from this cold front.  We stayed at the Hope Town Harbor Lodge, a great place with friendly people.  If you ever get a chance to go there make sure you see Gary the beachside bartender and tell him I said hello.  As fate would have it the ocean was better suited for water skiing than surfing.  With the onset of the front, the wind was howling at thirty knots out of the west/northwest.  This knocked down any swell the low pressure area could produce.  The problem with not staying involved in some physical activity in Hope Town is that you are drawn by the Sirens of Vodka  to any (or all) of the many bars on the Cay.  

Regina was in town visiting her surfing buddy Chase who by the way is a pretty good surfer and the man to know if you want to meet some interesting people.  Chase lives on Lubbers Cay which is a good swim but short boat ride from Hope Town.  Lubbers Cay is also the location of Cracker P’s bar and grill, famous for their full moon party and total lack of stress.  This is where we spent Saturday afternoon.  We were the only people in the bar.  The wind was constant at 30 knots and driving a steady rain.  With a bit of imagination and a couple of shots, you could convince a reasonable person that it was sleeting.  The only way to survive the boat ride back to Hope Town (20 ft center console) was to brace yourself with cocktails.  There were no snow suit rentals at Lubbers.

The trouble really didn’t start until Sunday.  Regina had been busy caretaking a rental house on Elbow Cay.   By early Sunday afternoon she had finished managing the mess left by the previous renters and was very ready to throw back a few.  The van from Turtle Hill bar brought us to their beachside location and so it began.  Tequilla should be regarded in the same class as absenth….banned in 48 states and the Caribbean.  My son and Regina share similar (expensive) taste.  Of course the only way they can start off a Sunday afternoon is with double shots of Padron Margaritas.   My son was unaware that they were drinking doubles and Regina was apparently unwilling to share this important fact which is why Johnny also made sure to order an extra shot of tequilla as a “floater” with each margarita.   If you are doing the math, they are now drinking triples.  I of course being a creature of habit drink only vodka and did not participate in this liver fest.

Regina is a tall woman and holds her alcohol pretty well.  Keep in mind this is a beautiful venue.  We were out of the wind and high on a bluff overlooking the ocean.  I can recommend the Wahoo shishkabobs and chicken souce.  I don’t recommend the triple Padron Margueritas unless you are part of the growing cult that believes the liver is evil and should be punished.  The only reason we left is because we ran out of money. 

We are now in Hope Town proper.  Regina is insisting that the whole crew go to Lubbers and spend some time at Cracker P’s.  This is when my guardian angel assessed the situation and pushed Regina out of the boat and into the Harbor.  Miraculous interventions are totally dependent on timing.  As soon as Regina stepped  on to the gunnel of the boat she was thrown into the cold water by the unforseen hand of fate.  This truly was spectacular to watch.  What I find most incredible is that none of us three men moved an inch from our stance on the dock.  We all knew Regina was a great free surfer and swimmer.  She was perfectly capable of hauling herself back into the boat fully clothed and soaking wet.  Besides, we were laughing too hard to be of any use.  

This divine intervention afforded me the opportunity to convince my son that we needed to board the next ferry and get back to Treasure Cay.  We found Regina some dry clothes and a warm shower.  I left her sitting at the bar with Chase.  Its kind of ironic how the sea can turn on you.  Earlier that afternoon Regina was one of the prettiest girls on the Cay now she looked more like a drowned cat/bag lady in my black hoody sweat shirt and Chase’s baggy sweat pants, but she was still smiling and still pretty.

Thanksgiving in the Abacos

As a Country, the Bahamas doesn’t celebrate Thanksgiving.  The Lucayan Indians did not teach the loyalists and emancipated emigrees how to grow corn and deep fry turkeys.  The Bahamians however withstood incredible hardship.  The Lucayans were probably chased here 500-800 years ago by cannibals in Venezuela.  I guess not eating is better than being eaten.  This intensity of hunger by the way was just the sort of stimulus that  drove a man or woman to try the first snail (kurd here), mussel or turtle.  I digress.  Most Bahamians, having conquered these many hardships do as a people celebrate thanksgiving.  I had the great fortune and adventure of taking many friends and family (soon to be former in-laws but family forever) to Spanish Cay for Thanksgiving debauch…umm celebration.   

