It isn’t everyday that you swerve your car to miss a dead body in the road, but then again none of my days were ordinary as an embassy worker in Lima, Peru.

In July of 1996 I boarded an airplane in Dallas, Texas, bound for Lima, Peru. My Air Force records indicated that I was fluent in Spanish. So when the Air Force needed a pilot, fluent in Spanish, for an assignment in Peru, the computer spit out my name and two weeks later I found myself in the back of an airplane headed south.

Lima is a vibrant colonial city ringed by several shantytown barrios that sprang up during periods of civil and economic unrest. More than a million people live without running water or electricity. At night, those shantytowns, and the sections of the Pan American Highway that run through them, can become dangerous. The ill-lit sections of highway allow for numerous accidents and intentional crimes.

One night I confused my turn and got on to the Pan American Highway headed into one of those shantytowns. Realizing my mistake, and not wanting to fall victim to a crime, I varied my speed, and changed lanes often. As I crested a dark hill my high beams shone on an overpass. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a small crowd of people huddled at the side of the road. In the middle of my lane I saw a body.

I jerked the wheel. I slammed on the brakes. The car spun around and I almost lost control. I came to rest along the side of the road facing oncoming traffic. I loosened my death grip on the wheel, and saw the crowd coming my way. I wasn’t sure of their intentions. Sometimes highway bandits would use events like this as a ruse to lure you to stop. Believing the best of these people, I cracked my window to speak with them.

“Did you run over him?” asked an old man in Spanish, apparently the informal leader of the group.

“No,” I replied, “But he looks dead.”

“He was drunk and stumbled into the road. He has been run over several times, but you are the only one that stopped,” commented the old man as the crowd nodded their heads and moaned in agreement.

With the adrenaline still pumping, but not exactly sure how I could help, I rolled down my window the rest of the way and offered to call someone with my cell phone, but no one knew what number to call. I suggested they take some newspaper and light a fire to prevent other motorists from running over him again. Within a few minutes the fire prevented another collision. While I was on the phone with the embassy trying to figure out the best course of action, the flashing lights of a police car topped the dark hill I had crested several minutes earlier. As the police car came into full view, the crowd ran back to the scene to observe the spectacle, except for the old man.

“Get out of here!” he yelled. “They will blame it on you!”

No further prodding was needed. I slammed the car into gear, quickly spun it around, and hurried along the ill-lit highway on my way home, grateful that I had missed the dead body, and any blame for the poor man’s demise.

It isn’t everyday you send a son away to college, especially to a far-away place like Hawaii, but then again Cody wasn’t born on just any day.

Sometime around 2:00 am two days before Cody was born, a young gate guard from Pine Bluff, Arkansas, pulled out his sidearm and shot himself in the head while on duty. At the time we were living in a two-bedroom apartment in Wichita Falls, and I was assigned to the Services Squadron while I waited for a cockpit to open up for me (post Gulf War drawdown). One of my many duties at the time was Mortuary Officer. My phone rang around 3:00 am.

With the death of the young airman, my life went into overdrive. If you think the military controls your life while your alive, you should see how much they control things when someone dies. Long detailed checklists are initiated by several agencies when someone dies on duty, especially if it is a suicide.

When the body had been properly prepared for burial, I had to go through a checklist with the mortician and the funeral home. It was sad to see a life with so much promise terminated early by its own hand. It is even more tragic when you learn that he took his life over a couple hundred dollars in bad checks. It amazed me that someone valued their own life so little, or saw no way out of such a shallow hole, but then again we humans can be quite frail at times, even after exhibiting great strength and tenacity in other situations. I completed the obligatory checklists and went home troubled.

That night around 3:00 am, I made a call of my own. My wife Britt had gone into labor, and I called a family to help watch our oldest son Rian while we headed for the hospital at Sheppard Air Force Base. After several hours of difficult labor, Cody was born. Within twenty-four hours I had been a witness to both death and birth. I had seen the hope and promise of tomorrow snuffed out prematurely, and I had seen new life come charging forth in its mortal glory, all in the same day.

