Category Archives: Nonfiction

Shark!

Every time I travel to a tropical destination, I wrestle with the way I’m drawn to the ocean while simultaneously being wary of it. A mysterious world lies hidden below its surface. Fish, coral, invertebrates, various species that live in the warm shallows and others found only in the deepest, darkest depths. Is exploring it worth risking a menacing confrontation with a barracuda, the sting of a jellyfish, or a bite by a shark? The payoff could be stealing a glimpse of an eel as it slithers along the crevices of a reef or, even better, spotting an elusive octopus that makes a rare morning appearance before quickly disappearing.

“Will I have to worry about anything dangerous or scary?” I can’t hold back from posing this question to nearly every snorkeling guide I hire, despite my knowing the answer.

The Atlantic Ocean nestles the southwestern tip of tropical island, Eleuthera. Photo: Kelly Bixby

In the twenty years I’ve been fascinated with the ocean, not one guide has cautioned me against getting in the water. Instead, they tell me of all the creatures they hope we’ll see. Because they know the habits and territories of the underwater residents, the guides sometimes graciously bring food and snacks for their hungry, finned friends—and we snorkelers get to take part in a neighborly little block party while we’re in town visiting. The guides say things like, “with any luck, we’ll find the seahorse” and “sometimes we see a nurse shark.” Whoa! I heard that! My ears perk up and my heart skips a beat in trepidation.

I’ve never faced any threat greater than having to dodge sea urchins, but I still can’t subdue the prevailing thought that makes me nervous to get in the salty sea: a potential encounter with a shark. You might think that the informational Discovery Channel series, Shark Week, would undo the damage to my psyche that the movie Jaws inflicted on me. But fear came before rationale, and now it’s very hard to get rid of.

During spring break in 2002, I was swimming in the Atlantic Ocean, off the eastern coast of Florida. I was warned that a small shark had chomped on someone’s ankle a week earlier. The bite occurred in the same shallow water where my husband, Greg, and our four children bounced along breaking waves and bodysurfed. Their giggles and carefree smiles indicated that, unlike me, they were not the least bit concerned. They had no idea there was potential danger. I wasn’t about to spoil their fun, but I recall feeling extremely relieved when we left Cape Coral Beach with all body parts intact.

Exhuma Sound (Caribbean Sea) and Lighthouse Beach, Eleuthera, Bahamas, 2011. Photo: Kelly Bixby

Nine years later, off the desolate coast of Eluthera in the Bahamas, Greg and I met two people—a doctor and his wife—on Lighthouse Beach. They looked to be serious, experienced snorkelers. Wearing full wetsuits, this couple was prepared to go into deeper, colder water than I could tolerate. Greg and I watched from the shore as they dared to go on the outer side of the reef. We relaxed on the beach for awhile and were just preparing to head into the Caribbean when the couple returned. They had been frightened by the sighting of a bull shark and decided they had had enough fun for one day. They left the beach, and Greg and I were completely alone.

At that point, I was a little intimidated to enter the sea. There was no cell phone coverage for miles; nobody to cry out to for help. The nearest paved road was a forty-five minute drive away on a rutted, dirt road squeezed down to one lane by dense brush and trees encroaching it on each side. Having a beach all to ourselves was both extraordinary and problematic.

I was apprehensive, but we had planned to snorkel, so that’s what we did. We stayed on the inside of the reef to avoid the deeper, colder, and predator-infested sea. And I prayed that God would keep the bull shark away from us.

While Greg never tired of the underwater wonders, my body’s defense mechanism eventually kicked in. I started shivering from being in the cold sea too long and had to return to the warmth and safety of the shore. Unscathed, I compared fish stories with Greg. Thankfully, neither of us came nose-to-nose with the ten-foot long behemoth.

By far, the most frightening moment of my life occurred a year earlier, off Siesta Key Beach, in the Gulf of Mexico. Once again, my children were happily playing in the ocean. They were standing in waist-high water, a couple hundred feet from shore and far beyond my protection as I entered the gulf. I froze in place when I witnessed a sinister dorsal fin rise above the smooth blue surface and travel directly toward them.

A bull shark anticipates an easy dinner as it waits for chum at the Cape Eleuthera Marina (formerly Powell Pointe Marina). Photo: Kelly Bixby

I was immediately terrified and panicked. My voice was the only weapon I had in the battle to save my children. There was no other way for me to intervene. Behaving like a lunatic, I frantically waved my arms and screamed, “Get out of the water!”