Wednesday morning I picked up Lisa, Reggie and Kim in Treasure Cay and dropped them off on Green Turtle Cay.  We immediately went to see Ms Debbie and her worlds best dirty martinis at the Green Turtle Club.   That afternoon Reggie and I returned in my boat to the main.  We braved Hell’s Highway (see previous blog) to pick up my niece Gail, Mike and Georgia  in Marsh Harbor.   I was cautious to keep my blood alcohol below .80 ( only doctors have the knowledge and capability to do this so don’t try it at home) so that I could impress my 1 year old niece  Georgia with my driving skills on the left side of the road.   The timing was perfect. My boat has no lights (Bahamian theft prevention) but the ferry was running late and I handed my crew off to Nigel hoping my sister in law and Kim had not spent so much time with Ms. Debbie that she would no longer recognize her daughter and granddaughter.  I stayed in Treasure Cay to take care of Lucky the Wonderdog, Sporty and Aspen the Mauler (my blog followers know who they are).

Thursday morning we were all to be in Spanish by 11:00 Sarah Time which unlike GMT means give or take 3 or 4 hours (sorry Sarah, you know I love ya).    After the squall, flight delay of another friend, two or three bottles of Champaign, a bottle of Belvedere and Grey Goose we were ready to go.  The wind kicked up some but we were well oiled and damn near bullet proof.   In two boats, we headed in the 20 mile general direction of Spanish Cay.  Babs, Sarah and I could and probably have made this trip in our sleep.  We made it uneventfully,other than the crew  slathering the deck of my boat with cocktails and managed to tie up both boats without anyone going in the water!   We were welcomed at the dock by Richard and Terry as the festivities continued.

Richard is the general manager and executive chef at Spanish.  Terry is the engineer and rock star entertainment in the bar.  This was to be Terry’s last day at Spanish and Thanksgiving was a combined celebration going away party.  Because we arrived late, they were waiting on us to serve dinner.   It was the usual 7000 calorie thanksgiving feast done to perfection by my friend Richard, chef extraordinaire.   In retrospect it may well have been the protective effect of pre-cellebritory callory loading that kept my party out of serious recovery issues.  We had two large condo’s for the night so there were no designated driver concerns.  My only mission was to keep a few key members of my group from the edge of the dock.  Fortunately the width if the planks was sufficient enough for a fairly wide stagger.    Uncharacteristically several key members of our group succumbed at an early hour.  This left the evening to Richard, Terry, Reggie Mike and me.  

State dependency refers to the phenomenon of requiring the conditions of the previous mental state in which you learned certain skills to exist before  they can be re-acomplished at that level of skill.  In other words some people play pool better when they are drunk.  Richard and I affected the precarious balance of world finance that night and early morning.  Terry with Richard as his backer first began playing me for yen.  As the figure grew exponentially we were forced to switch to dollars than euros and finally pounds.  My memory grows conveniently hazy after 2:00 a.m.  Somethings just can’t be blogged.  When I awoke the next morning and went to find Richard in the bar we were stunned to hear that Dubai had defaulted on a 36 billion dollar loan.  The ripples of our pebble in Spanish Cay had turned the world banks on its collective ear.

Happy holidays everyone!

Hell’s Highway

Mainland Abaco is approximately a 0ne hundred plus mile stretch of Caribbean beauty.  Fox Town at the extreme north is connected to Cherokee and Sandy Point in the south end by an equally long stretch of road known as the Great Abaco Highway south of Marsh Harbor or S.C. Bootle Highway north of Marsh Harbor.  I just call the entire stretch Hell’s Highway.

There is an old saying that “you have to be tough to live in the Abaco’s”.  Here, the thrill of flying through your windshield is a more powerful force than self-preservation.  Seat belts are more often used as a tool for jacking cars and tying up your victims (according to a friend of mine) than preventing your brain from exiting your forehead.  To steal a phrase from Rod Serling “consider this”.   The “great” Abaco highway is  unlit and unblemished by any paint or marking of any kind.  There is no longer a center line or edge marker.  There are no curve reflectors, caution signs or street lights.  Curves are strategically placed on the normally straight road to have the maximum impact on carnage generation.  Head lights of imported American cars are cleverly directed to blind other drivers.  Remember we drive on the left in the Bahamas.  Many illegal immigrants address this annoying issue by running at night with no headlights as a demonstration of courtesy.   One favorite pass time in Abaco is to see who can get from Coopers Town to Snappa’s happy hour in Marsh Harbour in the least amount of time.

