I know that the myth really only applies to cats (there are a couple of explanations of the myth here and here), but growing up, my friends and I applied it to our antics and adventures. I still do.
So here is an accounting, as best as I can recall, of various brushes with the Grim Reaper, some serious, some not so serious, and the value I assigned to them in terms of the reduction of my nine lives:
¼ life
№ 1
When my brother and I were death-defying youngsters, we would go for hikes in the Niagara Escarpment in the Hamilton area where we lived. Most of the time our journeys were without major incident. Some minor slips and slides, figuring out how to scale a sheer cliff face, while our dog, Duchess, had already found a path to the top and was eagerly waiting for us. One time we were making quick-time through a clearing and we all but ran over a pheasant. That more freaked us out than anything. However, the time my life-counter ticked down for the first time I can recall was when we were crossing a river somewhere near the face of the escarpment.
We got across without any issues. Then we noticed some stress fractures and debated if we could bust through. What a bunch of morons. So, me being the younger brother and lighter, I went into the middle of the river and started jumping up and down with all the strength and force I could muster. It took a bit before it started to crack. Well, the genius that I was at the time, I kept going. Then suddenly, I was through. Up past my waist. Well, we both started laughing. Morons. We were wearing mostly cotton clothing, including our long-johns and cheesy polyester ski suits. They were awesome. When they got wet, they did not wick, but kept absorbing water.
My brother had to help me get out. Fortunately, he did not fall through. Having accomplished that brilliant feat, we headed home. By the time we got to our door, my ski pants and the bottom of my ski jacket were pretty solid. Morons. I had to lie down on the floor so he could pull my ski pants off. I was pretty pink. Fortunately, no serious damage and no frostbite. So, a pretty low value off the life-counter.
№ 2
Another time as young man I was at a small backyard pool party and we were talking about swimming lengths under water. Of course we had some cocktails and felt fearless. I said I could swim back and forth however so many times. Moron. Well, right near the end, my second last pass I think, I pushed down to keep myself under. Well, I did a good job. So good in fact, that I bounced off the the textured bottom of the pool with my forehead. I finished though. Moron. I checked out my face in a mirror. Not too bad, just really scraped it, but my head hurt for a couple of days. Moron.
№ 3
When I was in the Army and engaged in artillery training at CFB Gagetown, during a live firing exercise, a series of brush fires started up in the impact zone. The wisdom at the time, and probably still is, was to send in troops to put out the fires. Morons. Well, we were the troops sent. Poor bastards. Why they do not send in fire fighting vehicles, is that the impact zone is littered with unexploded shells. The concern is that a vehicle may set off one of these shells and possibly set off a chain reaction. So, the troops lucky enough to be selected to go in by following a series of paths, which hopefully do not have any unexploded shells, with rakes, shovels, and buckets to put out the fires to keep them from setting off any unexploded shells and possibly setting off a chain reaction. Dumb bastards. So, in we go.
Our Warrant Officers were yelling at us as where to and not to go. Funny, I do not recall any of the commissioned officers who were training us in the thick of it with us. The only officers in the shizzle I recall, were the lucky bastards, like me, receiving training that already possessed commissions. So, we put out the fires. No, no, thank-you. Well, fortunately, nothing blew up, no one was burned or hurt otherwise. Lucky bastards.
№ 4
Sometime after having left the military and university and working at a computer support job for an airline, I was not feeling well. I am in my workshop and having intense pain in the left side of my chest. After about fifteen minutes it subsides. I carry on working. Moron. A couple of more shorter bouts. I keep working. Moron. The wife and I go home. (We worked at the same airline, different jobs, no direct interaction.) I make supper. Moron. However, even though the pain has stopped, it has been nagging me all day. Well, duh!
I start thinking I may have had an angina attack. I have the wife drop me off at the hospital. I have no idea what I told her and how I kept her from being worried. Smart? This is about 7:00PM. I go to admitting and explain my concern and, lo and behold, I am admitted. Have a seat. Waiting, waiting, waiting. Hey, I am called up. They lead me to an examination room. Waiting, waiting, waiting. A doctor comes in, some tests, etc. Back to the examination room. Waiting, waiting, waiting. The doctor comes in. Oh hey, I thought you guys forgot about me. No, no, no. Silly rabbit (probably really thinking: moron).
