Surfing

I have decided to be a surfer.  No, not the kind that sits at a computer all day and vicariously wanders the world.  I mean a hang-ten, narly, hey-dude, get on a surfboard and get into the waves surfer. 

I went to Westport, Washington, and enquired at "The Surf Shop" how to engage the services of a surfing tutor.  I was given a number, then I called to make arrangements, and planned to meet my instructor the next morning at 9 am.  Now I was a bit nervous, not only is this a new thing for me, but the last time I got lessons did not work out so well; I was trying to learn to snowboard so that I could spend more time with my kids.  I took some lessons at White Pass, Washington, and spent 2 hours with 16 year-old "Kyle".  He was a nice enough kid, but it was difficult, to say the least, for this scrawny kid, who just got his first pimple, to tell a 44 year-old, 6'3, 225-pound crusty cop anything.  I shouldn't be too harsh... Kyle got me carving down the mountain, although I blew out my knee (not to worry, all the broken cartilage was surgically removed).

So, there I was at The Surf Shop when a 50 year-old, 6'4, 270-pound ex-hippy looking-dude pulls up in an olive green Malibu convertible.  He came right up to me, shook my hand and said, "I'm Barry."  He helped me get a rental surf board (the foam-topped kind that tells everyone you are a clueless rookie), and told me to meet him at the beach.  I went out, thinking that I would be doing CPR on this guy if he tried anything strenous, and I have a bad record on CPR... 0 for 3.

Well, he wasn't going to surf, just tell me how.  We went to a surfing spot and I was starting to get a bit nervous; I did not have a clue what I was doing, and I couldn't even intimidate my instructor.  So you can imagine my relief when I arrived and saw the surfing spot; no, it's not that there was no one there, it's just that most of them had a foam-topped board just like me, and they were all splashing around just like I would be doing in about 10 minutes. 

Long story short:  Barry spent two hours probably wanting to get out and play, but he did impart some surfing tricks to this old dog.  Now my kids are both into surfing (they both like snowboarding better, though, but I'm working on it).

 

THE RIGHT CAMOUFLAGE

On St. Patrick’s Day there was bedlam in our fair city.  The Narcotics guys were trying to buy some drugs from a dealer and the whole thing went bad.  The dealer took out a .40 caliber handgun and started shooting at officers who were trying to arrest him.  Lucky for the officers the guy was no Buffalo Bill, and no one was hurt (except a couple of Ford Crown Vic’s now had 40 caliber holes in them).  A car chase ensued where officers reported that they were in a pursuit, with the suspect shooting at them; of course all the while trying not to sound like screaming school girls over the radio. 

 

I was sitting at my desk at the time, and heard the officer on the radio sounding a lot like Shirley Temple (hey, I’m not saying I would have sounded a whole lot better in the same situation... but I would have tried for at least a Marsha Brady squeal.)  I ran to my detective car, jumped in, and doing my best Marsha Brady, yelled into the radio that I was en route.  I joined the train of police cars, which ended up with the guy jumping out of the car at a local convenience store.  I guess “convenience” to the bad guy meant that there was someone convenient whom he could take hostage to hold the cops at bay. 

 

I jumped out of my car and grabbed an AR-15 from a Sergeant’s car (being the SWAT sniper team leader lets you do that), then belly crawled to a gas pump about 25 feet from the front door.  I then thought that if I could read the warning labels of the cigarettes that the armed guy was now smoking while pointing his gun at me, perhaps I was too close.  So I slithered back to about 60 feet away, behind a patrol car.  It was then that the SWAT team leader told me that he was going tocall me on my cell phone to get a briefing on the situation.  A moment later I heard my cell phone beeping, lying next to the gas pump at 25 feet from the door.  Another moment later my wife called me, because that special “Mamba” tune (indicating a call from her) started playing on my cell phone.  The uniform cop I was next to turned to me, smiled and said;

“Cool ring; too bad answering it will probably get you shot.” 

I decided to go ahead and let my voice mail get it.  A few minutes after that the SWAT Team arrived, I was given my sniper rifle, and deployed with another sniper back out on the street.  For about two hours the Hostage Negotiators talked to the bad guy, telling him that it’s ok, everyone takes a hostage now and then, if he gives up within the next ten minutes he’s automatically qualified for a chance at a free tattoo, and did he know that prisons now serve 31 flavors of ice cream? 

 

I turned and looked at my partner Joe (we call him “Doc”), who was dressed in a camouflaged outfit, boonie hat and cool tactical harness; looking every bit the role of SWAT sniper.  I then looked at myself, holding a similar sniper rifle; however I was dressed in tasseled loafers, forest green corduroys, a white Van Heusen dress shirt with green (St Pattie’s Day, remember?) tie and my lucky buffalo nickel tie clasp.  I turned to Doc and said, “You think I could loosen my tie now?”  I don’t blame him for rolling his eyes at me; I wouldn’t want to be seen with the “SWAT Geek” either. 