Most of us accept these issues as the price of living in paradise.  Most of us however are not the only private doctor left in Abaco who still takes emergency call.  The Government doctors do a good job but they are overworked and underfunded.    The real tragedy is the sadness and suffering of the families and survivors.  Please interpret no humor or caddiness in this paragraph.  I was in Hope Town and unavailable last weekend when four young men (including one of our local policemen) instantly lost their lives.  There is nothing I could have done anyway.  Last night another family member of one of those killed was critically injured in Treasure Cay.  I have no nurse, no PA,.. no suture technician.  I do have a community of volunteers and a good first responder system.  Medivacs here are always laborious.  It can take up to ten hours to fly out the sick and injured.  For non medical people who read my blog,  the “Golden Hour” often heard concerning trauma victims refers to the time between injury and arrival in the operating room…not emergency room.  Most major trauma’s are load and go from an EMS perspective.  The only place they have to load and go to here is my office.  Being the best equiped facility in the Abaco’s is a double edged sword.

Maybe this weekend I can drown my sorrows in the waves off Pelican Point or escape to Spanish Cay.

Land Shark Repellent

I’m like a camel in a dust storm right now…hunkering down.  The dust storm for those who know me is a metaphor for my life on my current course and time in the universe.  This too shall pass.   The point being, I haven’t written anything in a while.  The engineer is here fixing my CT scan (thank you Bahamas Electric Corp for the free power surges).  Therefore I have some idle time.

I went to Hope Town this weekend with my friend Sarah.  She was editing her cooking show with the production crew down there and my intention was to surf the entire weekend.   With 30 knot winds it was more like kite surfing sans the kite so I had to resort to plan B…the problem being there was no plan B.  I therefore decided to continue my research with my two carbon fragment shark repellent (see previous blog).  This would be my beta test series, on land with land sharks…the most dangerous and unpredictable species known to man kind.  Thanks to my marketing campaign my shark repellent is everywhere (grey goose if you didn’t bother to go back to my previous blog).  Hope Town Harbor Lodge was celebrating a full moon party (a week late, but we’re on Bahamian time) and there was a raucous crowd gathered for the band and festivities.   Grey Goose as shark repellent requires a blood alcohol content above .20.  This is the level at which there is sufficient pore seepage.  Much to my dismay, I have found that my potential contribution to diving mankind acts as an attractant rather than a deterrent to land sharks and I was in trouble.

Hope Town is a beautiful place.  They as are the rest of us are somewhat burdened by the current economy.  The tourists are not as plentiful but the locals were out in force tonight.  One particularly energetic local and I struck up a conversation at the bar.  He was hyperactive with shifty eyes, often turning from side to side mid sentence as if spirits were tapping on his shoulders.  He seemed to have a slight head cold as well.  My LEO friends see this syndrome often at bars and domestic disputes.  I just call it a cocaine habit.  They make for pretty good conversationalist though if you can filter out the paranoia.  He kept commenting and staring at this strangely attractive brunette, not as pretty as Sarah but in a similar class of beauty.  Sarah was with me at the time.  You see, I am her wing man.  We work as a team to meet people.  My new darty eyed friend began conversing with the other brunette then introduced her to me.  She subsequently began to pay way much too much attention to me.  I am not ugly, but certainly not the kind of  guy that an exotic 20 year old brunette would try to hit on.  At the time I was laboring under the false sense of security that my repellent would work with land sharks.  A fourth grader could see that these two were working together.  Sarah pointed out that the brunettes interest kept drifting toward Sarah.

These two were a caricature of aberrant interpersonal dynamics but made the whole night interesting.  It turns out they were married and in fact probably were looking to push the envelope of social norms.  The best way I have found to blow these people off is to just get drunk and rude.  Shark repellent or not as with medication, if one is good for you then several have to be better.  The rest of the night became somewhat of a blur.  Sarah’s problem was she had a room by the pool, no more than 50 feet from the bar, band and sociopaths   I however had a room on the back side of the Inn away from the crowd and noise.  I never imagine Sarah locking doors…but I’m sure she did that night.