Now Cody is grown. He is a mature man ready to cross the threshold and venture into the world full of that same hope and promise. I don’t know what his future holds, but I hope he never stops believing in himself. I hope he will always value his life. I pray he will never find himself despairing in some shallow hole he might have dug for himself, wondering if he can go on. May he never forget that life, with all its happy moments and tragedies, is meant to be lived.

It isn’t an ordinary day when you send a son to college, but then again Cody isn’t an ordinary son. God speed, and as they say in Hawaii – Aloha nui loa, a hui hou kakou.

Dear Blog Readers,

Thanks for reading. A few months ago I had an idea for a magazine column that could answer questions about flying. I posted something on Facebook and asked what you would ask your Captain. With that feedback, I developed the voice and style of the column. I wrote three articles and had them reviewed by my writing coach. Of course, as soon as I got feedback, I found out that USA Today had just started a similar column.

I haven’t given up, and I am actively seeking a magazine, but in the meantime, I wanted feedback from my blog audience. So, here is the first article.


Since the days of Icarus, we mere mortals have dreamed of flying. Today, thanks to modern technology, that dream is a reality. We streak across the sky in marvelous flying machines cocooned in modern comfort. Uncommon men and women deftly manipulate the controls to carry us up into the blue yonder, and return us safely to earth.

Captain Brock,

Do cell phones really interfere with the airplane’s systems, or is it simply a big hoax intended to keep people from loudly discussing their personal problems among total strangers at 35,000 feet?

Curious in Columbus

Dear Curious,

It is true that nothing is more annoying than listening to would-be Casanova loudly ramble on about his love life in the overcrowded line at Starbucks, but the ban on cell phone usage in flight does serve a higher purpose.

The Boeing 737 is equipped with several radios for communication and navigation that operate at bandwidths similar to cell phones. Communication devices, such as cell phones and radios, are susceptible to electromagnetic interference – when the signals compete or interrupt each other. Because of concerns over electromagnetic interference with aircraft communication and navigation radios, the FCC placed the ban on in-flight cell phone use in 1991.

In addition to the FCC, the FAA also requires that any communication equipment used on a commercial airplane be tested before use. That isn’t a blanket application. That means that each time a new phone is released, the testing for that individual cell phone model would have to be completed all over again, a cost prohibitive venture. (As usual it comes down to money.) Simply put, restricting cell phone usage is the safest course of action, and it costs too much money to prove that it isn’t the safest course of action.

Several airlines have begun equipping their airplanes with WiFi, and you will soon be able to Google and Facebook as we slip the surly bonds over Kansas. That equipment has been tested. Just to keep the flight friendlier, we have restricted the use of VOIP (Voice Over Internet Protocol).

So, to ensure the safest possible flight, since your particular new smart phone has never been proven not to interfere, turn off your cell phone. It is still the safest course of action. Besides, nobody wants to hear you blabber on about your trip to the dentist. Turn to the person next to you and start a conversation. Heaven forbid you make a new friend by talking to someone face-to-face.

Sit back and enjoy the ride.

Captain Brock

Here's a recent short story. Enjoy.

The Race

I had no idea how much running across the street would change my life. The accident happened so fast. One moment I was rushing to beat the traffic light, and then, suddenly, I was in the back of an ambulance on my way to the hospital - antiseptic smell, rushing medical personnel, anesthesia-induced sleep. I awoke with a pounding head, and a cast on my left leg from heel to hip.

After a few days in the hospital, they sent me home to recover, but after working on the road for most of my seventeen-year marriage, my hospital room felt more inviting. I guess all the nights of separation had subdued the signs of trouble in my marriage, but now that I was home everyday, and depressingly dependent, they lit up like neon.

Cynthia, my wife of seventeen years, feigned a smile as she set the lunch tray on my lap. “Don’t forget to take your medication,” she insisted with a cheerful, yet condescending voice.

“I’m feeling better. I don’t want to take it today. It makes me dizzy,” I complained. “Besides, I thought we could play a game or something.” I tried to sound inviting, but came across more like a pouting child.