Part of me realized I could be making a deadly demand of them. Better advice would have been to have them stand as still as possible. No splashing. No fleeing. Be courageous and don’t become its prey. If all that fails, fight. Punch it in the nose or poke it in an eye. But I wasn’t thinking calmly. My children were in peril, and I was out of my mind with worry. Seconds seemed eternally long before the wind carried hope my way. From behind me on shore, a man spoke words, full of knowledge and reason, to inform me that the imposing creature was only a dolphin.

What faith I put in his observation. I wanted to believe him. I needed to believe him. Surely he was better than me at recognizing the difference between the gentle, arching movement as a dolphin rolls through water and the more rigid, racing, cutting precision a shark displays when it’s locked on a target. I could be wrong, but he must not be.

I saw my children vying to get to shore and meekly waved them off. I relayed the good news, “It’s only a dolphin!” but they continued on their way. Dread developed into laughter by the time they reached me. We caught our breath and watched other children who jumped into a kayak and quickly paddled towards the dolphin in order to get a closer look. They might have missed it, had I not made a spectacle of myself.

Shark tales like these are why I find comfort in hiring snorkeling guides when I’m exploring new places. Guides know how best to navigate narrow openings like those in between fire coral formations. They know the lay of the land. They’ve repeated the same route hundreds of times. I expect them to keep me safe, yet I also know my confidence in them is overrated. They’re not captains who will go down with their ships. They’re not mother bears ferociously protecting their precious cubs. They’re not any more prepared than a crazy mama like me in being able to fend off Megalodon.

Wedding Shoes

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My fiancée and I attended many friends’ weddings while we were engaged. It was surprising how many groom’s shoe soles appeared worn and dirty when the bride and groom knelt at the altar. One shoe was so worn that it almost had a hole in it. Why would anyone choose to be married, a high point in life, in footwear so flawed? Hadn’t he thought others would see his soles when he knelt? How mortifying that everyone but his new wife would know she was forever consigned to someone who wore back-of-the-closet shoes on the most important occasion they would ever share.

Marriage is a life-changing event and I thought more care should be taken with such details, if a man has his act together. My wedding would not reflect a lack of thought, but show how much I cared for my new spouse and a commitment to doing things right. Months before the big day, I purchased a pair of expensive Florsheim Imperials with mahogany-grain leather soles, more than three times the cost of men’s fine footwear at the time, and carefully laid them away in their cotton shoe-bags. I would never be a perfect wedding-cake groom, but I would have the best damned shoes ever seen at a wedding when I knelt at the altar.

The night before, my brother and I were sitting in a hotel lounge when I remembered the new Florsheims and told him about my plans to wear them. He congratulated me on planning so far ahead, but then grew solemn. If I put them on in the morning after donning a tuxedo, how would I prevent the soles from becoming worn and scuffed by the time I knelt? How had I missed such an obvious point?

There were few alternatives. It wouldn’t look right to arrive in a tuxedo and loafers and then change footwear. Sneaking in bare-foot, or just wearing socks, was more ridiculous. We even discussed whether I could wear the cotton Florsheim shoe-bags over the shoes while entering the church. But, no, that wasn’t any good either. I simply needed to temporarily protect the shoe soles until the last moment.

It struck us both at the same time. All I had to do was tape cardboard over the shoe bottoms, enter church normally, and remove the cardboard in the church vestibule before the ceremony when I was alone. Then I would join my bride-to-be at the altar and, moments later, upon kneeling, reveal absolutely brand-new, un-touched shoe soles. I wasn’t sure whether this would reflect careful forward-thinking or weirdly obsessive compulsiveness but, if anyone noticed, they would be scratching their heads wondering how I pulled it off.

My brother went to his hotel room to find some cardboard, while I retrieved the shoes, brought them to the lounge, and borrowed scissors and tape from the front desk. Alas, my brother returned not with cardboard but a magazine. As fate would have it, his reading material that day was Playboy magazine. I didn’t like the idea of Playboy on my shoes, but we were out of time and no one would see anything anyway. It took only minutes to cut and tape the pages to the shoe soles before turning in for the night.

The following morning flew by in a rush. I carefully tied my new shoes and finished dressing. Nothing was amiss, so I soon found myself alone in a church backroom, focused on everything except shoe soles. I was dizzy with excitement and love, glancing at a clock on the wall just before the 10:00 a.m. ceremony, thinking, my God, I’m actually getting married. These were the last few moments of being single and a new life ahead. Moments later, the organ music and boys choir began and I walked out before hundreds of wedding guests rising to their feet.