The doctor starts asking me a bunch of questions. Okay, good. Then he tells me that I certainly did not have any kind of event related to my heart. No angina, no heart attack. And no, not a stroke. Then he asks me if I gained an inordinate amount of weight quickly just recently. Judging by my appearance, it looks like I did. I was apparently portly looking to the doctor. Well, yes, I imagine so. Well there you go, you are just fat. Pardon? Well, the doc tells me that sometimes when a person gains weight quickly and it just does not go to the soft squishy parts, it can often end up in the upper body, especially a guy like me at my age. Well, that leads to the ribcage expanding faster than it wants to and can result in discomfort. Well, duh!
So, I am not going to drop dead suddenly. Well, not today, but keep eating like that and you probably will. Moron. Thanks? Discharged and out the door. About 11:30PM. I made good time. I look around and it is a nice night. The wife will be sleeping. I walk home. Smart? Not life threatening so much, but pretty scary for a while. Moron.
Tally so far: ¼ x 4 = 1
Remaining: 8
½ life
№ 5
So, the first time it was more significant would have been when I was in my teens living in Hamilton. (In the middle of that stuff above). Before I met the wife. My buddy organised a double date of sorts. We would have been sixteen or seventeen. We were going to go to the movies. This is in the days when you could not buy movie tickets online. So, I have my parents' car and I pick everyone up and we go the the theatre at the Centre Mall. (They no longer have a theatre there.) Sold out! We jump in and drive downtown. I do not know how we had the listings for show times. Maybe they told us at the theatre. Anyway, we had fifteen minutes to get there and it is a twenty-five minute drive. No problem. I can get us there. Moron.
We pile in and go. Back in the day, Hamilton was known for its synchronised traffic lights and one-way streets. Unfortunately, since that time, the powers that be in the city bureaucracy have mucked that all up. Anyway, it was possible to drive at quite a clip from one end of the city to the other in speedy quick time if you went down the one-way streets and hit the lights right. And, you are a moron.
Well, I do not remember the exact route I took, but I got us onto King Street: one-way and synched lights. Driving like a moron. Weaving in and out, hitting the lights just right. We should have hit another car a few times, but so far so good. Moron. Then about half-way there I am in the right hand lane and there is a parked car in front of me and a light ahead that is not quite in synch as it is synched for the cross street. I could pull back and behind the car in the lane to the left of me and know we will be in one piece. Or, I could gun it, pass that guy, change lanes to the left and be guaranteed to make the light and probably stay in synch the rest of the way. However, if I do not pass the car on the left in time, I will hit something. Moron. Split second decision. Guess what, I was a moron.
However, I clear the car on the left, practically will the car over sideways, miss the parked car directly in front of us, and make the light. A heard a lot of: "Oh, my god!" and "Don't do it!" while performing this miracle (which to this day I still believe was a miracle). Then right after we cleared everything I heard a lot of: "Oh, my god!" and "You did it!" Not once did I hear "Moron!", which I should have. Moron.
We get to the theatre. With three minutes to spare. We see the movie, which for the life of me, I do remember what it was. Movie over, I take everyone home, at a more leisurely pace. My buddy tells me later that the girls were pretty impressed by my driving. Me too! I never saw her again. Huh? Moron.
Since, no actual life threatening contact was made while driving, let alone any contact in the theatre, I cannot say it was a whole life off the counter, but I was certainly half way there.
№ 6
So, fast forward a couple of years. I am in the west end of Hamilton hanging out with a couple buddies. Then, holy! Look at the time, I have get my parents' Chrysler LeBaron, that I borrowed, home. it was one of the models that talked. You could get it to freak out and verbalise its whole library of messages if you hit one of the traffic circles, at fast speed, on the so-called mountain access roads, or cuts.
