iHateGreenBeans

(Originally posted July 2008)

I love Cats.

The musical. I can’t stand real cats.

The dislike was probably born out of medical necessity. You see, I’m allergic to cats. BIG TIME allergic to cats. If I sit on a couch that a cat has been on or near, my eyes become a watery, itchy mess and my air passages start to close.

Plus, most cats seem a bit snobby to me. It’s my opinion, but it’s probably true.

So you can imagine my disgust when the apartment cat decided to befriend me the minute I moved into my place almost two years ago. He sits at my window and meows for hours. I have to turn my TV up really loud to properly ignore him. Rumor has it that the gal who used to live in my apartment fed him all the time. And before you call me a mean cat hater, just know that the lady upstairs feeds him EVERY DAY and sometimes lets him in her place.

I’m itching just now thinking about it.

So Drake, as we call him because that’s the street I live on, is not hard up for loving. He thinks I am the bomb and loves me even though I don’t return the favor.

And how would I know this?

Because that dumb cats INSISTS on leaving me fun presents on my door mat. Let’s begin with the headless lizard. Sure it was the size of my finger, but none-the-less, DEAD and HEADLESS on my mat. It took a lot of courage for me to pick up the corner and fling the reptile into the nearby bushes. And then there was the frog he left me last summer. Poor chubby thing probably never saw Drake coming. That took a little more chutzpah to fling its dead carcass in the bush.

But there was one day that still haunts me. It will forever be the reason why I will never, EVER, fly out of my front door in a rush without looking below to see what treats have been bestowed on the infamous door mat.

It was winter. I remember because I had opened the door and felt a gush of cold air greet me. I closed the door and ran to find my gloves. I was in a rush to get to work and in my haste, I flung the door back open and started to step out to greet my day with a big smile. Praise be to the good Lord, I happen to look down.

It was St. Valentine’s Day massacre at my front door.

I was in mid-step and it took all of the strength in my legs to catapult myself over the bloody mess. I turned around to find a headless rat that had been gutted all over my mat and door. And when I say rat…I mean RAT! By the looks of things, it gave Drake the fight of his life. Blood was spattered on my door, my window, the carcass bush…EVERYWHERE!

I start to sick myself out looking at the remains of this animal. And then I notice. My glove is among the perished.

I guess in my attempt to hoist myself up an over, I lost grip on one of my mittens and it landed in the middle of the aftermath. Who cares, right?

I loved those gloved.

Notice I said loved.

Being used to frogs and lizards, it took a major pep talk with myself to strategically lean over just to lock my door. There was NO WAY I was going to attempt to fling any carcasses into the carcass bush this go around. I somehow managed to lock the door and then ran away as if the headless rat could chase me. I spot Drake on my way out and manage a “BAD KITTY” as I’m running for my life to my car. With one cold hand.

I call the apartment people and say that a small horse had been murdered on my front porch and someone needed to make sure that was NOT there when I returned home. I encouraged the guy that he needed to bring bleach as well.

“That cat must really love you,” he said. “It shows a sign of affection when they leave something like that on your front porch. It’s like a peace offering present.”

Maybe a nice gift basket full of wine and cheese next time?

Since then, I’ve been civil to Drake. Knowing that he is trying, makes me want to be nice. I greet him when I’m on the way to my car. I don’t kick him when he rubs up against my leg. It’s something, right?

So this weekend, a new neighbor moved in. Guess what? She has a cat. It’s an outdoor/indoor cat. And she’s mean. On Sunday, I heard a noise that made me jump out of my skin, run to the window with my phone in hand ready to call 9-1-1. It sounded like someone dying!

It was Drake and the new cat fighting. The most AWFUL noise you’ve ever heard in your life. And she was instigating! I had to go out and break the stupid fight up because I thought she was going to throw down. And Drake, being a gentleman, was not going to get into it with a girl cat. She ran off. Drake went to sulk by the pool.

That night, Drake was sprawled out by my door. Feeling sorry for him, I took my foot and scratched him three times. Just three. Can’t have him meowing at my window like he used to back in the day. I’ve just broken him of this habit. But three scratches is more than enough.

And this morning, I was left with this present.

You are welcome Drake.