Well, everything turned out alright; my white shirt washed up ok, I got my phone back, my wife’s call was not important, and the bad guy is now peacefully enjoying “Rocky Road” at the State Penitentiary.  Most importantly, the local newspaper did NOT get a photograph of the best dressed sniper... all is well. 

 

A Very Loud Alarm

Was working patrol in the wee hours of the morning when a burglary alarm call came in.  It was a machine shop near the rail road tracks.  Two other officers and I arrived and could hear that this was an “audible alarm”; that is there was a screeching horn going off on top of the building.  Now this was no ordinary alarm buzzer; this was akin to Titanic’s foghorn; so loud it woke man, beast, the dead and some sensitive ears in the Yukon. 

 

The other officers and I chatted outside the business,

 

“I THINK WE SHOULD CHECK THE BUILDING"

 

“WHAT?”

 

“I SAID WE SHOULD CHECK THE BUILDING.”

 

“I CAN’T HEAR WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.”

 

"LET’S CHECK THE BUILDING."

 

“FORGET, IT… LET’S JUST CHECK THE BUILDING.”

 

I walked around to the rear and saw an open door; so I did what all good cops do when they see an open door- pointed my trusty Sig Sauer P220 .45 auto at it.  Obviously, there was no point, anyone who might have broken the door open would have fled long ago, so I holstered back up.  Then, I saw someone moving inside, I again drew my automatic, but then thought, “It’s got to be just an employee, no criminal would be here with this alarm” so I again put betsy away, not wanting to frighten the owner or late-night worker.  I then watched as the person, who I could now see was some dirty teen-ager; walk out the door with an arm full of tools.  Now the pistol came out to stay, and I started calmly telling the suspect to,

“DROPTHETOOLSPUTUPYOURHANDSLETMESEEYOURHANDSNOW!!!”

I got the desired result, seeing a .45 auto pointed at you by a nervous cop usually does the trick... he dropped the tools and put up his hands. 

 

Later, at the station while booking this young man for his crime, we all agreed... deaf people should not be burglars.

No Excuses

When people find out I’m a cop, they often will ask me the best way to avoid getting a ticket.  I have an easy answer

 

“Don’t break any traffic laws,” I offer, which is invariably followed by a moment of confusion, then a conspiratorial wink:

 

“Oh, I see, you’re not supposed to tell people how to get out of a ticket"

 

 “No…” I reply, “…I’m happy to tell anyone that they can avoid tickets by not getting pulled over.”  Now I think that was very sage advice, but I still get looked at like I just kicked their dog:

 

“Well, if you don’t want to tell me, just say so!  Humph!” 

 

At this point someone will always step forward and share their expert (once watched “Cops” for 38 hours straight) opinion:

 

“If you cry, they won’t give you a ticket.”  That’s a laugh; I can’t count the number of tickets I turned in with tear drops on them.

 

“I just flirt with them; cops ALWAYS let a cute girl that flirts off with a warning.”  No I don’t, because then I would miss the amazing transformation from eye-lash batting to an “Exorcist” screen test, complete with demonic head-spinning when I tell them they are getting a ticket.

 

“Just tell the cops you have a communicable disease.”  After signing the ticket, I just tell them to keep the pen.

 

“I tell the cops I have diarrhea; they always let me go.”  Why would this ever work?  It’s not like its going to ruin MY upholstery.

 

There was one excuse that did work with me, and I’m happy to share it with you all.  Was working radar one afternoon when a truck came through at 54 mph in a 30 zone.  I pulled the old gentleman over and asked if he knew he was speeding.  He said that he did know he was going too fast, and was very sorry.  He then held up a his right hand and showed me two fingers, almost completely severed off and still oozing blood from the stumps.  He calmly explained it was a table saw accident and he was keen to get to the ER quickly.  I never did write him up, but drove him to the hospital instead.  

 

I suppose I’m just a big sucker for someone with an arterial bleed.

Just No Good With Hookers

Every now and then the city fathers will decide that it’s time to “Clean up” and deal with some of the street-level vice crimes.  So, a few of us get selected to go out and try and pick up hookers.  Some cops are masters of doing this; some (like me) are terrible at it.

The problem is that I just can’t talk dirty.  While other cops are picking up girls faster than Snoop-doggy, I seem to have a neon sign that says “Cop” hovering over me.  One time a working girl approached me, I struck up a conversation and her response was, “Hi Officer”; this was typical.

I thought I could turn my luck around by accusing them of being cops.  This was met with only limited success, I’ll tell you why: none of the prostitutes around this city look like Julia Roberts, or for that matter as good as the south end of my northbound pet Schnauzer.  Tragically, most all of the prostitutes are heroin, cocaine or meth users, and using these drugs interveiniously leaves them ravaged with a variety of health problems (not to mention the various sexually transmitted diseases).   So, picture this: me talking to a woman with weeping sores from impetigo, two teeth rotted from malnutrition and dried blood on her sleeve from shooting heroin; and I ask, “Are you a police woman?”  A few were flattered enough to give me the price list and go to jail.