“Now Dom, you know the pain makes you irritable. Take the medication so you can sleep the afternoon away, and be in a good mood when Caleb and Ceci get home from school.” She waved her hand as she sauntered out of the den.

I grumbled and picked at my food. I did want to be in good mood when my teenage kids got home, but her dismissive and dodgy attitude annoyed me. I slipped the pain medication into the half-eaten salad and covered it with wilted lettuce. Probably out of habit, I fell asleep in the wheelchair, but instead of sleeping the deep chemical sleep of a drugged patient, an itch under the cast roused me from my slumber.

As I came to, I heard the shower running in the master bathroom – a little odd for two in the afternoon. Since I couldn’t find the coat hanger I had been using to scratch beneath the cast, I wheeled myself to the master bathroom, but instead of finding a way to relieve an itch, I found my wife in the shower - with another woman.



The painful process of the divorce took less than three months to finalize. In those three months, my physical wounds healed nicely, but my emotional wounds deepened and spread. The pain in my left leg was replaced by a dull ache that seemed to pulse in my bones. My casual belief in God evaporated into hopelessness. I ambled listlessly through each day shrouded in a thick haze of guilt, insecurity, and anger. Thoughts of failure ran circles in my head until dark depression overcame me. One night I found myself curled up on my bathroom floor with a gun in my mouth.

I never knew how bitter gun oil tasted until I stuck the barrel of my snub-nosed Glock against the roof of my mouth. The bitterness drenched my taste buds, and lingered like the aftertaste of stale coffee. I gingerly slipped my finger over the trigger.

As my finger warmed the cool black metal, an image flooded my mind. I saw Caleb and Ceci standing at my grave. I witnessed their somber, anguished faces as they watched my casket lowered into the darkness of the earth. I felt their inquisitive teenage hearts cry out and ask me – why?

I pulled the gun away from my mouth, and spat the bitterness onto the bathroom floor. I decided that in spite of my own personal misery, I would not burden my children’s journey through life with the millstone of my suicide.
The next day at breakfast, they threw me a lifeline.

“The school is sponsoring a fun run to raise money for its sports programs, and we are all going to participate,” said Ceci. It wasn’t a request. Caleb gave a forceful glare and nodded in agreement. “It’s only a 5K, but we need to train,” said Caleb. He handed me a piece of paper. “I have a training schedule right here. We start tomorrow morning.” I took the schedule and complied with a quiet nod.

At 6 AM the next morning I heard a loud knock at my bedroom door. Ceci and Caleb were dressed, and ready for the run. I rolled reluctantly out of my bed, stumbled to my closet for my running gear, and shuffled to the living room. They quietly waited as I tied my shoes.

After the accident, I thought I would never run again, but my injuries had healed, and I found myself plodding along the trail, grinning with each step. I was out of shape, but an odd sense of euphoria enveloped me as I struggled to keep up with my kids. The early morning sun, the silent togetherness, the protective green trees that hovered over us along the trail, the daily new beginning transformed our running into therapy. Each day we traveled a little further. Each day we traveled a little faster. Each day I finished the run feeling a little more whole.

As the day of the race drew near, my muscles felt strong, tight, and ready to run. Thanks to our daily time together, my relationship with my kids was on sure footing. Hope had become my running partner, and I was ready to continue life’s race, but I was still avoiding any trail that would lead to companionship. That emotional trail was still grown over with weeds of bitterness, tall grass of anger, and prickly bushes of self-doubt.

The race scene was like a carnival - lines for T-shirts, various booths advertising their running wares, and loud upbeat music blaring out over the crowd of energetic runners and spectators. As I milled about at the starting line, a woman about my age caught my eye. It wasn’t her long brown hair in a ponytail, or her lean legs exposed by the running shorts that captured my gaze. It was the look of private pain I discerned on her face. I knew that look. I saw it every day in the mirror. She glanced at me and saw me staring. I gave her a weak smile, and a manly nod.