We came home on Sunday morning.  Beside a hangover, I had been suffering from digital deprivation.  I had no access to computer, television or news papers  and was by now in sensory withdrawal.  Within five minutes of returning to my house in Treasure Cay, I was on the computer reading the Drudge report and flipping the TV between the Dolphins game and NASCAR.  An article in Drudge caught my attention.  It concerned a soldier dying of a new viral ebola like disease called Crimean-Hemmorhagic fever manifested by bleeding eyes and other orifices.  Not to belittle this soldier’s sacrifice, but I am sure that is what I had Saturday morning after the full moon party.

Two carbon fragment shark repellent

All study applicants will be screened by Sarah to ensure they meet the physical ability requirements

Looking for volunteers to duplicate my initial study in Spanish Cay

Monday was a holiday in the Bahamas as well.  The Bahamians are undecided as to the status of Christopher Columbus so they instead celebrate Discovery Day.   The Green Turtle Cay residents pack up the picnic coolers and head to another Cay for beach parties.  We usually go out that afternoon and shoot our own fish and lobster, bring them back and cook for everyone.  This affords me another opportunity to test my new shark repellent outside the controlled environment of the lab.

I have been doing uncontrolled studies of this repellent for the past several years.  It was first introduced to me by the famous Babs Sams, free diver  extroidinaire.  It is basically a two carbon fragment, somewhat volatile liquid that is ingested before during and after the shark encounter.  I am of course referring to Grey Goose.  Sarah insists that Smirnoff offers superior protection due to the less involved distillation process (it tastes like diesel fuel and I agree is repulsive). 

The following are actual case studies.  While diving with Babs behind Manjack Cay I speared a respectable grouper.  He swam with my spear into a coral head with a fairly large cave like opening at the base.  This represents a problem for several reasons.  #1: You don’t want to lose your $60 stainless steel speer.  #2 You don’t want to lose or waste the fish.  #3 This represents a challenge to the free diver that we can’t pass up.  After mucking around in this 20 foot deep cave for 30 or 40 seconds I came out to be starred in the face by a moderate size shark….maybe one foot in front of my mask.  The two carbon fragment repellent I had ingested earlier worked according to my previous studies.  It does not however have any affect on preventing incontinence because I about S#$t in my pants.   Babs was watching from above and seemed to be very amused…she shares this shark repellent with me in these double blind controlled studies.  Babs was watching the shark for some time and knew it was only a nurse shark.  She suggested I let the nurse shark have the fish and that we move on.  We needed to clear that area because it was now a potential biohazzard anyway.

Case study number three occurred yesterday.  Donny and I went to one of his secret spots off No Name Cay.  We tried to bait up grouper with crawfish heads without much luck.  Donny decided to spear a Chub to bring the grouper out from the rocks.  The only thing that maneuver brought out was a bull shark.  I however had been rendered invisible by my shark repellent.  Donny was feeling vulnerable  and shot at it with his speer.   The bull shark swam away due to my shark repellent, not Donny’s volley.

As you will remember in a previous blog my alpha study was at Spanish Cay where my “friends” suggested I do my initial trial.  Read back a few months to my swimming with the bull sharks blog.  This initial trial is well documented but has never been duplicated at Spanish.  I can’t get any one else to try it.  My son and his life guard buddies would like to come down for some diving fun.  If they can clear Sarah’s rigorous testing and physical requirements, I will enroll them in the study.

Pool and Restaurant Etiquette

Could these lovely ladies drive a lawn dart through someone's head?

My friends Sarah and Leanne came over from GTC in the boat with their kids to play in the pool and jacuzzi at the Bahama Beach Club late yesterday afternoon.   Leanne is a talented artist and Sarah owns the best bar, restaurant and marina on Green Turtle Cay.  A guy by the name of Ernie was in the pool drinking Crown Royal and beer while chain smoking…this I believe is called multi tasking.  Ernie and another male friend had four “professional” women  giggling and frolicking in the pool.  I don’t think these women as lovely as  they were had any actual degrees.   This goes way beyond multi tasking.  Neither Ernie nor his friend appeared to have the testosterone reserves necessary to maintain the attention of their female “friends” so I am sure the ladies were attracted to him for his witty intellect and razor like repartee.  (Not).  I thought Sarah and Leanne were  about to drive lawn darts through the two ugly americans heads so we decided to move the kids to the beach.

The reason I bring this up is because Ernie reminded me somewhat of my former father in law (in appearance only).   My father in law could turn on a dime with just the right amount of Canadian club (as you will see) but his over all demeanor was gentle.  Walton (my father in law) and I were fishing buddies.  He was the naturally strongest man I have ever met.  He was built like Larry Zonka.  His wrists were too large to accomodate a watch.  This man could take a 14 pound sledge hammer and hold it straight out, parallel to the ground with one hand at the end of the wooden handle.  Try it some time.