One of my first oversea assignments was in the Ukraine. This is one of my favorite travel stories EVER! Let’s just say I was happy that the vodka was so strong…because it killed every single one of my taste buds.

Originally written in September 2007. Enjoy!

* * * * * * *

I’m back from the Ukraine and feeling a little groggy. Yes, the flight home was 11 hours and yes the pregnant women who sat both in front of me and back of me threw up different parts of the flight, but that’s neither here nor there.

I think my body is still trying to filter out the Vodka. And there was a lot of it.

On my last night in town, the guys from the Ukraine facility wanted to treat the Americans to a traditional Russian dinner. There were 10 of us all together at the back of a restaurant in the small town of Stryi.

Here is a breakdown of nationalities at our table:

1 Ukraine guy

2 Russians

3 Brits

1 dude from Ghana

3 Americans–me being the only girl

I am seated at the middle of the long table with my American colleagues at either side of me. I’m directly across from the Ukraine guy who happens to be the General Manager of the facility. He motions for the waiter to come over to pour a round of Vodka shots.

I had already been warned that these people drink Vodka like water. I had also been warned that it is an insult to not drink with them, so if offered, you’d better partake.

Ukraine guy stands up and toasts everyone at the table. He talks about the wonderful relationship between them and the US and is proud to call us partners. This goes on for about five minutes. In this five minutes, waiter boy has placed a plate of “something” at each end of the table. I’m no expert, but it looked like slugs.

Our host concludes his salute by saying that it is Russian tradition to chase the Vodka shot. On this special celebratory occasion, we will be chasing the shot with herring. And onions.

Lord help me right now. That was my first thought. Seriously.

He lifts his glass and toasts the table. We all slam our drinks back and spike the herring with our fork. Down the hatch.

All I can say is THANK GOODNESS the Vodka was like rubbing alcohol, because it burned the taste of the oily, slimy herring in my mouth. It may have burned a few taste buds too, but I’m good with that at this point.

Everyone cheers and high fives as waiter boy brings a plate of cucumbers, tomatoes and red bell peppers. I start munching away. I’m professional. I can get through this, even though I can’t stand tomatoes. We all know I have the appetite of a sophisticated fourth grader, but I pressed through for the good of the company.

All of the sudden, waiter boy starts making his rounds filling up the Vodka shots again. What in the world? Number two Russian guy stands up and makes a toast. It too lasts forever. We cheer. We toast. We take the shot. We all suck in air…you know what I mean…and then eat some more oily herring.

And then comes the questionable deli selection. Being the smart eater I am, I choose the two lightest meats. I convince myself they surely come from Louis Rich and chant mentally in my head, “It’s turkey and ham. It’s turkey and ham. It’s turkey and ham.” I gobble it up in three bites, ignoring the funny smell. I soon notice a plate has been thrust in my face. It’s full of rolled up bacon.

You may be thinking to yourself, “Oh good! Something she recognizes. Everyone loves bacon!”

Dear friend. We are in the Ukraine. It’s bacon fat. Fat. The fat of bacon. All white. Fat. Bacon fat.

My Ukraine friend who is across from me is holding the plate with a huge smile. “It’s good for you!”

Good to clog my arteries, but WHAT THE HECK! And where’s my Vodka shot? OH THERE IT IS!

Waiter boy comes over with the third shot. It helps to dissolve the roll of bacon that has lodged in my throat.

It is the beginning of the fourth course when I realize that we toast each round. I try to get the attention of my waiter friend, but my arms are too heavy to lift. He finally realizes that my joints are paralyzed from the Vodka and comes over to see what I need. I ask for bottled water. After looking at me like I’m from another planet, he finally brings one over.

Everyone is diving in to the potato ravioli (not the real name, but what I called them) and luckily they don’t notice me putting water in my shot glass. The next course comes and I’m ready to toast EVERYONE! By the end of the night, the Russians are toasting the Vodka. The Brits are toasting the Americans who carry guns, and the Americans are toasting the Revolutionary War. Good times.

All together there were seven courses. I had four Vodka shots and three water. I slept good that night. And also have the feeling that my insides have been cleansed.

And it’s a good thing my insides were cleaned out, because I later found out that that deli meat was donkey tongue.