The gun went off. I started fast, but then settled into my pace. Caleb pulled ahead, and Ceci fell behind. Spectators cheered and encouraged along the course. At the end of the first mile I was ahead of schedule, and began to slow down, but then I saw her out of the corner of my eye - she was passing me. Our private race began. She pulled ahead at first, and I fell in behind her. When she slowed down, I passed her, but I could feel her on my heels. As we approached the last half mile, she pulled up beside me. I gave her a sideways grin and sped up. She matched my speed and grinned back.

About 100 yards from the finish line we were neck and neck. The crowd of cheering spectators grew thick along the sides of the course. It felt like everyone was now focused on our private race. She pulled a few steps ahead as I sucked air over my teeth and fought for more speed.

A bright pink ball bounced out of the crowd and on to the racecourse in front of us. She must have been so focused on the finish line that she didn’t see it. Her churning feet hit the bouncing ball. She tumbled, and frantically tried to catch herself, but sprawled across the grassy course on her stomach. I heard the air rush out of her lungs even over my own breathing. I stopped.

“Are you all right?” I asked between gasps. She moaned and rolled over onto her back. “I think I’m okay. Nothing hurt but my pride.” I extended her my hand. “Let’s finish this race.”

She grabbed my hand and pulled herself up. She winked. “Race you to the finish line!”

The crowd let out a roar as we crossed the finish line together. We both laughed. For just a moment self-doubt, bitterness, and anger melted away, and I extended my hand to her again. “I’m Dom, short for Dominick.”

Her pale green eyes sparkled as she extended her hand for the second time that day, and I knew that I was ready for another race.

I saw someone get threatened last week. It wasn’t pretty. When I cam to their defense, I was also targeted. It all happened on Facebook.

A Facebook friend of mine had vented his feelings on a particular political issue and drew the ire of one of his friends. His friend called his post “hateful” and “factually incorrect”, threatening to defriend him. When I came to the defense of my friend and to the defense of healthy debate, I was told, “I don’t know you and I don’t want to.” Ouch!

Years ago I fought against a particular proposition that had been placed on the ballot. It did not seem like good policy to me, and I spoke out against it. In the end, I was in the minority, and the proposition passed. In my angst over the loss, I wrote a clever letter to the editor expressing my disappointment in the outcome of the vote. To my surprise, they published it. A few weeks later a letter arrived. It was in a business-size envelope and had been addressed by hand. It carried no return address.

When I opened the envelope, I found a hateful and ridiculing form letter. It basically called me an imbecile and a jackass for my position. It made no argument to counter mine. It carried no facts to support another position. It did not appeal to any higher logic, or sense of justice. It was simply a venom-filled, one-way correspondence meant to make me feel small and stupid. It was anonymous. It might as well have been a rock thrown through my front window with some sort of threatening message because it displayed the same level of vitriol and cowardice.

At first the letter stung, kind of like a slap across the face, but as I pondered the letter, the slap lost its sting and I felt pride instead of pain. I had lost the vote, but in the battle of wits with faceless smear-letter writer, I had won the fight. I kept the letter as a reminder that at least once in my life, I had bested a mudslinging coward.

A few years ago, a friend of mine was elected to the local school board. She diligently went about her duties, and soon found herself in the middle of several controversial issues. I openly disagreed with her on one of the issues, and argued against her position. During that open disagreement, she visited our home on several occasions in a different capacity. Neither of us raised the issue of our disagreement. She never called me names or tried to belittle me personally for my difference of opinion. I followed her lead. In the end we never came to an agreement on the issue, and she proceeded with the course of action that I had openly disagreed with. She voted her conscience, and I lost. To this day, she commands my utmost respect because she courageously stood her ground and disagreed without being disagreeable. It was a lesson I will never forget.

It is seldom that we humans agree on anything. Disagreement is more likely the norm in our daily life. We all believe that we are right on certain issues, and it is impossible for all of us to be right. It behooves us all to learn to disagree agreeably, and not let our differences of opinion degenerate into cowardly personal attacks, or petty name-calling. We should counter arguments with facts and logic. Give our opinion politely and without rancor. Engage in civil debate. For heaven sakes, don’t threaten others with defriending because you disagree with their position. You might need that friend someday to help you repair a window.

