No Heavy Lifting

by Rob Simpson

  I sent tape, the news director liked it, and two weeks later, I moved further south. After eleven months in Dixie, the Fort Myers/Naples market came calling.

  Florida is a strange state full of strange people. Besides the small percentage of natives, and the smaller percentage of “cracker” cowboys (pioneer frontiersmen who moved to the remote south to work the land), most of the population is made up of two types of immigrants: old snowbirds from up north, and Latinos from the Caribbean. Of course, there’s yet another niche of the population: dangerous drifters.

  I first saw a mangled body in Florida. I first saw a burned body and I first smelled death there too. The odour of a dead body and its residue, especially outdoors in ninety-five-degree heat, is unforgettable, and may just be the nastiest smell in existence.

  In one gruesome Charlotte County incident, two homophobes decided to kill a gay man. They forced him to drink engine coolant, stuffed a rag down his throat, then cut off his penis and threw it in the Peace River. Just in case he wasn’t dead yet, they set him on fire. Police found his body in a field a week later.

  After they removed the body, I decided to head to the site to shoot video and perform an on-camera stand-up.

  Normally, as a “one-man-band,” acting as reporter and cameraman, stand-ups were a big enough pain in the ass. If I wanted to appear in a story, I had to shoot myself. This involved picking a place to stand or squat, guesstimating the shot through the viewfinder, pushing Record, running in front of the camera, positioning myself, running back, rewinding the tape, and checking the video to see if I fit in the frame correctly. If I did, fine, I’d hit Record again, go to the spot, and talk to the camera. If not, I’d adjust based on what the practice shot revealed, and then try it again.

  In the case of the dead body, it was especially gnarly. I could see the imprint where the body had rested in the weeds. Flies swarmed on and around the residue on the ground. To go with the stench, as I knelt next to the spot, the flies swarmed on me. I felt like I was in the Australian outback; flies were in my eyes, on my nose, all while I was trying to speak. I managed the stand-up in two takes.

  But dead bodies would not be my greatest test of puke retention. Being on a lengthy peninsula with hundreds of miles of saltwater shoreline, it seemed inevitable that I’d find myself on the water.

  I possessed little fear. In my previous travels, I had crossed a stormy English Channel, a wavy Bass Strait between the Australian mainland and the island state of Tasmania, a temperamental Nantucket Sound, and a rough-and-tumble Lake Michigan. Never once had I experienced seasickness.

  However, I had also never been on any of those bodies of water while looking through a video-camera viewfinder. It’s a game changer, and for myself and many others, it makes riding the ocean blue a whole different experience.

  On April 29, 1991, I headed for the Mote Marine Laboratory on Longboat Key, off Sarasota. This would be my first-ever story on sharks. The world-renowned laboratory was promoting its annual “catch-and-release” shark tournament. Big-game fishermen would have the opportunity to perfect their craft and revel in the chance to catch a monster shark, all in the name of science.

  The lab benefitted because the fishermen were, in essence, working for research. Some of the sharks would be held and studied, while most would be tagged and unhooked to be released back into the wild. It was the perfect example of two generally opposite entities working on a mutually beneficial endeavour.

  Boasting my unscathed record on the sea, I hopped on one of the press boats with seven other people for the tournament preview. Two reporters from Sarasota continuously expressed concern about seasickness. The captain and I attempted to reassure them.

  “Just look at the horizon,” we advised. “Keep moving around. Don’t sit down inside the cabin. You’ll be fine.”

  The journey would take us about four miles out into the Gulf, to a zone considered somewhat infested with sharks. Two fishing boats followed. My job included shooting video of people on the other vessels attempting to catch sharks.

  For two minutes of work, I didn’t notice a thing. I took shots of our captain, the other boats, the wake, and what I thought were dramatic shots of the wavy seas. Two minutes later, I was overcome. Rocking back and forth while looking through the viewfinder with my other eye closed did wacky things to my gut.

  The afternoon’s drama was now taking place in my belly. I’m pretty sure I’ve never felt worse.