I think I threw up a little in my mouth just typing that sentence.

Thanks to everyone for their emails, comments and suggestions on what I should showcase for this THROWBACK edition. It floors me that so many of you have been reading for so long and actually have favorites! Please shoot me an email and let me know which posts you’d like to see in the next couple of weeks. This is so fun for me!

The following is from my Holy Land trip to Israel in June 2008. My friend Nancy Jane and I made the decision to blog about our adventures. The result was some hilarious entries born out of an average of three to four hours sleep each night. If you’d like to read all the tales, click on the ISRAEL link under the category section to your right.

I hope you enjoy this trip down memory lane as much as I did!

Lincee

* * * * * * * * * *

Masaa Al-Khayr (“Good Evening” in Arabic) from Petra!

After waking from a restful night of three times the amount of sleep we’ve received in the last three days (AKA seven hours) we were raring to experience Petra—one of the Eight Wonders of the World! (Readers should note that we are obliged to acknowledge the Astrodome as one of these impressive wonders.)

We were told to wear comfortable shoes and a hat and drink plenty of water, because the entire day was dedicated to exploring this amazing area. We were also told to wear comfortable pants, as we would be riding horses, donkeys and camels. A true Jordanian experience.

Hewn from towering rock walls of multi-colored sandstone,Petra’s temples, tombs and now gift shops are a true testament to the vision and entrepreneurial spirit of the desert tribes who sculpted them. Our initial Petran impression is at the first main entrance: an Indiana Jones Gift Shop, probably owned by one of Ruti’s (our Israeli tour guide) Jordanian relatives.

The deeper and deeper we walked into Petra, the mountains just seemed to rise up like giant oak trees around us. It was like walking in the bottom of the Grand Canyon.

Well, truthfully…neither of us have ever been to the Grand Canyon before, but we’d bet it is similar. Aside from the fact that the Grand Canyon probably doesn’t have kids selling $5 camel bone necklaces, donkey drivers wearing “I’m with Stupid” t-shirts and recklessly-driven carts zig-zagging between tourists to go and pick up the next bunch of lazy Americans who can’t seem to make it all the way to the Treasury. It just didn’t scream “bedouin” to us!

We followed the path to the dead-end into a carved façade that is featured in “Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.” The community’s Treasury, all Hollywood aside, is truly the finest site we experienced all day.

We pressed on past the Treasury with promises from Tony and Naiheim of spectacular visions … and CAMEL RIDES!! We hiked up a small cliff to the site of a Byzantine temple carved out of the side of the mountain. The room had naturally colorful interiors and great acoustics. Aside from the kids, still peddling their $5 camel bone necklaces, it felt as if we’d been transported back through time.

Our head honcho leader delivered a message in this temple/cave focusing on the premise that drawing near to God results in His drawing near to us. It was a very meaningful devotional, despite the fact that Naiheim’s (our tour guide) cell phone kept going off. Only this time, the cave we were in had fantastic acoustics and whatever he was saying to answer his wife, brother or Cousin Abdulla in Arabic, we are almost positive translated to “Can you hear me now?” “Can you hear me now?” “Can you hear me now?” Who knew that Byzantine Temple ruins had such great reception?

We headed on to our lunch spot a bit down the mountain, appropriately named THE BASIN, and dined on hummus, cous cous, olives, and an unidentifiable fluorescent orange dessert. Bedouin rumor has it that Barbara Walters visited this spot several years ago for her in-depth interview with Harrison Ford. There is no church erected on the site to commemorate this occasion.

Following lunch, our group split up. There were those in our group who chose to massacre themselves and walk 10 feet south of the sun to reach the Monastery pinnacle. Among these was Lincee. There were others who chose to get back to Jordanian civilization, have a beer, take a dip in the pool, and reflect on the 17 camel bone necklaces they had purchased. Among these, Nancy Jane.

NJO’s experience:
It was a no-brainer that I’d take the camel back to the Treasury. I bartered Solomon, my camel guide, down from $15 USD to $10 USD and he immediately arranged for me to ride atop Elian, Petra’s most disgruntled, overworked and underpaid camel. I should have known better. I was no less than 15 feet away and already Elian was hissing, spitting, and screaming at Solomon, who was, I’m sure, cursing at him in Arabic.