Waiting behind the altar rail as the processional music continued, hundreds of people turned to gaze at the bridesmaids and groomsmen proceeding down the aisle to line up in front. My beautiful bride emerged in a radiance of light, the entire church fixed upon the vision walking down the aisle on her father’s arm. She and her father were halfway down the aisle, the congregation still following them, when I saw Dave staring at my feet. The Playboy pages were still taped to my shoe soles. Worse, I couldn’t remember whether any pages displayed scantily-clad Playboy Bunnys.

There’s a reason wedding guests focus on radiant brides and ignore thoroughly frightened grooms, especially forgetful idiots who are frantically peeling Playboy magazine pages and tape from their shoe soles. But we had done a good job of sticking the pages on. A lot of it was firmly stuck, almost impossible to remove. I was just peeling away the last, hidden behind the altar rail, when everyone turned to the front. Fortunately, no one in the church, including my bride, had noticed me behind the rail. Her smile was truly ecstatic.

Dave guessed what had happened and grinned a look that said, “It wasn’t me this time, brother. This was all your idea.”

The ceremony began and the choir was in full voice. As we knelt at the altar, perfect shoe soles were revealed for the first time. As the ceremony was concluding, I could see a puzzled sigh settle over our kindly priest. He was staring at a pile of mangled Playboy magazine pages and tape behind the altar rail, out of sight, wondering when such a mess had appeared.

Stories from the Road: Airport Diaries Pt 1 TSA Precheck Survival Guide

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For over a year, I’ve written about bookstores. It’s a pleasure for me to find new independent stores, support them with my patronage, and promote them through this blog. I will continue to do this as there are still stores I’ve not visited. Some I’ve been told about and others are still waiting to be noticed. At this time, I’m expanding my stories to include other travel tales. It’s amazing both in good, surprising, and head-shaking ways. As I share these please comment below or to my Twitter—https://twitter.com/JMcCarthyEdS–your thoughts and experiences. Have you gone through a similar experience? What have you seen. Let’s share our stories from the road…

Stories from the Road: Airport Diaries, Part 1 TSA Precheck Survival

Airport travel is an acquired skill-set that anyone can pick up. The regular security lines are a great place to learn the ropes before ever setting foot in a TSA Precheck line. That line is for all of those who went through a rigorous background check so that they can get through security faster, without taking off shoes, belts, wallets, and anything in pockets. The bonus is passing through the metal detector instead of the body scanner.

There are three things to know about TSA Precheck that makes the experience smooth and low stress for you and those in line behind you.

Do not get into the TSA Precheck line if you don’t have the clearance.

This may seem too obvious, but it happens 9 times out of 10 at Detroit Metro Airport. I enter the gate where the banner signifies the pathway for TSA Precheck only. There are four people in front of me. Three of the four people are told by the polite security personnel to go to the line for normal processing. I can understand how one person might mistakenly enter the line, but three is not an accident. The first person gets their ticket scanned and the resultant beep indicates they do not have the clearance. When this is explained, the other people in line should realize their fate.

No logo for TSA Precheck on the ticket means no entrance. Somehow they must think that their situation will be different. It’s not. The rest of us who went through the background check, set up the soonest available appointment 30 days out, and paid the fee are now held up from our short connection* because of these people who did not go through the vetting process. Please do not try to take the short line if you do not have TSA Precheck. Security will not let you through.

Just to be clear for those unfamiliar with TSA Precheck: These travelers go through a shorter and faster security check line because we’ve been vetted, and because not enough people have gone through the process to slow the line. This means we might show up for our flights under the recommended two hours, perhaps with 45 minutes to an hour before our gate closes. Time is of the essence. Each person trying to cut the line without clearance leads to unnecessary stress. Yes, we should be responsible for choosing to operate on a short timeline, but now we can blame the non-vetted person instead.

Have ticket and ID ready

During one security check in Raleigh-Durham, there was a line of five of us. We all waited patiently for our turn to see the security person reviewing tickets and id. The couple in front of me on their turn, walked up to the security and proceeded to shuffle through pockets and purse to find their ticket and ID. They took their time as if no line of TSA Precheck travelers were not burning holes into their backs.