So, I am getting in and say I have to hurry and we joke about how I will probably wipe out at the top of the Queen Street cut. It being winter and snow and ice everywhere. Morons.
So, off I speed away. Well, would you know it. I did wipe out at the top of the Queen Street cut. Moron. Good, the engine is still running. A quick look out the driver side window. Hey, it does not look too bad. The hood is not crumpled. I back up and drive home quickly. Moron. At the time, my family lived on the east end of the Hamilton "mountain". So, I need to traverse from the west end to the east end. It is possible to get across the mountain largely via side roads with a few short stretches on major thoroughfares.
So, I do that. Moron. Well, on one of the jaunts on a main road, I end up behind one of Hamilton's finest. I am not sure of the extent of the damage as I did not hang around after I wiped out because I did not want anyone to call the cops. Finally I get back on a side road and it is all dark and dirty driving now until I get home.
I pull in the driveway. Take a look. Sweet merciful crap! The bumper is hanging off the car and the licence plate is hanging off the bumper. I have no idea how either one remained attached and how the cop could not have seen that and pulled me over. Lucky bastard. Moron.
I tell my parents. Dad: Moron. I know. Mom: Why would you do this? Well because I wanted to piss you off. Wrong words. Moron. I tell them I will pay for it. We put the bumper and plate in the trunk. It came off really easily. The car is fixed and I am out fifteen-hundred bones. Moron.
I should have been hurt, either by the wipe out, or by my parents. Yet, I was not. So, not so bad in the end. Lucky, dumb bastard. Moron.
№ 7
A couple of years later I am driving my Mazda B2200 pick-up truck from Hamilton back to Ottawa. It is winter, and a nasty winter that year. Driving up what was then highway 16, with all the weather behind me and the roads finally looking pretty clear and no traffic, I know I will be home in about an hour. Then as I am approaching a crossroad, the truck starts to doughnut violently. I cross through the intersection, cross over from the east side of the road through the west side of the road, up in the air and down in the ditch. Crap! I count my luck stars.
I appear to be fine, the truck appears to be fine. Thank goodness I was not transporting my girlfriend's (the future the wife) antique wardrobe like I was supposed to though. Start the truck up. Good. Put it in gear. Nope. too much snow in the ditch. I grab my collapsible shovel, clear some snow. Nope. Put some car mats under the rear tires for traction. Nope. But they flew pretty far. I have to remember that. So, a trick I learnt before with this truck, is that I could actually put it in gear, it is a standard transmission, and push it, then jump back in before it stalls or leaves me behind. Nope.
So, now I am wet and stranded, getting cold. Remember no traffic. Also, pre-cellphone days. So, back up on the road, I look north towards home and I look south back towards Angelo's Truck Stop, now one of many Husky Truck Stops across Canada. Of course, I cannot see Angelo's. I am pretty sure it is beyond a reasonable distance to walk in the, now wet and cold, condition I am in. No houses nearby. Thinking. Someone is driving south, towards Angelo's. They stop. Offer assistance. South, away from home, to Angelo's it is. We get there in about ten minutes, so about 15 kilometres. I call CAA. 45 minutes. I get a hot tea. I call the future the wife. Busy. Crap.
Still not having got through to the future missus, CAA shows up. Off we go. After much finagling, he gets the truck up and on the road. He gives it a quick check. Good to go. Thanks.
Sixty minutes later I am home. Hugs and kisses. Why did I not call? Phone was busy, then with tow-truck, then driving home. Oh yeah. The missus was talking with a friend. No problem. She then tells me that an hour after I should have been home she was getting worried. An hour, it was not that long. Look at clock. Obviously more time passed than I was aware of.
Anyway, she tells me that she called the Ottawa Police, not their jurisdiction. They put her on to the local OPP detachment, affectionately called the "Ontario Party Poopers", not their patrol area. They put her on to the correct detachment. Hang on, they will put her in touch with the officer on patrol. Yes, he did see the very vehicle that she was describing.
