Borderline Docs

5 11 2023

Just try to understand, I’ve given all I can. ‘Cause you got the best of me….Madonna, Borderline.

It was at the Mexican border where I began to fully grasp self-awareness.

My previous adventures always carried a sense of fantasy and escapism. In my mind, I had fancied myself this intrepid journalist, a swashbuckling Indiana Jones-like character, who traveled to far off lands to experience sensitory pleasure, diverse cultures and new customs.

This trip was different. I was playing with the grown-ups now.

So here we were, Daniel and I, motoring down to the border to meet with the mayor of Calexico and learn the truth behind one of the most hot button issues in America today. I felt confident, bolstered by enduring a pandemic inside that miserable warehouse, the political turmoil of the 2020 election and my recent service with the TSA.

It also helped to have Daniel by my side. His moxy was in full force.

“You’re going to walk from the medical center to city hall with the mayor,” he instructed.

It was a beautiful late autumn day in Imperial Valley. Full sun with a light breeze in the crisp air. I wore a short sleeved blue Panama Jack styled shirt and tan jeans. Daniel was in a suit. He had already established a relationship with the mayor through his work with the chamber.

“Just be yourself and you’ll be fine,” Daniel told me.

We met the mayor at a health clinic where a long line of people, primarily Mexicans, waited to be seen by a doctor, free of charge. The mayor was a tall man, handsome, in shape and likely around my age.

“Welcome to Calexico,” he said, smiling while extending his hand. I returned a firm grip and maintained eye contact, renewing a diplomatic ritual robbed by the pandemic.

“Let’s meet the doctor,” he said. We went inside the clinic and the mayor greeted everyone, making small talk and gushing over the babies. The overwelming majority were women and children. Come to find out, the men rarely seek out medical attention for fear of losing work time. This reminded me of a comment a TSA colleague had uttered on checkpoint: “You can’t get COVID if you don’t get tested.”

I felt guilty as we butted to the front of the line and into the doctor’s office. “Have a seat gentleman,” he said. The doctor was a bald, portly older white fellow who seemed to be in need of sleep. He explained to us that most of the patients were living in abject poverty and needed basic antibiotics to combat their various ailments. More resources were needed, the doctor said, and the mayor pledged to deliver.

After reassuring the doc, the mayor and I did the walk from the clinic to city hall as Daniel had directed. Along the way, several SUVs with dark tinted windows slowly rode by us. The mayor asked me about the Pacific Northwest and attitudes towards drugs. He said he had friends in southwest Washington state who were concerned the cartels were gaining a foothold in the region. Fentanyl, he warned, was having a devasting effect in Los Angeles and Phoenix.

We had lunch at a little mom and pop restaurant planted near the border crossing. Over enchiladas and chile rellenos, the mayor informed us of the power dynamics on the city council. Daniel proded him to seek a promotion and run for Congress, a proposal that drew a hearty chuckle. He was flattered, but not stupid. I got a sense, he had it good here and wanted to keep it that way. Everywhere we went, people nodded their respect.

Daniel picked up the bill and we walked the mayor out to his vehicle, a modest mid-sized SUV that was dusty and had seen some miles. “John, I want you to have something,” he said, opening the back door and digging into a brief case to pull out an evergreen colored folder with a thick set of papers inside. “Some reading for your return trip.”

I opened the folder and there on the first page was a government timestamp that read: Declassified, December 2, 1993.

Puzzled, I looked up only to see the mayor wink and drive away.


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Categories : California, Medicine, Security

A Hands Off Approach

25 06 2023

Going through all the hurdles of a security clearance is not easy. Nor should it be.

But I stayed the course and went through every step and finally secured a report for duty status at the airport. It was sort of surreal to be working for an agency most journalists outright despise. What I would come to learn is the TSA — a response to the 9/11 attacks — was the lowest paid government agency and morale was poor.

Granted COVID still had a stranglehold on the travel industry with the omicron variant just coming out. Like the warehouse and the grocery store, we were required to be masked at all times, but since this was a federal government job, only vaccinated employees were allowed to return to workplace.

I sailed through classroom training, feeling like a nerd in history class again as we studied the different terrorist attacks over the years. We watched a video on 9/11 with interviews and footage I had never seen before and it was so powerful tears welled up in my eyes. That was when I knew this job meant more than a paycheck.

“John, you are the smartest one in the class, you’ll do fine,” said Garrett, our stout, barrel-chested trainer with a ponytail and one of those Oregon accents of unremarkable note.

And while, I scored great in the classroom and navigated all the computers, websites and passwords with ease, I would struggle on checkpoint, realizing too late that the cards were stacked against me. Without revealing secrets, let’s just say it was a blessing in disguise that I was unable to get my officer certification before the training hours ran out.

I was relieved of duty after two months. It was crushing.

There was a moment of clarity during the certification process, when it hit me that if I progressed any further I would be required to perform pat-downs on passengers. This was not something I was looking forward to. Just getting them to empty their pockets, take off their shoes and xray luggage was invasive enough. For some reason it never occured to me during this entire process that pat-downs were a big part of a TSA officer’s functions.