  I left the crowd at the open area astern and took my camera along the narrow starboard side to the bow. There I could be alone for a few moments under the guise of busy TV photographer.

  Wrong! When I reached the front of the boat, I found a young lady already in anguish. She vomited repeatedly off the port side.

  Soon, the ocean claimed its second victim. I felt that irrepressible feeling. The boat rocked. Moments later, half of the Dr Pepper I had for breakfast came shooting out my pursed mouth and swollen nostrils and hit the deck. Oh, the sting of carbonation.

  “Ahhh, much better,” I said, drawing in a deep breath. Best of all, I had gacked in private, as the sick girl remained with her head flung over the side. I just prayed the active sea spray would quickly wash away my modest amount of yack.

  For ten minutes, my bravado survived intact; my brush with mortality on the high seas remained undetected. I proceeded to the back of the boat to shoot more video.

  Twenty seconds after my face hit the viewfinder, my liquid breakfast mounted a second attack. The carbonated “Doctor” was not happy staying cooped up; he simply had to get out.

  The hurling and the dry heaves that followed my second trip to the bow left me queasy for the next twenty minutes. My photographer chores, at least those on the water, had come to an abrupt conclusion. I stayed up front for the return journey to the harbour.

  The second my feet hit the dock, I regained my legs and felt like a million dollars.

  “It was the soda I had for breakfast. I was in a hurry and didn’t eat anything. Big mistake,” I explained to the curious and beautiful young TV reporter from Sarasota.

  “Oh, well, as long as you feel better now, let’s grab some lunch,” she replied enthusiastically.

  No, really, let’s stay here and talk a little more about puke, I said to myself as she walked away. I don’t know how this is working out, but I like it.

  Actually, a fat ham sandwich was exactly what I needed. I ate with vigour. The rest of the day, I shot video of sharks in tanks and interviewed scientists and fishermen and smiled at the “hottie” reporter. Not one shark had been caught during our media adventure.

  “Sucks, same thing happened last year,” our captain explained. “We get the media here, it’s choppy, and no one catches a damn thing. I hope the tournament goes a hell of a lot better.”

  “I hope so too, Captain,” I said. “I hope so too.”

  I spent thirteen months at WINK-TV, covering tropical storms, drug raids, murder cases, and disease epidemics, but the biggest calamity occurred just two minutes from my door.

  During the whole time I lived in an apartment in Charlotte Harbor, just north of the Peace River, I spent maybe three Friday nights entirely at home. This particular Friday happened to be one of them.

  I arrived home from an evening story at about 7:30 p.m. and fell asleep. I had just sat through an important but boring public hearing on funding for local emergency medical services. Residents argued that local bureaucrats shouldn’t cut the EMS budget. The county commissioners used a full two hours of rhetoric to agree. On a Friday night!

  The meeting was prophetic. I hadn’t seen or heard the last of EMS for the evening.

  I awoke in a daze about midnight, at first thinking it was time to get up and drive to Fort Myers for a WINK golf outing. I saw the clock and quickly settled in to go back to sleep. As I lay in bed, contemplating putts, chips, and bogeys, I heard the wailing appr
oach of a fire engine.

  Living off Farnam Street, a couple blocks from US 41, I often heard the sounds of emergency vehicles, and from frequent exposure to sirens, I could distinguish a patrol car from an ambulance, an ambulance from a fire engine or hook and ladder. I always knew when to give chase and when to relax. If in doubt, I’d flip on my police scanner.

  This night, I heard the sounds of all four. Less than a minute after the fire engine, two patrol cars whizzed past my neighbourhood onto the southbound Peace River Bridge. After another thirty seconds, an ambulance. Then more police cars, then another ambulance. The screaming vehicles began to drown out one another.

  As I listened, I ran out my front door and stood in front of my WINK-mobile. A herd of emergency vehicles thundered across the river.

  “Damn! This is a big one.” I ran inside.