Wipe out, looked nasty, wrong side of road, facing wrong way. Way to reassure my future bride. Then he tells her that it looks like the driver tried to dig it out and get out, judging by the tracks and impressions in the snow. No, he did not wander off into the great unknown. Judging by tracks and tire impressions on the shoulder of the road, it looked like he was picked up and probably headed to Angelo's. This guy is good. If I am the subject of a manhunt someday, I hope he is involved, or not involved, depending on the circumstances of the manhunt. He takes her phone number and tells her that If he learns anything else, he will let her know.
He calls her from Angelo's and tells her a tow-truck picked up someone fitting my description and headed off back in the direction of my vehicle. Again. Manhunt, hope for or hope not, depending.
How it was not worse, with not even a scratch on me or the truck is pretty amazing. After hearing the cop's assessment, I was closer than I thought to some big trouble.
№ 8
Another time, another Mazda, a 323 this time. I was with the wife. We were driving down to the Hammer to visit family. In a really bad snow storm. The going was rough. The going was slow. Finally, as we are approaching Oshawa on highway 401, the weather and the roads seem to be clearing up. Then suddenly, the car starts to doughnut violently. Crap! Again! No ditches here. There are a series of bridges passing over the highway and concrete dividers on the shoulders though. Yay. As we are spinning around, I ask the wife if she is okay. Duh! After going under a couple of bridges, we bounce off a pillar belonging to yet another bridge. Crap! This was taking forever!
Now we are travelling down the middle of the 401. Backwards. We can see a slew of traffic coming towards us. The traffic is also gaining on us as the headlights are getting bigger.
Suddenly, there is a violent half spin. We are facing the right way and on the right hand side of the highway. Under control again, we pull over. Cars start whipping past us. No one stops. Really? At least the vehicles in the lead would have seen some of what we were going through. They would have at least seen our head lights then us flip around. Oh well. Bite me. Again, I ask the wife if she is okay. Yup. Me too. Get out. Look around. A dent in the rear driver's side. Nothing broken, no lights smashed. The only thing, the panel at the bottom of the trunk area that covers over the spare tire was screwed. My dad actually made a new one out of plywood that worked better than the original piece of crap panel.
In we get and drive to Hamilton. It took us a lot longer than it should have. Oh well. Again, how it was not worse? I have no idea. You would think we would never buy another Mazda after this. Nope. Three's the charm. That was when the wife was on her own on highway 417 and had a hybrid of the two previous Mazda incidents, but in the middle of traffic. No Mazda's after that.
№ 9
Ah, the last of the fractions. On a flight back from Orlando, Florida after visiting friends in St. Augustine, we apparently got on a roller coaster instead of a plane. What made the return trip even more special, was that on the fight there we were delayed. The boy was sick and ralphed on the flight several times. Then, after delays to get our rental car and several more upchucks (see above: ralph) in the terminal, the boy proceeded to fill one-and-a-half shopping bags in the back seat of our hatchback rental. (Was it a Mazda? I cannot remember. Maybe the wife does.) What a flu he had. It was awesome. Otherwise the trip was great. That is until the return flight.
So, after some delays because of a storm, up we go. Various turbulence. Increasing in scale. A few biggish ups and downs. The wife and I are wondering why we were cleared for take- off. The pilot announces that they are going to try get to a higher altitude to get above the storm. To do that, we need to keep flying in the storm though. More ups and downs. Then, one mother of a drop. The boy asks something. I assure him it was only a drop of a hundred feet or so. All is well. Well. The wife states clearly and in a voice that obviously carried throughout the entire plane, except possibly the cockpit and the luggage hold where any pets may be: "That wasn't right." Now, she did not shout or anything, but she had done some stage acting in the past, so obviously her statement was from the diaphragm and she projected as well. Well. It was obviously said with some authority as well. I am pretty sure everyone in the cabin turned to look at the source. The wife. I said something to try to blow it off, but no. She began to iterate that we dropped easily fifteen-hundred feet or more. Also, that we should not be flying in this. I somehow manage to convey that most of, if not all of, the people on the plane are looking at her and listening to what she is saying.