After fishing all day in a tournament down in Fort Pierce, Walton, his son Johnny, an old friend of Walton’s named Sambo and I went to the finest water front restaurant in Fort Pierce.  We don’t take those tournaments too seriously so Walton and his friend Sambo hydrate with Canadian Club and ice.  They are fastidious about their hydration status.  Needless to say I am not having good feelings about all this.  I thought it was important for me to match them drink for drink so that we would be functioning on the same plane (the only way I could stand them when they were shit faced drunk).  The restaurant was very crowded.  Soft music was playing, the waiters wore black and walked with white towels on their forearms (which would come in handy).  We were finally seated in the center of a large dining area surrounded by happy families and elderly people who may well be enjoying their last meal.   Dinner was ordered and more drinks were served.

While waiting and drinking the topic of conversation turned to Walton’s Wahoo dinner order.  Sambo was quite certain that the restaurant didn’t know a wahoo from  a yoohoo and that Walton didn’t stand a chance of getting what he thought he ordered.  For some reason Walton didn’t take this well.  He informed Sambo that he knew a mother f&%*ing wahoo when he saw it.  This declaration was quickly followed by Sambo’s right cross.  Sambo didn’t have the body mass of Walton but Walton’s counter punch was enough to knock over not only our table, but EVERY other table behind us.   By now dishes are flying glasses are breaking old ladies are on the floor with their granny pants exposed and dresses over their heads.  The tables literally were turned over like dominoes.  You have to pack as many people as possible into those fine seafood restaurants.

In the midst of the melee we could hear police sirens in the distance.  My brother in law (Waltons son) informs me in no uncertain terms that I better break them up.  By now they have rolled out the dining room into the Bar and the sirens were getting louder.   I handed the manager a couple of hundred dollar bills, grabbed Walton and we headed down the steps.  Johnny grabbed Sambo (Sambo was half Walton’s size) and we all ran for the truck.  By now Sambo and Walton were worried about getting arrested and had stopped fighting.  Somehow we made it to the truck and hauled ass before the police arrived.

We never did get the Wahoo.  If memory serves me well we stopped at Mcdonalds where I was relatively certain there would be no fighting over the authenticity of our hamburgers.

Aspen the Mauler

Hey there. Come a little closer.

It’s been some time since I have posted so I hope you haven’t forgotten me.  Through a series of seemingly random events I have ended up as caretaker and surrogate health care provider to the most loathsome, depraved , malevolent animal ever abarently conceived by mother nature.  I’m of course referring to “Aspen the Mauler”.

Aspen is a cockatoo.  You know..remember “Baretta” and Fred the cockatoo who would answer the phone?  Well Aspen is larger than Fred and suffers from an extraordinarily malignant form of sociopathic personality disorder.  He or she (since it wears no comfortable shoes and doesn’t part his or her hair, I have no way of determining gender) originally belonged to my son.  We bought the bird at a very young age when it was necessary to hand feed the little bastard to keep it alive and encourage “imprinting and bonding”.  That lasted about one week until my son ignored the bird completely and my now ex wife took over the care and feeding.  They certainly bonded because she is the only human it will not attempt to maul.

Since my ex spent most of her time in the states (decided she wasn’t an island girl) I was responsible for the care and feeding of “mauler”.  If you are not faster than those world class kid cup stackers, mauler will collect finger tips.  I was bitten so badly a couple of years ago that I had to fly to the states in an attempt to reattach the digital nerve of my right index finger.  That didn’t go too well.  Since I am generally an animal lover I am forced to continue the care and feeding of “mauler”.  Last year after being lured into a false sense of confidence, the little f#%&er bit off my finger tip.  Fortunately I had some dermabond in my office and glued it back on.

Yesterday evening I went out to feed Aspen and lucky the wonderdog.  Aspen was not in its cage.  Lucky had a shit eating grin….but then brain damaged dogs always have a shit eating grin (refer to old blog).  I saw no tell tale feathers or bird carcass anywhere.  After inspecting the cage it was evident that the mauler had worked out one of the bolts securing the top of the cage and had cantilevered it enough to escape to freedom.  This could well be my new national holiday.  Blaming as I do everything on Sister Techla Marie and catholic guilt syndrome I actually took a glance around hoping I would not see houdini anywhere.  Sure enough the little amputator was insecurely sitting on a palm branch in the tree next door.  She was surrounded by insects in direct sunlight and looking very mortified.