An old weathered barn on my parent’s farm struggles to remain standing. The tin roof is rusty and full of holes. The siding is pitted from the elements and graying from age. The beams are warped and sagging. Once a proud and capable structure, each day that passes makes it less useful, and more dilapidated. It has outlived its usefulness and moved beyond its days of storing hay and protecting livestock from the elements. Its days are numbered.

Every two years my siblings and their families converge on the family farm for family reunion. Our ten-sibling family is like a large gangly ten-legged octopus whose tentacles grow longer and stronger each year. We are a prolific bunch – a lot like the rabbits that escaped from their hutches years ago and took over my Granny’s garden.

As we gathered for our recent reunion, Dad informed us that the old barn would soon be demolished because it was considered unsafe. My three brothers and I decided to salvage some of the wood and make picture frames that each family could take home as a reunion memento.

What is ingrained in our nature that sends us back home again like salmon swimming upstream? What deep human need do we fulfill by dragging our spouse and children to some long forgotten place so that they can listen to stories of old family dramas and moments of fraternal joy? What compels us to seek out our roots? Are we individuals, or do we simply exist as a part of something bigger?

The barn gave us a wary eye as we approached with tools for removing boards. Afraid of falling through the floor, we gingerly snuck into the hay loft and looked for wood that could still be used – wood that, although weathered, still had integrity. We found a few floorboards not too warped or worn. We pulled a few boards from around the corncrib. The planks groaned and fretted as we pried out the nails and extracted the selected boards.

We have long since outgrown my parent’s house, and much to my mother’s dismay, we all stayed at a local hotel. She still wanted to feed us all, but we compromised on meals. She hired a cook to prepare food from the farm, and we all chipped in to pay his fee. Our compromise allowed my mother to fill her emotional need to feed us, and allowed us to visit more instead of preparing the next meal, or cleaning up after the last one.

As we plopped the boards onto the table saw and began ripping them to a standard width, my mind turned to the hours I had spent in the barn milking our cow, stacking hay, and shelling corn in an old hand-cranked sheller. My brother and I joked that if we got the right boards, the frames would carry the smell of the barn’s history right into the living room – kind of a “scratch-and-sniff” frame.

Picture time is always the most chaotic at family reunion. Imagine taming this multilegged monster long enough to get a picture of it – with a smile on its face. Invariably parents find themselves yelling for some wayward child that has decided that the zip line installed a few yards away looks more interesting. Without fail at least one well-dressed toddler will have a complete meltdown. Miraculously, we somehow manage to document our existence for posterity one more time. This year the old barn was prominently fixed in the background.

Although aged and worn, the old barn wood proved to be hard and unyielding. The miter saw complained a bit each time I asked it to cut through a board. The wood still maintained an iron-like integrity. Its twisted shape, old knotholes, and pitted saw marks gave each frame a unique look and personality. It was as if the barn, knowing its fate, had imparted some of its spirit to the frames and could speak to the beholder from the great beyond for old barns.

We ate until we were popping at the seams, and while the kids played at various activities organized by my sister, we sat and told more stories, caught up on news, bragged about embellished accomplishments, mourned the passing of loved ones, and complained about the government. New bonds were formed. Old bonds were strengthened. Like the tough old barn wood, we spoke of the marks life had left on us, yet we also had imparted a bit of our spirit into the frame of life.

We ended with fireworks. The old barn watched as the sky flashed a phosphorous red, white, and blue. It seemed to smile upon us as we sat and watched the crescendo. The old tired timbers let out a sigh with the explosion of the last mortar. The old barn has served well, and through its work, it has left a legacy. The grain of its wood will frame a large picture of a vibrant living organization called family.