The wife stops talking. I then say something pithy. People stop string at us. No more super big drops then we clear the weather. Land. De-plane. Clear customs. Get luggage. Get home. Sleep.
In retrospect. Yes, how it played out, it should have been far worse. Thankfully, it was not.
Tally so far: ½ x 5 = 2½ + 1 = 3½
Remaining: 5½
1 full life
№ 10
So, one of the big ones. I was driving home down highway 416 in my Pontiac Sunfire, just a few kilometres from my exit home and it happens. I obviously zoned out for some reason because I suddenly found myself entering the ditch dividing the northbound and southbound lanes. I can see some metal stakes sticking out of ground up ahead. No problem. I can recover and get out of the ditch. Moron. A quick look in the mirrors, no one close behind or beside me. No problem. I can do this. Moron.
I begin to steer out of the ditch. Suddenly, the lower part of the vehicle, the driver's side, becomes the higher part of the vehicle. Then it is not, and is, etc. I have caught air. The vehicle was simultaneously rotating on two axes (A little bit of trivia. Neat.) I am rotating left to right and front to back. The vehicle makes its way from the left side of the highway through to the right side, on to the shoulder and lands violently and stops. Facing the right way. Lucky bastard.
I appear to be okay. My left hip hurts a bit, but otherwise okay. So, I am sitting there collecting my thoughts for a moment. I can see someone approaching the vehicle from the side mirror. Yes, it was still attached. The guy is crouched, leaning forward, with one arm forward and lit cigarette in the hand. Funny what you notice in the strangest situations. He is approaching very slowly, then says: "Hey buddy? Are you okay?" My response, with a touch of irritation, as I brush safety glass from the front passenger window off of me, "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." Engine off, vehicle in park, seat-belt off. The door will not open. I reach behind me and open the rear passenger door on my side. My door swings open. The only thing holding it closed, and keeping my extremities in, was the rear door. Lucky bastard?
I get out, grab the snow brush, and brush off the remaining glass off my Aussie bush coat. I just quit smoking cigarettes, but man... Oh yeah. That guy had a smoke going and he is still standing there talking to me. Telling me he saw the whole thing and thought I was dead. Yeah, me too. Lucky bastard! I tell him I just quit smoking, but considering the circumstances, could I bum one off of him. His response: "Brother. After that? You can have anything you want!" Cool, I'll take a smoke. So, this time I have a mobile phone. I call the wife. She is there jiffy quick.
Before she arrived though, an ambulance showed up. No idea who called. They check me out. Oh, and by the way, after an accident like that, they actually do a finger prick blood test that checks to tell them if you might be drunk or high. I tell them I am not sure what happened, some kind of zone out. Hey, my left hip hurts a bit. Well, no wonder, I have a knife, multi-tool, and flashlight on my belt there. While I was trying to see if my car would be good for making shakes or mixing paint, I must have been thrown hard against the door. They tell me no biggie. I do not tell them that not much was holding my door closed. Lucky bastard!!
By the time I get out of the ambulance, there are fire trucks out. What the??? I still do not know who called. These guys were certainly not necessary. There were no fuel spills and they certainly did not clean up any debris, what little there actually was. OPP shows up. He is fellow Polak too. the wife shows up. I told you I was fine. Yes, I know you are worried. Okay. The wife is great. Lucky bastard!!!
No charges laid as it was a single car accident and no collateral or property damage. Cool. The wife is staring at me the whole time. After everything gets cleared away, the car is dropped at the shop. Oh yeah, I do not recall the air bags deploying. Anyway, the wife is super relieved I am fine and such. She tells me to look at the car, it looks like a bubble was around me. I look. It does.
The whole car was smashed to bits. Everything, except the windshield in front of me, my door, basically the area immediately around me. That was definitely a full count of one deducted from the nine. Still alive though. Lucky bastard!!!!
№ 11
So, I thought that was the last one. However, while I was typing all this up, I recalled an incident while training in Gagetown. So, one more. Hopefully the last for a long, long time.