Now my old partner Wayne could talk the talk, and sometimes he would show me pity and let me tag along with him to pick up two at once.  One time we got a couple of cagy hookers in the car, now we had to hear them agree to a sex act for money.  The one with Wayne in the front seat decided that he had to prove he was not a cop.  The way for him to do that was for him to put his fingers where the sun don’t shine (except on a few French beaches); that is for him to put his hand into her pants, which she unbuttoned and pulled down a bit.  Of course Wayne did not want to put his good right hand into the bio-hazard vault beneath her jockeys, so he refused. 

Now it seemed as though this gal (not being of the rocket-science sort) decided that if Wayne would touch "third base", he was no cop; so she grabbed his hand to force it down, as if in doing so she could force him into not being a cop.  I sat in the back seat watching this arm wrestling go one for a minute, not knowing whether to laugh or help keep my partner’s hand from doom; I’m afraid the laughing won out in the end.  The harder he fought not to have his hand go south, the harder she fought to force his hand into her crotch. 

All of a sudden, our portable radio, which had been tucked under the front seat, came on with our back-up asking what the heck was going on.  The girl came to her senses and let Wayne's hand go and hiked her pants back up, and I finally stopped laughing long enough to take a breath. 

I guess in the end the girl’s ploy worked- if a guy picks you up and you have to fight for 2 minutes trying to get him to touch you before agreeing to have sex… it just may be a cop.

Lost the bet, Grossed out the Mrs.

My lovely wife Kris tries to engage me in conversation about work when I get home.  Understand… it’s not that I don’t like to talk with her; it’s just that some of the events are, well, not fit for the genteel.  She likes hearing the helping get the cat out of the tree, walking the old ladies across the street tales; perhaps an occasional dumb criminal story, where the worse thing the bad guy does is shout, “Curses, foiled again!”  However, there is not much appreciation for a real danger-blood-guts story; and I learned long ago to “sanitize” my speech.  But, just yesterday one slipped through. 

“Hi honey, how was work today?” 

“Fine” I was sounding a bit peeved because I had just lost a bet, and she noticed. 

“What did you do today?” 

“Oh, nothing” I have a hard time keeping a straight face, it was a sign for my wife to press further,

“Come on, tell me; what happened today?” 

“I… a… lost a bet with someone” was the cryptic reply; my brain was doing it’s best to send out ESP “don’t ask” messages. 

“Come on, tell me!”  She can be persistent.  Ok, give her just enough to let you go;

“I thought I found something at a crime scene, but it turned out I was wrong.” 

“What?” 

“Oh, nothing important”.  Stupid me, I already blew it, might as well tell her the whole thing; any more protestations will just make me sound like Bill Clinton.  

“OK, I thought I found a guy’s nose at a scene, but it turned out to be something else”.  She shrunk back, I might as well of said, “Yes dear, as a matter of fact I do step on baby chickens”.  Bummer of a day; first, I think that I found the nose, so proud of my detecting skill at the crime scene.  Then, at the autopsy, there the nose was, still intact in the usual position (of course not much else was).  So, I blew the nose (ha ha) identification thing, looking naive and loosing a lunch bet in the process; and now my wife thinks I’m half a step from being an axe murderer…

Curses, foiled again!

Taser Me

Just got home from a training day.  The PD here is now going to have officers trained in the use of “Tasers”.  This is the thing that looks like a gun and shoots little darts, which shock you with one-point-twenty-one jigawatts of electricity.  There was all the typical stuff, the history of Tasers, how much voltage, how much the darn things cost and how fast you will be out of a job if you use them wrong.

 

Then it was time to “experience the technology”.  I know this sounds like a family trip to Space Camp, but it really is a double-speak way of saying that we are all going to have the piss shocked out of us.  Some of us asked stupid questions, like; “Why”.  I mean, why do we have to be shocked in order to use this equipment?  “So that you know what it feels like” was the predictable answer.  Wow, why didn’t I think of that?  I carry a .45 caliber Sig Sauer P220 semi-auto handgun, and you know what?  I don’t know what it feels like to be shot!  I also carried a night stick (when I was in uniform); don’t have a clue what a whack upside the head feels like.  So you can see how much I think about being lit up like a Christmas tree.  

 

Well, got into position to be shot… whoops, sorry, can’t say "shot"… got into position to be “kinesthetically trained”.  A slight "pop", indescribable pain and a thought going through my mind: TURN IT OFF!  TURN IT OFF!  TURN IT OOOOOOOFFFFF!  That was about it, no glorious flashes of insight into the universe, no bright light, just a desire for my muscles to work long enought so that I can get up and kill the instructor.   I now know exactly what a moth feels when it flys too close to that weird black light on the back porch.  

 

Will it help me do my job better?  Don’t know… but I can tell you this:  if I  come across someone pointing one of those things at me, one of two things will happen: He will be summarily shot, or I will fall to a fetal position, quivering and crying for mommy.