They say that every man has a mistress, and I guess that I am no exception. What makes my affair different, however, is that I started it a couple of days before I got married, over twenty years ago. I really never stood a chance against her intoxicating perfumes, and heart-catching looks. I was seduced by her strange and subtle ways, and her passion washed over me like the tide. When I came to Hawaii to marry my wife, I started a love affair with the Hawaiian Islands that I have never been willing, or able, to break off.

I met my wife on the mainland. Although a haole girl, she was born and raised in the islands and was as local as poi (a thick edible paste made from taro root). She spoke of her home with zeal, and often used superlatives. I would sometimes roll my eyes as she talked about the breathtaking beaches, strange and delicious foods, and the Hawaiian ohana - family.

When you think about the Hawaiian ohana, you think about food. Hawaiians love to eat. They load their tables with everything from traditional foods such as poi, rice, pork lau-laus, and lomi-lomi salmon, to more modern dishes such as Huli-Huli chicken. You can also find sumptuous Asian cuisine, various fusion dishes that combine the tastes of several cultures, and local-style meals like the loco-moco (a gravy-drenched hamburger patty on a bed of rice and topped with a fried egg). Hawaii even has its own version of the doughnut – the malasada (a fried dough ball covered in sugar and sometimes filled). For one of the most isolated islands in the world, they know how to eat.

Although remote, the islands offer a wide variety of activities to entertain you. Tourism is the number one industry in Hawaii, and there’s no shortage of tourist attractions. For a walk through history, visit the Arizona Memorial at Pearl Harbor, or the Bishop Museum. For a taste of the island culture, visit the Polynesian Culture Center. With miles of beckoning beaches positioned against ridgelines covered in lush rainforest, Hawaii offers something for every traveler. You can skydive, or scuba dive. You can learn to surf, or learn to swing your hips and hula dance. You can hike to a secluded waterfall, or read a book on a secluded beach.

The most famous beach in Hawaii is Waikiki. Even though it is crowded by tall condominiums and hotels, this crescent beach still maintains its iconic beauty with Diamond Head rising at its east end. You can play in the sand, soak up the warm tropical sun, or take a ride in an outrigger canoe. If you want to try your hand (or foot) at surfing, the long rolling waves of Waikiki offer the best place in the world to learn how to surf. On any given day a beginning surfer with no experience can walk up to one of the surf shacks, and learn to ride the waves within an hour.

When you’re done learning to surf, a short walk will take you to the international marketplace for spectacular shopping. The marketplace offers a variety of souvenirs and gifts that you can haggle over and bargain for. If you’re shopping budget allows for finer tastes, there are numerous boutiques and name-brand shops that offer a wide range of finer goods. At night the Waikiki shopping district is also crowded with street performers that will entertain and amuse you. Just be prepared to shell out a few bills if you do more than look at them in passing.

Snorkeling is a great way to get a passing look at another world without too much trouble. Hanauma Bay, a short drive from downtown Honolulu, is an excellent spot to view brightly colored reef fish, squid, and even green sea turtles in a safe and comfortable environment. It gets crowded, so arrive early. The entrance fee is five dollars for adults, and you will be introduced to the park with an informative video about the park and its sea life. Since the bay was formed when the ocean eroded one side of a volcano, as you enter the park from above you have a spectacular view of the entire bay and the sparkling blue water below, but the lofty view also means a steep walk up and down. Take a few extra dollars to pay for the tram ride up and down. It’s worth the money.

Cost is what keeps most people away from Hawaiian Islands, but there are several ways to reduce the overall cost of your trip. If you can, try to travel during the off-season months, such as May or October. You will find the prices cheaper, and the beaches less crowded. Look for package deals that include airfare, hotel, and rental car. Since food is your biggest expense while there, try to find accommodations with a kitchen or kitchenette, and prepare your own meals. To save on airfare, save up your frequent flyer miles. You may even consider a credit card that gives you frequent flyer miles. If you enjoy beach activities, your entertainment costs while there will be minimal.

They say that every man has a mistress, but they never tell you the true cost of such an affair. Make your affair an affordable one. Take your spouse to Hawaii, and start an island affair of your own.