So, I am training to be an artillery officer of the Royal Canadian Artillery in the Canadian Armed Forces. Somehow we were also assisting in training recently enlisted reserve army soldiers from the Atlantic Provinces. So, we are on a training exercise. We are in our encampment and we get the order to bug out. Basically, pack everything up as fast as possible, actually faster, and set everything up again in another location. Well, this particular one was special.
Before the bug out, we were ordered to prepare ammunition for live firing. That is attaching the explosive shell to the casing which is filled the propellant, gun powder. Now, unlike regular rifle and pistol ammunition, there is a chance that you can really mess up. However so small. Now, in and of itself, this is not unusual, nor is it particularly unsafe. In a static camp.
We had already performed a ridiculous amount of bug outs on this exercise. At the time that I was in the Canadian Armed Forces, the Army had a poor quality commissioned officers corps. In my opinion. I will always be of that opinion. There were, of course, exceptions, but not here. Most of the good ones left service far too soon. To me, that is why we had so many bloody bug outs. Way too many. People were very tired. This was peacetime training with citizen soldiers, not the professional army. If we kept it up, mistakes were going to be made, possibly very serious ones.
So, at this point, with the prepping of live shells, we figured we were probably safe to remain in this position until dawn, with repeated interruptions through the night to engage in fire missions, using up all the live ammo. That is why the bug out order was a surprise. Especially as proper procedure was ignored. We were supposed to separate the shells from the casings and secure them properly. This was peace time, no one's life was in danger. Not yet anyway.
So, as my fellow trainee officers and I were issuing orders to secure the ammunition properly and other bug out related clobber, our trainers overrode our commands. What a bunch of baloney. They were yelling and screaming at everyone that there was no time, blah, blah, blah. We could not reason with them. Our troops were inexperienced kids. Pretty terrified by the looks of them, they did what those officers told them to do. We were basically bullied into shutting up. Plus there were some regular army guys with us. Mostly drivers and a few other support positions. They just did what they were told too.
This was not a test of our abilities as officers. This was baloney, plain and simple. In retrospect, all I can figure is some kind of bet on how fast we could teardown, move, and set up again was made. Well, we were super fast tearing down, considering the exhaustion and notwithstanding the loading of live artillery ammo.
So, we are pulling into our next encampment and it is a dog's breakfast. Absolute mayhem. My driver at some point says to me that he hopes that this is the last move, he is exhausted, especially as he was partying the night before. Really, I was training. So, anyway, I see we are being directed to park our gun. I tell him to veer left to get ready to park it. He starts veering right. I tell him, left. He keeps going right. I was getting really insistent at this point as to the right is the beginning of a ravine and if he keeps going right we are going to tumble down it. Us, the truck, the scared kids in the back, the gun attached to us. Oh yeah, and all that improperly secured ammunition.
I start yelling at him to stop. People outside start yelling at him to stop. He does, but not until the front of the truck goes past level ground. That is correct. One front tire barely making contact, the other in the air. the driver appeared very confused. Apparently, he was asleep. He has no recollection of what just happened. Awesome. Stupid bastard.
We get out. We get the guys out of the back. Some of them were holding live shells. Dumb bastards, and the guys who handed the shells to them. There are loose shells and casings on the floor of the truck and in the storage compartments on the sides. I think one of our fearless leader/trainers realise they have goofed. They order us to unload the live ammo before the truck goes over the side. I attempt to suggest that perhaps we should secure the truck before we unload it. That way it is sure not to tumble over anyone or with anyone in the back. Nope. No one is listening. So, I try to keep the militia recruits out of it all and start unloading with some of my fellow trainees and a few of the enlisted regular army guys. The truck is moving at his point too.
Anyway, as far as we know we have unloaded all the ammo. One of our fearless leaders orders the gun unhitched. What?!?!?! So, one of the regulars suggests that maybe we should secure the truck with cables or chains to at least one other truck that is not so, how shall it be put, about to fall over a ravine! Good idea. Truck secured. We manhandle the gun clear. So, now to get the truck off the precipice. They put Sleeping Beauty back in the cab. Really? Dumb bastards, pretty much all round. Well, they get the truck back on solid, flat ground. Oh. Yeah. There were still some shells that we missed unloading on the truck.