I kept asking Solomon, “Are you sure Elian is a nice camel?” To which Solly replied, “Oh yes, princess, he is a wonderful camel and loves American women, just like I do.” Translation: “You get what you pay for you, cheapskate!”

A bit nervous, albeit excited about riding a camel, I swung my leg around the saddle horn, held on with a death grip (the blister is just now subsiding) and Solomon coaxed Elian up from his “at ease” position, again cursing him for attempting to bite the leg of a fellow camel rider right next to me.

At this point, faithful readers, I was freaking out. And I do mean AUDIBLY freaking out. I had every Bedouin camel guide in the city of Petra thinking I was being sacrificed at the Virgin Altar I was screaming so loud. Solly wasn’t quite sure what to think of me at this point and I think was ready to start paying me denari just to shut up. My fellow camel rider comrades just stared at me in disbelief. I had bragged all morning about growing up around horses and here I was, not even riding the thing yet.

I calmed down once Elian got all the way up to his feet and aside from the intermittent glances back to try and nip my legs, we were friends now. Until he decided he was going to be the Mario Andretti of the Petran camels.

As luck would have it, Elian is a young camel. He’s a camel who is not afraid to show his prowess. He was also not afraid to run a bit and I think even quite enjoyed hearing Solomon chasing after us cursing in Arabic, my nervous, “Um sir, sir SIRRRRRR,” tourist groups stopping all over to snap pictures of the afflicted camel rider, and Petran necklace-peddling kids laughing and pointing as I raced past them in a camel-like blur (okay, so it wasn’t THAT fast, but I’m telling you that camel ride is not the smoothest ride in town!).

By the time Solomon finally caught up with us, Elian was ready to compromise and be a good camel. The rest of the 45-minute ride was quite uneventful, excepting the moment when he finally did get a good little nip at me when I tried to pet him. Too petrified to ask for pictures to be taken, to even speak really, I don’t have anything to commemorate my camel experience. I suppose I could ask around, as I’m sure my rendezvous with Elian is on YouTube somewhere out there!

Returning to the hotel for a little R&R was just what the sheik ordered. I also got a little “real work” done and awaited hearing back from my roomie regarding her afternoon adventures.

Lincee’s Experience:
Earlier in the day, Naiheim mentioned to me that I must make the trek up to the Monastery after lunch, because it would change my life forever. Who am I to turn down an opportunity like that?

I congregated with others from our group at the base of the mountain and began the journey at an aggressive pace. Probably a little TOO aggressive for a climb that takes 40 minutes and boasts more than 800 steps that wind around in a zig zag up high inclines.

Pretty much immediately, the slight throbbing pain in my right knee (two ACL surgeries) told me to take my time. I convinced myself that I was just going to “enjoy the view” as the other people my age passed me left and right. The first 10 minutes wasn’t that bad. The second 10 minutes? No so much. I started doing that fake, “Oh look at that rock!” or “Check out this view!” as I leaned over, huffing and puffing, convinced that my right lung was about to explode in my chest. I’d ask my fellow climbers, one an 80-year-old man who is currently on the waiting list for a kidney, to take my picture at every curve we rounded. These were precious seconds that allowed me to catch my breath and chug down ridiculous amounts of water. I figure there were around 43 photos of me on the way up that mountain, which were all immediately deleted. Bless my heart, no one needs to the pained look on my face as I fake a smile.

Reaching the 30 minute mark, I almost decided to take up residency with the Bedouins who peddled camel tooth necklaces every 100 yards. I was resting against a rock in the blistering heat, when a nice lady offered me shade under her tent. I hoisted myself up to her blankets and sat down. She offered me tea and even let me bounce her baby (who was absolutely precious) for a few minutes before I returned to the mountain that knows no mercy. Another 100 yards at the next Bedouin tent, a little boy tried to force, you guessed it, a camel tooth necklace on my arm. After graciously declining, he said, “That’s okay miss. Only five more minutes left. You come see me when you are done!”