Just as with the normal security line, please have your plane ticket and ID ready to show. This is especially important for the TSA Precheck line. You’re dealing mostly with seasoned travelers who expect everyone to do their part on getting through the line as fast as possible. Not having a ticket and ID ready is like going to present before a seasoned professional group having not prepared for the event.

Listen and follow directions

Once past the ticket and ID security point, the staff reminds everyone what they can and cannot take through the screening. What they say is specific and concrete. Some of those rules (as of this posting) are:

Leave all tech inside your bags
Empty pockets, except for wallet
Leave your shoes on
Do not take off your belt

The rest is standard fare from the normal security, such as amounts of liquids.

A first time TSA Precheck traveler may be disconcerted. That’s understandable, and why the security people endlessly repeat the above information. Listen. Follow their directions. Freezing like a scared animal is not a good tactic when there are experienced travelers waiting behind you. Best to step out of the line to gather your thoughts or turn for help. A security person or harried traveler will be happy to assist, if only to get the line moving again.

Safe travels.

If It Wasn’t for Bad Luck

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When it comes to electronics, I often think of that old saying, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

For some time I’ve been thinking about buying a new printer. My old HP Photosmart worked fine until I bought a new laptop. Actually, it worked great. Whenever I wanted to print something, I’d go to the File Menu, click on Print, decide if I wanted black or color, how many copies, and click Print again. That was it. The printer would start right up and in less than a minute I’d have my copies.

Last fall I bought a new MacBook Air and that’s when my troubles began. I’d click on Print, choose black or color, the number of copies, click Print again and nothing would happen. I mean NOTHING. The printer was as silent as a tomb.

I’d start over again. First I’d click on my wireless connection to be sure I had a strong signal. Then I’d click on the Print box. It would say things like, “Printing page 1.” or “Not connected to printer.” It didn’t really matter what it said because nothing would happen.

I would restart my computer. Then I would restart the printer. After that I would start over with the Print menu. I would try clicking Pause and then Resume. Nothing helped.

But sometimes, when I was having a lucky day, after 5 or 25 minutes, the printer would start to make noises like it was waking up from a deep sleep. Then it would grunt. Finally, and I could never figure out what I had done to make this happen, the printer would print.

I phoned Apple. They told me the printer was several years old. My laptop was too advanced for it. But, not to worry, HP would soon come out with a patch that I could download and my printer would go back to printing like it had before.

That was last fall. This is now June. HP has yet to come up with this patch, and frankly, I don’t think HP’s going to. So, much as I hated to get rid of a perfectly good printer, I decided to bite the bullet and buy a new, state-of-the-art one. After all, the man at Apple said that would solve my problem.

Come back next month to find out what happened when I bought my brand new, state-of-the-art HP printer and you’ll understand why, “If it wasn’t for bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all!”

The Rich and (In)famous

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Being able to travel is one privilege I never take for granted. As a writer, everywhere I go, I try to keep my eyes open for something unique. What better place to find material than a crowded airport? You never know who you’ll bump into.

The day after we attended the 141st Kentucky Derby, my husband, Greg, and I were shuttled from our downtown Louisville hotel back to the city’s international airport. We arrived at our terminal to check our bags curb-side and saw a lone skycap finishing with a young lady.

While waiting for him to assist us, I noticed a small group of people gathered outside of an SUV just beyond the skycap station. They caught my attention because they didn’t look like family sending one of their beloved off on a trip. There weren’t hugs or tears as they said goodbye to one another. The interaction was professional as each of the individuals shook hands and smiled pleasantly. Most curiously, the collective was made of four armed and uniformed police officers, a plainclothesman sporting a weapon and a badge, a man dressed in business-casual attire, and another gentleman wearing a very expensive looking suit. I wondered what all the fuss was about.

I first speculated that the plainclothesman was a highly ranked police official, had come in for Derby, and was on his way home. Then, I thought that maybe someone famous was still in the SUV, but I couldn’t see anyone else. My husband offered an equally likely scenario: “Maybe they’re transporting a criminal.”

Hoping to uncover the real story, I whispered to the skycap, “Who are those people?”

The skycap, who looked to be middle-aged like me, replied quietly, “They’re with Neno, the Rapper.”

As if I now perfectly understood the magnitude of this musician’s reputation, I nodded my head in agreement but replied, “I’ve never heard of him.”

“Neither have I, dear,” he admitted as he shook his head side to side. “Neither have I.”