Well, that was exciting. So, we go into lager, basically an encampment, ready to move, but generally, not set up for action. The rest of the night was quiet and the incident was never brought up by anyone again. So, take that for what you will and I will keep my unflattering conclusions to myself.
So, I should have gone over that ravine and died and/or one of those shells should have been set off and I should have died. Well I did not. Lucky bastard, no thanks to those dumb bastards.
So, what is the tally now?
I appear to be okay. My left hip hurts a bit, but otherwise okay. So, I am sitting there collecting my thoughts for a moment. I can see someone approaching the vehicle from the side mirror. Yes, it was still attached. The guy is crouched, leaning forward, with one arm forward and lit cigarette in the hand. Funny what you notice in the strangest situations. He is approaching very slowly, then says: "Hey buddy? Are you okay?" My response, with a touch of irritation, as I brush safety glass from the front passenger window off of me, "Yeah, yeah. I'm fine." Engine off, vehicle in park, seat-belt off. The door will not open. I reach behind me and open the rear passenger door on my side. My door swings open. The only thing holding it closed, and keeping my extremities in, was the rear door. Lucky bastard?
I get out, grab the snow brush, and brush off the remaining glass off my Aussie bush coat. I just quit smoking cigarettes, but man... Oh yeah. That guy had a smoke going and he is still standing there talking to me. Telling me he saw the whole thing and thought I was dead. Yeah, me too. Lucky bastard! I tell him I just quit smoking, but considering the circumstances, could I bum one off of him. His response: "Brother. After that? You can have anything you want!" Cool, I'll take a smoke. So, this time I have a mobile phone. I call the wife. She is there jiffy quick.
Before she arrived though, an ambulance showed up. No idea who called. They check me out. Oh, and by the way, after an accident like that, they actually do a finger prick blood test that checks to tell them if you might be drunk or high. I tell them I am not sure what happened, some kind of zone out. Hey, my left hip hurts a bit. Well, no wonder, I have a knife, multi-tool, and flashlight on my belt there. While I was trying to see if my car would be good for making shakes or mixing paint, I must have been thrown hard against the door. They tell me no biggie. I do not tell them that not much was holding my door closed. Lucky bastard!!
By the time I get out of the ambulance, there are fire trucks out. What the??? I still do not know who called. These guys were certainly not necessary. There were no fuel spills and they certainly did not clean up any debris, what little there actually was. OPP shows up. He is fellow Polak too. the wife shows up. I told you I was fine. Yes, I know you are worried. Okay. The wife is great. Lucky bastard!!!
No charges laid as it was a single car accident and no collateral or property damage. Cool. The wife is staring at me the whole time. After everything gets cleared away, the car is dropped at the shop. Oh yeah, I do not recall the air bags deploying. Anyway, the wife is super relieved I am fine and such. She tells me to look at the car, it looks like a bubble was around me. I look. It does.
The whole car was smashed to bits. Everything, except the windshield in front of me, my door, basically the area immediately around me. That was definitely a full count of one deducted from the nine. Still alive though. Lucky bastard!!!!
№ 11
So, I thought that was the last one. However, while I was typing all this up, I recalled an incident while training in Gagetown. So, one more. Hopefully the last for a long, long time.
So, I am training to be an artillery officer of the Royal Canadian Artillery in the Canadian Armed Forces. Somehow we were also assisting in training recently enlisted reserve army soldiers from the Atlantic Provinces. So, we are on a training exercise. We are in our encampment and we get the order to bug out. Basically, pack everything up as fast as possible, actually faster, and set everything up again in another location. Well, this particular one was special.
Before the bug out, we were ordered to prepare ammunition for live firing. That is attaching the explosive shell to the casing which is filled the propellant, gun powder. Now, unlike regular rifle and pistol ammunition, there is a chance that you can really mess up. However so small. Now, in and of itself, this is not unusual, nor is it particularly unsafe. In a static camp.