  Two thoughts entered my mind as I threw on a shirt and yanked on my blue jeans. First, some big building has gone up in flames. Second, this story was mine, mine, mine. My two Charlotte County bureau chief competitors wouldn’t have a clue. Evan Bacon from WEVU-TV would probably be out and about and, if he wasn’t, his apartment near I-75 was too far away to hear the action. The WBBH bureau chief commuted from Fort Myers, thirty-five miles south.

  Whatever was going on, I’d have the exclusive.

  It took only three minutes to grab my camera, hop in the car, and speed across the bridge.

  I was surprised and almost relieved to see all of the police cars, fire vehicles, and ambulances sitting out in front of the Holiday Inn just south of the bridge. I wouldn’t have to search around town for the fire. Time searching meant potential video time wasted.

  As it turns out, it wasn’t a fire at all. That night, I’d be covering the aftermath of an unusual and devastating explosion. At least a dozen people at the hotel dance club suffered flesh wounds and abrasions, two or three would be scarred, while one man lost a leg. All this happened while people were dancing: cuttin’ the rug one moment, cut down the next.

  The band had set up metal pipes full of pyrotechnics close to the front of their stage. Pyrotechnics, when handled and prepared properly, provide controlled explosions that blow upward just at the right moment. When the band hits the big note, the “light show” adds the perfect drama and excitement.

  On this night, the pyrotechnics malfunctioned, literally exploding, sending shrapnel into walls, through ceiling panels, and into the limbs and torsos of patrons.

  With the intensity of the explosions and the damage caused by the shrapnel, most witnesses couldn’t believe there was no death.

  Port Charlotte resident Scott Jones suffered the worst injury. The blast ripped off his right leg below the knee and severely damaged his left. He knew members of the band and had been standing close to the stage watching the revelry. Injured dancers collapsed nearby. A few of the partiers rushed forward to offer help while others ran in terror. Jones lay in a pool of his own blood.

  The rescue efforts were ten minutes old when I had arrived. I set up my camera with the attached portable light and hoisted it on my shoulder. The police wouldn’t let me inside, so I began the search out front for a quick explanation. As I picked up bits and pieces of the story from bystanders, I shot all of the outdoor “cover,” or video of the scene, that I could. Five ambulances lined the hotel’s driveway. One by one, they’d take victims to a nearby hospital, return, and get back in line.

  Bottom line, particularly as time wore on, I desperately needed people to tell the dramatic story on camera. Without them, it would be hollow. Gathering no sound bites at a story like this would be incomprehensible and inexcusable.

  Problem: a man carrying a video camera during a time of great emotion and trauma is nothing but a prick, a vulture. Many witnesses would have nothing to do with me. Many others, including all of my cop and fire buddies, were too busy with the rescue efforts.

  Finally, in the parking lot, about fifteen rows from the front of the building, I found a willing interview subject: a drunken tourist from Boston.

  “Oh, it was terrible. An explosion, really horrendous,” he slurred thoughtfully. “It looked bad, a lot of injuries, a lot of blood.” He paused and looked back at the hotel. “I think one guy lost his leg.”

  Thank God for drunken tourists from Boston. I had the momentum to continue unabashed.

  Punta Gorda Police Public Information Officer (PIO) Naomi Patterson played a little hard to get. Our working relationship was friendly and solid. We were friends outside of our official roles and spent a lot of time joking around. At this scene, Naomi had to wear her game face. Every captain and chief in the county was running around and any public information procedures would be handled by the book. Sheriff deputies blocked all hotel entrances.

  By 1:45 a.m., the injured had been removed, most of the other partiers had gone home, and the parking lot was three-quarters empty. For the previous thirty minutes, I had waited with two newspaper reporters for the opportunity to look inside. Naomi was doing her best to accommodate us, but I didn’t realize it. At about 2:15 a.m., after wandering around and not being able to find her for another thirty minutes, I left. I found out the next day that ten minutes after I departed, they opened the doors.

  I missed blood, I missed torn curtains, I missed shrapnel holes in the ceiling, and I missed a mess. Naomi teased me about it for months.

