A chance to be a hero

Big Ken and I were buddies at Dover Air Force Base in Delaware during the late sixties. We both worked in the training office. We trained other Air Force enlisted men to pass the proficiency exams required for performing aircraft maintenance duties for the C-141 and C-5A transport jets used to transport supplies and personnel to and from Viet Nam. The jets also brought back the bodies of the troops killed in Nam.

Training may be too dishonest for the work that we did. In essence, we developed a method for deciphering the questions and answers on the tests by encouraging each person who took the real test to memorize a certain question and the four possible answers and report their recollections back to us. After several iterations of this process, we were able to discern the complete test, including all questions and all possible answers. We researched the questions, determined the correct answers, and then tested and re-tested each trainee until he could pass at the base level. To our dismay, we still had a five percent failure rate at the base level even after we had given everyone all of the questions and all of the correct answers. Let’s just say we weren’t working with any Ivy Leaguers here. Sports Illustrated was considered heavy reading for them.

So, of course, we needed only the best to work in the training section in order to pull off such a training coup. That’s why I picked Big Ken to join me in this training endeavor.

Big Ken was a nerdy kid who was studious by nature and had a desire to broaden his intellect. As for his nickname, he got it from the size of his thumbs. Big Ken’s thumbs looked like they had been smashed with a hammer and then gorged to twice their normal size. We initially called him Big Thumbs, but that didn’t roll off the tongue as well as Big Ken.

Over the years we were thrown together, we developed a friendship. He introduced me to the game of golf. I’ll never forgive him for that. We also took a trip to Europe on the government dole; visiting Germany, France and England.

He even invited me down to his home in Portsmouth, VA for a weekend at the beach. We initially spent some time at Virginia Beach, but after exhausting the fun there, Big Ken said that we should go to another beach, called Indian River Inlet, a few miles south. He guaranteed tremendous waves close to the inlet’s mouth. As an avid body surfer, I took him up on his invitation.

When we arrived at Indian River Inlet, I was amazed at the size of the waves. However, there were signs on the life guard towers warning of rip currents on this particular day. Neither Big Ken nor I were the adventurous sort, but we decided that no stinking rip currents were going to ruin our day.

So, after depositing our stash on the beach, we headed for the waves. We went out about ten yards from the shore and were in the surf up to our shoulders. When the waves came in, we had to jump to keep our heads above the top of the waves. We body surfed several waves without incident. But, then, we got a little braver and went out to a little deeper water. All of a sudden, I noticed that we had inadvertently ventured into an area where there was a rip current. Almost immediately, the rip current started pulling me out faster than I could manage. I could feel my feet sliding through the sand and putting me in jeopardy of being underwater even when the waves were at their lowest. I dug my feet into the sand and thought that I could inch my way back to shore very slowly. I didn’t want to start to swim because the rip would pull me away from shore and I would have had to swim parallel to the shore until I got out of the rip. I wasn’t that good of a swimmer, so that wasn’t an option for me.

Meanwhile, Big Ken had gotten himself into trouble by completely losing contact with the sand. He began to float away from the shore even as he swam as hard as he could. He attempted to swim parallel, but the rip was pulling him out so fast that he started to panic. Suddenly, he yelled, “Bart, I can’t make it. Help me.”

It was at that moment that I had to decide if I wanted to be a hero that day. I could have easily let go of the grip I had with the sand and swam out to Big Ken to attempt to save him or I could just stand there like a dummy and watch my friend being pulled out to sea. I quickly decided my course of action as I yelled back, “Hang in there, Big Ken. I can’t get to you.”

Luckily, the life guards immediately saw that Big Ken was in trouble, and swam out to get him in a matter of minutes.

When we both had settled down on the beach, I couldn’t look Big Ken in the eye. I had my chance to be a hero and I blew it.

Over time, the incident receded in both of our memories. Big Ken knew that he couldn’t rely on me in an emergency and I knew that I had let a good friend down. It was a hard realization to live with, but it was real. Most people get only a few chances to be heroes. Some rise to the occasion and do the right thing. Others don’t.