We had already performed a ridiculous amount of bug outs on this exercise. At the time that I was in the Canadian Armed Forces, the Army had a poor quality commissioned officers corps. In my opinion. I will always be of that opinion. There were, of course, exceptions, but not here. Most of the good ones left service far too soon. To me, that is why we had so many bloody bug outs. Way too many. People were very tired. This was peacetime training with citizen soldiers, not the professional army. If we kept it up, mistakes were going to be made, possibly very serious ones.
So, at this point, with the prepping of live shells, we figured we were probably safe to remain in this position until dawn, with repeated interruptions through the night to engage in fire missions, using up all the live ammo. That is why the bug out order was a surprise. Especially as proper procedure was ignored. We were supposed to separate the shells from the casings and secure them properly. This was peace time, no one's life was in danger. Not yet anyway.
So, as my fellow trainee officers and I were issuing orders to secure the ammunition properly and other bug out related clobber, our trainers overrode our commands. What a bunch of baloney. They were yelling and screaming at everyone that there was no time, blah, blah, blah. We could not reason with them. Our troops were inexperienced kids. Pretty terrified by the looks of them, they did what those officers told them to do. We were basically bullied into shutting up. Plus there were some regular army guys with us. Mostly drivers and a few other support positions. They just did what they were told too.
This was not a test of our abilities as officers. This was baloney, plain and simple. In retrospect, all I can figure is some kind of bet on how fast we could teardown, move, and set up again was made. Well, we were super fast tearing down, considering the exhaustion and notwithstanding the loading of live artillery ammo.
So, we are pulling into our next encampment and it is a dog's breakfast. Absolute mayhem. My driver at some point says to me that he hopes that this is the last move, he is exhausted, especially as he was partying the night before. Really, I was training. So, anyway, I see we are being directed to park our gun. I tell him to veer left to get ready to park it. He starts veering right. I tell him, left. He keeps going right. I was getting really insistent at this point as to the right is the beginning of a ravine and if he keeps going right we are going to tumble down it. Us, the truck, the scared kids in the back, the gun attached to us. Oh yeah, and all that improperly secured ammunition.
I start yelling at him to stop. People outside start yelling at him to stop. He does, but not until the front of the truck goes past level ground. That is correct. One front tire barely making contact, the other in the air. the driver appeared very confused. Apparently, he was asleep. He has no recollection of what just happened. Awesome. Stupid bastard.
We get out. We get the guys out of the back. Some of them were holding live shells. Dumb bastards, and the guys who handed the shells to them. There are loose shells and casings on the floor of the truck and in the storage compartments on the sides. I think one of our fearless leader/trainers realise they have goofed. They order us to unload the live ammo before the truck goes over the side. I attempt to suggest that perhaps we should secure the truck before we unload it. That way it is sure not to tumble over anyone or with anyone in the back. Nope. No one is listening. So, I try to keep the militia recruits out of it all and start unloading with some of my fellow trainees and a few of the enlisted regular army guys. The truck is moving at his point too.
Anyway, as far as we know we have unloaded all the ammo. One of our fearless leaders orders the gun unhitched. What?!?!?! So, one of the regulars suggests that maybe we should secure the truck with cables or chains to at least one other truck that is not so, how shall it be put, about to fall over a ravine! Good idea. Truck secured. We manhandle the gun clear. So, now to get the truck off the precipice. They put Sleeping Beauty back in the cab. Really? Dumb bastards, pretty much all round. Well, they get the truck back on solid, flat ground. Oh. Yeah. There were still some shells that we missed unloading on the truck.
Well, that was exciting. So, we go into lager, basically an encampment, ready to move, but generally, not set up for action. The rest of the night was quiet and the incident was never brought up by anyone again. So, take that for what you will and I will keep my unflattering conclusions to myself.
So, I should have gone over that ravine and died and/or one of those shells should have been set off and I should have died. Well I did not. Lucky bastard, no thanks to those dumb bastards.
So, what is the tally now?
1 whole life x 2 = 2 + 3½ = 5½
Remaining: 3½
Wow. I better start watching out. blbbl
Wow. I better start watching out. blbbl
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