Before I attempt this rescue, should I finalize a will, call my loved ones one more time, get drunk, fortify with Xanax, get drunk , pray, get drunk?  I rescued the little bastard using a towel and Grey Goose.  My Karma is still kicking because it left all my digits intact and only attempted to take an eyeball once.  Aspen is back in it’s cage planning  the next escape.  If there is anyone out there who would love and care for this sweet gentil giant, just leave a comment on my blog.  They will live for 60 or 70 years.

Dog at Large…or my life as a criminal

Sometimes you have to go with the flow

There is a low pressure trough over the Abacos this weekend, so the weather is bad but the surf is great.  Sarah and I surfed off Pelican point most of the day.   Surfing used to be an integral part of my life.  In fact thats why I chose my residency program because of its proximity to New Smyrna Beach.  At the time I had an old 57 chevy pick up and a huge Red Doberman named Adidas.  Adidas was given to me in medical school by a very close friend.  That dog as much as I loved him landed me in county jail.

Adidas and I used to drive to the inlet on the beach in high tide in the evening after work.  He used to follow me out on my surfboard until he nearly drowned so I had to start tying him to the bumper.  By the time he chewed through the ropes it was usually time for me to come in.  I mention this only so that you will understand how Adidas knew his way to the beach.

As a resident , you work long hours for little pay.  I would often be at work for 24 to 48 hours at a time.  I had a fenced in back yard in the New Smyrna ghetto.  I would leave plenty of food and the back door open for my dog.   Soon afterwards I began to notice beach sand throughout the house and on my bed.  At times I would come home after a long shift to find my vicious doberman sitting next to the ancient lady in her rocking chair next door.  “He comes to visit me every day late in the after noon” she said with a smile shaped by 90 years of life’s experience good and bad.

After coming home  from a particularly bad shift one day, I was met by a female NSB police officer who informed me my dog was in the pokey and that I would have to come to the station to bail him out.   She could see the incredulous look on my face so explained without my asking that Adidas had been picked up on the beach.  In fact, they had been trying to catch him for several weeks.  In order to get to the beach from my house you had to travel three miles over two high rise bridges.   The story gets much better if you have the time to read on.

I was issued a ticket for “Dog at Large” at the NSB police station when I bailed his criminal ass out.  I am a doctor not a lawyer so I assumed I would pay a fine and we would escape this shame through the passage of time.  Two weeks later there was a 4:00 a.m. knock on my door…nothing good comes knocking on your door at 4:00 a.m.  “Are you John ____ “, the biggest cop I have ever seen in my life asked me.  “Yes”.  “Do you own a large red dog?”  “Yes, thats him over there.”  We both turned to see Adidas the watch dog woken from a sound sleep in my easy chair,on his back, feet in the air with what I will swear to this day was a grin on his slobbery face.   The officer informed me that he was here to arrest me.  I tried to explain that I was on my way to the hospital.  I had patients to make rounds on.  Labs to draw, x-ray s to read and donuts to eat.  Even the donuts didn’t sway him.  I am supposed to hand cuff you sir and bring you in the back of my police car to jail and your preliminary hearing for “dog at Large” and failure to appear.  “Appear where ?” I asked…  “court”.  “But don’t worry ( these words NEVER ring true) this must be a big mistake.”  “Just follow me in your car and explain the circumstances to the judge.  He will release you on the spot.”

Well, I followed the police officer  into court where I wasn’t able to open my mouth but instead was escorted to a large holding cell after they took my tie, belt, shoe laces, pen and all the money from my pockets .  I tried to convince them that I was not going to hang myself over a dog..at least until I could exact my revenge on him.  I was the only one in the holding cell so I was able to witness the procession of rapists, murderers, wife beaters arsonists and drunkdrivers collected from the night before as they were escorted into my holding cell to share my special day with me.  In that cell there is a camera and a monitor so that everyone can entertain themselves watching the court proceedings to follow.   I was the first before the judge.