Talk about the dog focused on catching the car. The chase was over. The fun part done. Now what?

My refusal to quit eventually forced the agency’s hand. I knew something was up one day when Garrett, normally friendly to me, would not make eye contact and avoided me in the back office. A young female supervisor, clearly sympathetic to what had become my awkward role in all of this, had me take online tactical courses for most of the day, while upper management figured out a way to get rid of me.

I knew the die had been cast, when Garrett walked behind my desk one morning as I was clicking through online tests and muttered underneath his breath, “game over.”

Thankfully, when I was relieved of duty, the agency arranged for me to go on unemployment, which for a decade or more had been unattainble for various reasons. This time the benefits came in quick and without probing questions. A small consolation prize that I would gladly take and I needed the rest.

The train ride home from the airport after getting the axe was one of the lowest feelings of my life. When your country rejects you, it’s hard to accept. And yet at my most vulnerable, a familiar face was there to lift me up. My champion came through again.

“Let’s take a drive to the coast,” David said.


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Categories : Airport, Security, Work

Back At It

11 06 2023

Maybe it was the cold that brought me in. Could it be that sleeping outside in 34 degree weather actually awakened my senses. What was I doing in this cabin — deep in the Alaskan wilderness — with no car, barely making above minimum wage and surrounded by Gen Zers who just wanted to party all the time.

Well, to answer that question we need to rewind to where we last left off…the warehouse.

Life in the tote trenches was exhausting and I had lost my will to keep up the daily drudgery of fighting the system. Don’t get me wrong, my skirmishes with management were enjoyable as I used every last COVID-19 rule and mechianical irregularity to my advantage. Still, you can only slow walk to the bathroom so many times during an 11-hour shift before you realize they just don’t give a damn anymore.

I’d won, but was still in need of an exit strategy and if the smile center had taught me anything, it was how to measure time and savor every second. The off ramp would come from an unlikely source — the TSA. Yep, the Transportation Security Administration was hiring and like most places mired in the pandemic, desperate for able-bodied Americans willing to put themselves in harm’s way for the love of their country.

So I embarked on a new journey of going through the rigorous process of applying for employment with the federal government. Tests, physicals, drug screenings, background checks and interviews. It gave me a goal that the warehouse didn’t. A purpose to pursue, if you will.

Come fly with me.


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Categories : Alaska, Security, Work

Interrogated and Admitted

30 10 2013

The bus driver stared through the glass doors at me, looking down every so often at his watch. He was waiting on me — and so were 20 some other people sitting on the Cantrail bus.

Meanwhile, the border patrolman continued his interrogation.

“John, you sell your stories, right?” he asked. “Yes,” I replied, and then I began to give him more background on my career before he stopped me again.

“And what are you doing in Canada?,” he asked.

Again, I had no plans. This trip was more of a whim. I was this close, staying with a dear friend in Seattle, why not? Actually, I had always thought my first excursion into Canada would be into Quebec or Ontario. British Columbia, however, was proving to be difficult.

I told the officer I was planning on seeing two new friends for dinner that night in Vancouver. I had never met these gentlemen and that was part of the intrigue. One being a Canadian citizen, the other from Indonesia.

“How did you meet them?,” the officer asked, now sitting down in front of his computer behind the counter, no friendly expression on his face. To my left, through the glass doors, the bus driver began to pace. No doubt pissed with this situation and probably hankering for a cigarette.

“I only know them through the internet,” I explained. “This will be the first time we’ve met.”

At the border

At the border

This ticked off the officer even more. He demanded the address of the restaurant and immediately looked it up on his computer. It was a pizza place near the bus station.

“You don’t have a hotel reservation, you can’t tell me who you are here to see and I don’t know how you are getting back,” the officer declared. “I don’t know, John, this all sounds suspicious.”

He wanted my airline reservation back to Florida, but I was not letting him into that e-mail account. He then went for the holy grail — Facebook.

“Let me see it,” he said, demanding the i-phone. “I have one of these too.”

Suddenly, the bus driver came through the glass doors.

“How much longer we got here,” he asked the officer, while another Canadian guard, a black man about my age, walked past me and into the office behind the counter. He stared at me while he passed. I smiled and he continued on his way, but I did not want to see where he was going and I had had just about enough of this situation.

“I wanted to write about your beautiful country. This is my first time here,” I said.

The officer told the bus driver a few more minutes and turned his attention back to me. “I’m sure, John, if I was to come to Panama City you would want to know about me,” he sarcastically said.

“I would welcome you,” I said. “We are allies, after all.”

This was the one time during the course of his interrogation where we agreed. Scanning through my Facebook account, he asked what I wrote about in Panama City. I recalled one of my last assignments at the News-Herald when I reported on a murder case at a bayside motel. I told the officer I had always maintained a professional and courtesy relationship with the police.