If I could have felt my arms, I would have picked that little eight-year-old up and carried him on my shoulders to the Promised Land. This information gave me a new sense of strength! I readjusted my backpack, daintily dabbed the sweat from my brow and trudged on. The next Bedouin tent resident was an old lady smoking the largest joint in existence. I bet she had a few offers for it, but that’s neither here nor there:

Bedouin: “Miss? Miss? Something to take home?”
Lincee: “No thank you. I’m just going to the top of the Monastery. I hear it’s going to change my life.”
Bedouin: “Okay. Only five more minutes.”

HOLD THE PHONE! FIVE MINUTES WAS THREE MINUTES AGO!

Calculating the jumping distance on what it would take for me to fling myself off the cobbled steps into the death valley below, I am rescued by the sweetest angel this side of the evil mountain.

His name was Christian. I assume he sensed my internal struggle and clearly recognized my physical incapability to press on. He offered, nay, insisted that he carry my backpack the remaining five minutes.

I can’t tell you what a huge weight was literally lifted off of my shoulders due to the fact that my laptop, camera, 32 pound Bible and 17 Bedouin necklaces were weighing me down. I skipped along to the end of the path, light on my feet and sipping my water bottle with glee, while encouraging Christian to the top. I probably would have serenaded him with “Hero” by Enrique Iglesias if I had not been in awe and speechless at what stood before me.

The place was HUGE! it took my angel Christian and another jock dude to hoist me up into this beautiful building to take a closer look. Sadly, it smelled like urine in there, so I opted to enjoy the majesty from a nearby rock outside.

A few minutes later, our fearless leader (who just had a hip replacement) and Henry (the gentleman waiting for a kidney transplant) walked past and invite me to come with them just beyond the Monastery to see Aaron’s tomb. Promising it would only take five more minutes, I was clearly either on crack or a high from the climb and joined them.

The view was breath taking and it was something I will remember forever.

I joined sweet Bonnie and Robert for the walk back down the mountain. Obviously this task was easier on the lungs, but much more strenuous on the ACL knee that was pleading me to rest, ice, compress and elevate. Bonnie and I talked about how riding a camel never sounded so good and we were relieved to find a herd waiting for us at THE BASIN exit.

Our three camels were tethered together in a group. Bonnie led the way and I brought up the rear on a black camel named ZaZa. Being that I’ve ridden a camel before at FCA camp in high school, I felt like a pro. Our guide Ferris said that she was the best camel in Petra and was considered a matriarch of the herd. She was also impatient. ZaZa insisted on being first in line and would annoyingly pass Robert’s camel Jack and try to make her way to the front of the line. Being tethered together, this made for some awkward maneuvering among our group. Robert’s legs would become wedged against his camel and mine, Jack would spit and hiss at ZaZa for not staying in line and I would often have to swing my legs from one side to the other as not to knock over Bedouin displays of Petra magnets and oil lamps.

We reached the Treasury and bid everyone farewell. All-in-all, it was an amazing day at Petra and there was a moment in my quite time on the mountain that I will treasure forever. It was a true experience of a lifetime.

Together again:
Once we’d showered and de-camelized ourselves, we joined our group downstairs for dinner and debriefing of the day’s events. Nancy Jane failed to bring up her camel-riding experience and Lincee was mum on her finish-out with the other 80-year-olds in the group. No need to bring up anything that could find itself on the world wide web, right?

We closed out the evening with cocktails in the Jordanian-inspired hooka smoking room while Ali and his guitar assistant Mohammed played a repertoire of exactly three songs: “The Girl from Ipanema,” “God Bless the USA,” and “Every Step You Take.”

Conversation was light due to the fact that we were all nursing broken tail bones, camel horn blisters, swollen knees, sunburns, donkey rot and the inability to complete sentences due to a high from the secondary hooka smoke. All the girls looked really fabulous, however, in their camel tooth necklaces.

I recently took a minor poll among friends and family members who have been following my blog for years. I was interested to hear which of my posts they thought would best represent my writing style for submission to a magazine editor.

It’s been so fun to hear what they consider to be my classics. I’ve decided to start a new category called “Throwback” and will post some of my early vintage work periodically until the new site is up and running.

Let me know what you guys think!

Lincee

* * * * *

So there I was. Dreading HUET Class. Also known as: Helicopter Underwater Evacuation Training.

Oh. I’m not joking.