Greg generally has no interest in hobnobbing with the rich and famous, so we didn’t spend our time lingering and hoping to catch a glimpse of Neno. We kept to our normal airport routine—cleared security, browsed through a few stores, and eventually got in line at Starbucks. To our surprise, we ended up right behind the crowd of officers we had seen earlier.

The entourage now surrounded and closely guarded an attractive man I did not recognize but assumed was Neno. He was dressed casually in dark clothes and a jacket, wore a baseball cap, and was quiet when he spoke. He didn’t seem preoccupied with drawing attention to himself. I got the impression that if women would leave him alone, he’d likely get through the airport without being bothered by more than speculative whispers and stares.

A barista was smitten. She stepped from behind the counter and asked Neno if he would pose for a picture with her.

A moment later, a woman older than me took out her cell phone and snapped a picture of the rapper as he smiled for her. I’m guessing that she couldn’t have known, anymore than I did, exactly who he was.

The excited reactions of the other women made me question whether or not I was missing out on a brush with greatness. I conceded that a photo with the celebrity could be something to literally write home about. “Okay then,” I muttered out loud and thought, “Why not?”

What’s not to love about Non-Fiction?

I approached Neno and asked if he wouldn’t mind taking a selfie with me. He was gracious and cool as he leaned in close to me and flashed a peace sign towards the camera. I couldn’t pretend to be a big fan, shower him with accolades, or carry on much of a conversation, so I simply thanked him and wished him a safe flight.

A moment later, Neno and his protective huddle walked away and business at Starbucks tried to return to normal. I placed my order and received it—incorrectly filled.

“I’m sorry. I’m trying to calm down,” said Starbucks Girl.

“It’s OK,” I replied. “You’ve got googly eyes. I understand.”

I couldn’t help but smile as I watched the starstruck young lady work to regain focus on her job. She successfully processed a correct order for me, and I strolled off to Google who this Neno could be.

I searched online sites through the convenient but tiny view afforded by my iPhone 5s. What I found was deplorable. Matthew Best, aka Neno the Rapper, had been arrested in 2013 in New York City’s biggest gun bust. His activities and his music lyrics reflected a parent’s nightmare—full of foul language, drug references, and disrespect.

Maybe I had misinterpreted Neno’s hand gesture in the selfie. What I thought was a peace sign could have been a defiant and crude way of flipping me off. His smooth smile masking truer intentions?

It seemed that my husband may have been right after all: the officers were transporting a criminal.

I was embarrassed that there were witnesses who had seen three generations of women make this guy out to be someone special. I couldn’t understand why Starbucks Girl was so enamoured with Neno that, after our paparazzi moments, she was still frazzled and had gotten my order wrong. At the time, her behavior was endearing. But now, knowing Neno’s background, I couldn’t accept that the girl was blushing over this gangster-type. What did she admire about him? Had he been falsely accused? Acquitted and on his way to testify against others? In my own brief encounter with him, Neno was polite and charismatic, not at all characteristic of the man splattered on nymag.com and other websites. He must have reformed from his sinister ways. I had to go back to Starbucks Girl for answers.

The line was now longer, and it appeared that the girl had regained her composure. She was too busy to confront, so I talked with one of her co-workers.

Going with a direct approach (who was I kidding, anyway?), I asked the young man: “Can you tell me what you know about the celebrity who came through here a little while ago?”

I learned that I had made a big, big mistake. The man that we ladies had posed with wasn’t the notorious thug, Neno the Rapper. He was Ne-Yo, the award-winning Rhythm and Blues singer.

Ne-Yo is associated with other huge personalities: Rihanna, Cèline Dion, Kanye West, Mariah Carey, Jennifer Hudson and more, lots more. He starred in Red Tails with Terrence Howard and Cuba Gooding Jr. and appeared on “The Tonight Show with Jay Leno.” He sang on “Good Morning America” and “Live with Kelly and Michael.” He’s a popular artist who shares stories through his music lyrics.

I had come face to face with Who’s Who in Hollywood but had no idea who he was.

I looked up Ne-Yo’s latest album, Non-Fiction, on iTunes, and didn’t listen for long. Frankly, his sexually explicit subject matter and lyrics are far too liberal for my conservative nature. This celebrity sighting, however, reminded me of the critical need to verify facts when telling a true story. I decided to leave the heartthrob to the younger or more impressionable ladies and nearly admitted to my husband that he was right—some things are better left at the curb.

Deadwood Writers Voices

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