“Why don’t you join them?,” he then asked, again with a sarcastic, yet serious tone. I had no answer.

He didn’t need one.

“Okay John, I’m going to let you in,” he declared, getting up out of his chair and handing me my passport back. “But make sure you don’t miss that flight back to Florida.”

Some welcome.

He then gave me my i-phone back, remarking “It looks like you like to hike a lot.”

I felt so defeated. I met the bus driver outside and we walked to the bus together without uttering a word between us. I was greeted by a strange silence as I climbed aboard the bus again. Some glances thrown my way but no one spoke. Before I could take a seat in the back, the driver loudly announced, “Next stop, Vancouver.”

At the station, I waited for the driver to unload everyone’s luggage before approaching and giving him a nice tip. He smiled and shook his head, “That’s the world we live in, kid,” he said.

Politically, tensions abroad were running high as the United States weighed its military options on Syria while a covert war raged across Africa. My first order of business in Canada was to the Greyhound Bus terminal to purchase a ticket back to Seattle. I would have less than 24 hours to celebrate Canadian liberty and I was damn determined to make the time count.

Keep Exploring

Keep Exploring


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Categories : Canada, Security, The Bus, Travel

Border Bliz

12 10 2013

My first visit to Canada almost did not happen. It gave me pause, literally.

Still in Seattle celebrating the end to a four-month long and arduous government contract, I decided to take a trip and see what our neighbors to the north were like. Ryan had to work so I was on my own. He recommended taking this “bullet bus” that cost just 20 bucks, but I stubbornly ignored him, intent on purchasing my fare from the Amtrak Station. It took a couple buses to get there as the station was located near the NFL football stadium and, by chance, there was a game that day. Seattle has a good team this year. The Seahawks they are called.

Of course it was raining.

The station was elegantly designed and the Amtrak tellers sharply dressed in their vests and ties. I showed the Ginger behind the window my passport and bought a one-way ticket to Vancouver, British Columbia, Canada. As we waited, the rain continued to fall and Seahawks fans filled the terminal. Leaving around midday meant that I would not be taking a train, but rather a bus. I quickly made friends with the driver.

“Is there a bar on this thing?” I asked.

“You’ve had enough,” he shot back with a grin. The driver had a stomach that overhung his belt. It looked like blubber. He also chain-smoked. But he would ultimately come to my aid. The bus didn’t even display the company markings of Amtrak — “Cantrail,” it read on the side in big green letters. It was about half full of Canadians and Americans. As we left, the crowd from neighboring Century Link Field roared with the excitement of the Seahawks doing battle against the visiting Jacksonville Jaguars.

“What’s that sound?,” one young lady asked, oblivious to the sports world.

I sat near the back, wearing Levi blue jeans, a white and tan plaid shirt, my trusty Columbia hiking boots and Yellowstone ball cap. I had just my black hiking backpack with me. Someone on a previous trip had even left a copy of the Vancouver Weekly in the seat so I perused it while filling out customs form. The entertainment ads were quite impressive. Everything was perfect.

And then we stopped at the border.

Everyone had to get off the bus and go through a border “security” line. Posted directions were in English and French. The first border patrol officer, in his 40s, tall and resembling an Indian, perhaps, with dark black hair and brown complexion, asked me where I was going. “Vancouver,” I responded. He looked at my passport and asked me who I was going to see. “Friends,” I responded.

“How did you meet these friends,” the officer asked.

“On the internet,” I replied.

“What website?,” the officer asked.

And without thinking … “Instagram,” I replied.

This answer prompted him to send me into the office behind him, while everyone else on the bus was allowed to exit stage left and reboard. The next border patrol officer, from behind a counter, stood up to greet me as soon as I walked in — asking my occupation, who I worked for and what I was doing in Canada. I explained I had recently finished an assignment in Yellowstone National Park in Wyoming and was traveling on vacation and while I was a freelance journalist, I had no itinerary and, more troubling to him, no hotel reservations.

“All this sounds suspicious,” the officer said. He was younger than the first guard and had much more of a dominant attitude. Caucasian, 6-foot-5, blond buzz cut. He didn’t like me. “Give me the address of where your friends live,” he continued.

I didn’t have it.

Frustrated, the Canadian pressed forward.

“What kind of articles do you write?”

“Travel and adventure,” I replied. And this was certainly turning into just that. The officer, dressed in cobalt fatigues with the name “Anderson” etched across his left chest, continued his questioning as the rest of my fellow travelers sat on the bus waiting.

“I can’t believe you don’t have a address or a hotel reservation. Do you have a ticket back to Florida?”

I did, but I did not have a way of showing him. My I-phone was jammed. No signal. Now, I felt he was clearly playing games. He made it clear that he did not want me to overstay my welcome and enroll for Canada’s “social services.” I told him we had this issue in America and I assured him this would not happen. I then complained that I had recently traveled to Italy and getting in was not nearly like this.

“Yeah, well, Europe has a lot more lax standards,” he said.

The interrogation would continue.


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Categories : Canada, Security, The Bus