Somehow, I’ve been on a few offshore rigs before and never once been asked if I am certified. Apparently, you can sign a waiver saying that if you helicopter goes down, you won’t hold anyone liable. But those days are over I hear, according to my boss. We had one of our “infamous” chats just last week:

Boss: “Good news and bad news.”
Lincee: “Should I sit down?”

Boss: “You are probably going to Rio to visit a few offshore rigs in Brazil.”
Lincee: “Sweet!”

I start singing “Welcome. Welcome to Rio! The tropical hot spot. Saludos amigos.”…a song that was included on my Disco Mickey Mouse cassette tape that I wore out playing over and over and over again when I was a kid. He didn’t laugh. He just stared at me funny. He does that a lot. I did, however, finish the chorus before preparing myself for the bad news.

Boss: “We will have to take HUET classes. That’s where they dunk you under water and you have to escape out of the helicopter simulator. You okay with that?”
Lincee: “Indubitably.”

He leaves my office and the first thing I do is “YouTube” this HUET business. As I’m searching, I convince myself it’s not going to be that bad. I love to swim. I can hold my breath like a champ. This is going to be a piece of cake.

Then I see the video. Things are looking good. Climbing in the chair. Okay. Buckling in. Sort of creepy, but got it. Crossing arms and signals. Good, good. And then dunk!

HOLD THE PHONE! THEY DUNK YOU UPSIDE DOWN?

Cleansing deep breathes to get my heart rate down. In through the nose. Out the mouth.

My class is in Galveston. By the time I make the hour long trip there, I’m convinced that the test will take place in a dark simulator with five or six guys in scuba gear ready to rescue me when I start flailing about in a panic. I wonder if my steel toe boots are going to sink me to the bottom of the tank that is filled with murky water and if I’ll be able to move in my orange coveralls. What if I can’t hold my breath that long? What if I pass out and they have to do CPR? What if I’m the first one to ever fail HUET? What if I fail and am unable to go to Rio?

The class is small. We are in a room with about 10 other people. I’ve arrived with my boss and Mark, the guy who takes all of our photography and video. We sit near the back and listen to our instructor Jim.

Clearly, Jim has done this for a very long time. This fact is evident from the way he describes “all you need to know” about HUET safety. Basically, you strap yourself in and cross your hands over your chest. For today’s class, there are two exits…one to the right and one to the left. You will be dunked three times. The first time, you exit your window and your partner exits his. The second time, you both go out your window and the third, you both go out your partner’s window.

Jim says that it’s simple really. Just place your hand on the window pane at the bottom with your strong hand and unbuckle with your left and swim out. If you get scared, put your hands on your forehead and you will be pulled out.

And that’s it. The pep talk took all of ten minutes. I look at my boss. He looks back. I dissolve into a fit of giggles.

Next, we watch a 20 minute video about three dudes who work offshore. It appeared to be made in the early 80s. The video simulated a helicopter going down and what do to if you are ever in this situation.

The narrator’s first suggestion was to remain calm and take a deep breath.

Okay.

He then walks us through Jim’s evaluation descriptions, reminding us to not kick our legs…whatever we do. All three guys make it out safely. Hurray!

Then they walk us through what to do if things don’t go as planned. Such as: what if your window doesn’t pop open? What if there’s a “perished” colleague in your way? What if your seat belt doesn’t unfasten?

All very valid questions in my book.

My favorite part was when they tell you not to take a big breath when you pop up out of the water because there is more than likely going to be a fire or some sort of fuel spill. It’s best to just take a quick breath and go back under and swim away from the debris. Then look for survivors.

Survivors.

Lights come on and Jim asks if there are any questions. We all sit in solemn silence. He claps his hands and says, “Now. Let’s get out there and pass this test!”

We all look at each other baffled. I think we may have been in the classroom for less than an hour. And we are going to the simulator? Already? Don’t I need more instruction? Can I watch that video again, because this time I won’t be distracted by the “perished” colleague’s mullet. Please?

Nope. We get the “fun part” over with at the beginning of class.

Now I’m nervous. I change into my coveralls and head to the car. We arrive at our destination and it’s a swimming pool. With a steel cage. THAT’S IT? No murky water? No dark simulator? Oh look! There’s Jim! He’s rockin’ some sweet back hair. I guess there won’t be five guys in scuba gear ready to save me. It’s just Jim. This isn’t so bad after all!