  “You could have been inside. Inside! You blew it,” she’d remind.

  Meanwhile, after the short drive home, I was obligated to call our assignment editor, Jim Vangrove. Despite the wee hour, it was mandatory that I wake him up and report the situation. He gave me the low-down on what was expected and what steps to take the next day. He was very appreciative of my efforts and very excited about the exclusive. He wanted me to edit an extra version of the piece for the CBS network feed and for CNN and FNN (Florida News Network).

  The next morning, I figured out a way to play golf and get everything accomplished. For the next few days after that, I’d rationalize my blown opportunity.

  I already had more than enough video than I knew what to do with, great sound bites, and cool shots and sounds, I thought. The blood would have been sensory overload. I had already written the next day’s story in the parking lot, I had to play golf in the morning, and I had an exclusive story and a half day to edit it, a portion of my brain argued. I was busting my ass on this job, and they were paying me only fifteen grand a year!

  Okay, so that was all bullshit. In reality, missing the indoor scenes pissed me off. Blowing the chance for the “icing on the cake” was a disappointment. Even if I didn’t use the blood scenes the next day, the door would have been open for an automatic and very effective follow-up story.

  Fortunately, two weeks later, I landed a follow-up anyway — another exclusive: an interview with victim Scott Jones in his Port Charlotte home. Well known among his peers for his upbeat attitude, Scott managed to keep his positive outlook despite the personal tragedy of losing his leg. His family prayed for strength and gave thanks, as Scott very easily could have been killed. His story became one I’d never forget, one that always reminded me how fragile life is and how easily danger can lurk unexpectedly.

  Of course, in Florida, “unexpected” often also means “bizarre.”

  While moving to Fort Myers in August 1990, driving south, towing a U-Haul trailer, I’ll never forget passing two women whose car had apparently broken down by the side of the road. They were pulled off just short of an overpass. I slowed to look. They were both out of the car, and a man had stopped a few car lengths behind to help them. The image of the women, especially the tall blonde, stuck in my mind. I got a decent look at her face and hair. The second gal was shorter with dark hair.

  Usually when a wow moment occurs, we recognize a celebrity or someone or something from our past. With these women, the wow moment actually came months later, after serial killer Aileen Wuornos and h
er companion, Tyria Moore, had been caught. I flashed back to those few moments on Interstate 75.

  Oh my God, I remembered, that was them.

  Had I contemplated stopping to help them? I might have; I’d help damsels in distress on the side of a highway. But the other guy had already stopped to help. What happened to him? Did he become a murder victim?

  After killing at least seven men, Wuornos was executed via lethal injection in 2002. Numerous films and books have documented her killing spree. Charlize Theron won an Oscar for portraying Wuornos in the movie Monster released in 2003.

  I’m pretty darn sure it was her and Moore by the side of the road: a monster in the swamp; an appropriate welcome for any news reporter moving to the Sunshine State.

  ~

  Fort Myers was a very competitive stepping-stone TV market at the time for some eventual big time talent. Hoda Kotb of Today Show fame was one of our news reporters and a weekend anchor at WINK. Shepard Smith of FOX News was a reporter and anchor at our main competitor WBBH-TV at the time. Many others left southeast Florida for big markets like Philadelphia, Cleveland, Boston, and New York. They worked our asses off frankly, and weeded out those less talented and determined.

  YouTube clip: Simmer WINK-TV Man

  THE HOSTAGE

  “I was going in total slow motion the whole entire time, looking around the valley, thinking, God, what a beautiful place this is, and gee, you know, how odd . . . I was just absolutely sure my life was over. So strange. I’d say it was a peak experience.”

  Former hostage Peter O’Callaghan, September 1995

  On Wednesday, August 5, 1992, photographer Peter O’Callaghan and I started the day slowly. Not much was happening on another weak news day at KGMB-TV in Hawaii. It was about eleven a.m. when our assignment manager, Brenda Salgado, also known fondly as Bren-dude, although she was anything but, roused us from a conversation in one of the edit bays.