“Are you John ____”  ”Yes sir”.  “You have been charged with dog at large and failure to appear”   I’m thinking to myself, like the cop said, just tell the truth,  the whole thing must be a big mistake.  “But”, I began to say…”No buts about it son” the judge chirped as he ordered the bailiff to take me away.  Once back to the holding cell everyone was hysterical other than those whose hangovers and headaches prevented any emotional outbursts.  I sat down next to a particularly LARGE man who obviously could hear things I was incapable of.  I remember him escorted  into the cell earlier that morning when he stopped to ask an apparent friend if he was still going to the clinic for his monthly psychotropic shots…because he hadn’t gotten his for MONTHS.   This was now my best friend.  He showed me how to make my one phone call on a payphone without any money after I noticed he made a particularly long animated call.  I managed to call a friend to come bail me out and the day was saved (I thought).

In walk two deputies carrying a ten foot chain.  The chain was fitted with handcuffs every two feet or so.  I of coursed was cuffed to my new BFF (best friend forever for you non texters).  The ten of us were escorted under guard to a large van.  My BFF (the huge schizophrenic) and I were first in.  The only thing separating us from the deputy driver was an impenetrable metal screen.  We were only a few minutes into our drive to county jail when the deputy turns to my crazy BFF and tells him “we have got your ass now, stupid….those threatening phone calls you made from the cell to the Wallmart security guard are all on tape.”  This kind of set off my BFF throwing him  into a rage.   Hell hath no furry like a scorned schizophrenic off his medications.  The van was rocking and I am now nothing but a stainless steel extension of my BFF’s rage.  If he was flying, I was flying. If he was flailing, I was flailing.   Without a minute to spare we were at county jail where troops were massed to address the situation of the giant angry schizophrenic and his new doctor friend.

We were collectively thrown into a single cell with one stainless steel toilet sink combo.  The fungschwe (sp?) was very poor in that room.  The entire booking process was a source of entertainment.  The photographer (hold this card.  Face the camera.  Turn to your right) felt it was important to share my charges with all his colleagues.  apparently they had never had a “dog at large” matriculate so far through the initial legal system.  Two hours later I was bailed out.  My new BFF and I lost contact.  I often wonder how he is doing.

The initial judge who wouldn’t give me a chance to talk eventually ended in the mental ward of the hospital in which I worked (true story).  The judge who ordered my arrest for dog at large apparently had  issues other  than a deep seated fear of dogs and was voted out of office that year (true story).   I spent too much money on an attorney to have my record expunged and eventually became deputized and the head of the SWAT medical team.  Adidas continued to surf with me and eventually died a peaceful death of old age.

Dedicated to those that lived and died on Sept 11, 2001

I bagan my career as an EMS director in 1985.  My contract stipulated that I was to supervise the EMS activities of all fire departments and EMS agencies in the county.  At that time the county had about a dozen fire departments.  The largest of these were Daytona Fire/Rescue and Volusia county Fire/Rescue.  I would ride on the running boards of the engines in route to motor vehicle accidents and other ems/fire calls until the city manager found out about it.   It must have been my shit eating grin that pissed him off because there is nothing like riding on the running boards of  a fire truck.  To you firefighters out there, you know how long ago that was.  Now we have $300,000 fire engines that can comfortably seat six with air conditioning and headphones.   This blog is not about me, it is about fire fighters and EMS personel.  I am just trying to establish credibility.  I have been there and I know them.

While riding with Daytona Fire/Rescue one night we arrived at the scene of a burning building.  The shift commander and I ran up the steps of an old dilapidated house to find Skip doing mouth to mouth CPR on a comatose known intravenous drug addict as the roof burned above him.  We managed to intubate him on the scene but he subsequently died.  AIDS was by now well known as an EMS hazard.  Neither Skip nor the other firefighters gave it a second thought   It was their job.  So was extrication from burning automobiles, crawling through tunnels and collapsed buildings and  running into places that other people are running out of.

The risk reward ratio for firefighters is rather high.  By that I mean they receive relatively little pay for the risk involved.  They work a completely unpredictable shift and have little control over the future of their twenty four hour cycle.  That is one of their primary sources of stress.  They work in a highly charged environment which may be in an urban war zone or a rural double wide.  One would think that the uniform of a firefighter would be more symbolic of help or rescue but in the poverty and crime ridden urban areas they run they are considered a paramilitary organization just wearing a “uniform” and are often shot at or beaten as the enemy.

So to all firefighters and EMS personel I salute you and thank you for fighting the good fight.