Our first part of training was jumping off diving boards and swimming in long lines hanging on to each other with our legs. I made sure not to swim by my boss during this portion. My legs were wrapped around a nice marine biologist thank you very much. We practiced huddling in a circle and keeping the middle guy warm. This happened to be our photographer Mark. That wasn’t awkward at all. We then all enter a rescue life raft. I was the last to be hoisted through the opening by two guys. They pulled me in so hard, that my face landed in the middle of everyone’s feet and then I slid ALMOST into the crotch of the marine biologist. Again…not awkward at all.

We exit the pool and go to the cold water immersion suit area. These things are basically big rubber jumpers that are supposed to keep you warm in the North Sea should you have to jump overboard. They make you look like a red Gumby. The trick is to wiggle in them on the ground like you are entering a sleeping bag. Then you stand up, put your arms in and attempt to zip up the front. Clearly, this was a problem for me.

They had us jump off the diving board again and do all the same things in these ginormous suits that we just did with life jackets. Fun times.

Now for the hard part. There are six of us in this portion of the simulator test. We have to pair off. My boss chooses me. And we are stuck going last.

The first pair get in the simulator and dunk three times with flying colors.

The second pair have one little bump…the girl’s helmet fell off because her head is so small.

And now it’s our turn. My boss enters first and I’m behind him. I’ve been feeling pretty confident and it isn’t until I buckle myself (shoulder harness and lap belt) that I begin to think, “Is this really necessary? I mean, I’m pretty sure I’m going to “perish” if I go down in a helicopter. And knowing my luck, a shark will probably eat me if I happen to survive impact, getting out of the seat, finding a window, opening a window, swimming to the top and not breathing in toxic air. Maybe I should re-think this job. I could write for a living. Maybe I could call ABC and see if they would give me a job as Chris Harrison’s assistant or something. Heck. I’ll wait tables. Maybe go back to Disney World…”

Jim is yelling at me. “READY?”
Mark the photographer is yelling at me. “SMILE!”

We both say we are ready and he yells, “TAKE A DEEP BREATH!” and we plunge sideways into the water.

All I can remember is that up became down and right became left. And there were lots of bubbles. I feel my window pane, unbuckle quickly, waiting for the eight second tap that it is time to swim out. A little disoriented which way is up, I head for sun and pop out of the water.

I did it!

Back in the simulator for round two. My boss got water up his nose and in his ears. He can’t hear me, or is ignoring me, when I ask, “Which way do you want to go out this time? Me follow you or you follow me?”

Nothing. He doesn’t answer. He’s mentally preparing himself for the quest. I have to punch him into reality. We decide he will follow me on round two.

Jim yells again, “READY?”
We agree.

Dunk number two. I find my pane, unbuckle and feel a push from my side. My boss is forcing me out the window! Being a rule follower, I was waiting for the eight second tap, but in his world, you survive by any means necessary. I head out the window and he proceeds to grab my leg. Not for dear life…but an aggressive grab none the less. I basically pull my leg through the window and he follows, popping up out of the water before me! I then get lectured on how I need to be quicker when evacuating an upside down helicopter simulator in the middle of a pool on the Texas A&M campus in Galveston.

Yeah. Note to self. Got it Bill.

Round three. I am to follow him out his window now. We are old pros by this point and I hang out upside down for a while thinking I need to give him some time to unbuckle and get through the window. I reach over and he is GONE. Dude has left me to “perish” below. I cross hand over hand to escape. It is then that one of my toe thumbs gets wedged somehow between two pieces of metal. No time to waste, I jerk it out with all my might. When I reach the surface, he is dried off, drinking water and talking with Mark the photographer.

Thanks a lot Bill.

Soaking wet, we make our way to the car where our dry clothes are stored. We walk in silence and then Mark says, “That was pretty cool.” We all agree, high five each other and talk about the times we were really nervous but didn’t want to tell the other one. Then we all call everyone we know to say we are alive and bask in the glory of the fact that it’s OVER!

All in a day’s work my friend. Next stop? Rio de Janeiro baby!