Note from Suz: Right about now, those of you intending to send in answers for Trivia Quiz # 1 (March 3rd) are pulling your hair out over certain questions. <g> I probably should have mentioned that leaving an answer blank, or answering it only partially doesn't necessarily mean you won't win. (There will be a winner -- it's not an all or nothing deal! If I get four entries and three answer four questions correctly and the fourth answers five questions correctly, that fourth person wins! See how it works???) I've purposely made this quiz a little tougher than usual, so go for it and give it a try! (You cannot win if you do not play -- and so far we've received only a few entries!) And don't forget the possibility of the old "Trick Question."
Today I've got something a little different for you -- a piece written by fellow author and Romance Writers of America member, Denise Daniels.
I had the pleasure of meeting Denise several years ago at the RWA National Conference in New Orleans, in the summer of 2001, when she approached me and said, "You are absolutely going to love this story..."
She was right -- I did love it, and I asked her to write it down, so I could share it with you!
Here's Denise!
Over the
Edge and Out of Control
(Or, Flying
With a Hysterical Woman)
by Denise Daniels
"See that guy over there?" my husband asked, nudging my elbow and nodding toward a buff guy sitting a few aisles away in the terminal.
I swallowed my second Xanex of the morning, feeling, if anything, more anxious. "In the tank top?" I asked. My hand shook as I tried to put the top back on my bottled water.
"That’s the one. I bet you’ll be sitting next to The Tank Top."
I laughed and took a minute to examine The Tank Top more closely. He was wearing a pair of camo pants and a gray tank top, and he had some of the nicest arms and shoulders I had ever seen. They were so nice that, had he belonged to me, I would have insisted he wear a tank top at all times. He was sitting alone, and he looked completely unprepared to fly. There was a backpack on the floor by his feet. That was it.
When I fly, I carry my purse, with all its assorted sundries, one piece of carry on luggage (the largest size allowed) a small tote bag with a sweater (in case I get cold), water (for swallowing pills), extra socks (in case my feet get cold), a book (in the event of a long delay), a magazine (for some light, easy reading), a headphone CD player (so that I can try to block out engine noises) and, of course, my rosaries, for the obvious reason. When I fly, I look like I am settling in for the long haul. I look like the nervous wreck that I am.
This guy, I was sure, was not getting on this plane. He looked entirely too at ease to be getting on a plane. He looked too empty-handed to be getting onto a plane. He looked too big to squeeze himself into one of those narrow seats.
"No," I said. "I’ll be stuck with the guy who brings five different newspapers and fights with them the entire way there. He’ll be crinkling paper, and offering me sections and reading excerpts of stories that I know nothing about."
"Nope. You’re going to sit with The Tank Top."
Understand that my husband, I am sure, would have preferred that I sit anywhere other than beside The Tank Top. After all, this guy looked unbelievable. Short dark hair, nice tan, huge arms. But my husband loves me. And he knows that I hate to fly. He will talk about anything and everything if he thinks there is a chance it might take my mind off the rapidly approaching Moment of Truth. Will she, or won’t she, get on the plane?
So it was that my husband was the one responsible for the fact that I was, alternately, glancing at my watch and glancing at The Tank Top.
I boarded at the very end—when it was down to the point of get on the plane or stay at home. My husband kissed me good-bye and sent me on my way.
My heart pounded and my head swam. My feet moved me forward almost against my will. I walked down the jet way, listened to the roar of the engines, snubbed the friendly stewardess—everything in a haze as the fear of hurdling high up into the sky threatened to choke me. I stumbled down the aisle, pulling my carry-on and carrying my tote bag and checking the seat numbers until I finally found 14A. I looked down at the person sitting next to my seat and nearly fell over.
Yes. It was The Tank Top.
He stood up and very politely (and effortlessly) maneuvered my very heavy carry-on into the overhead compartment and waited until I was comfortably settled in the window seat (I need to sit in the window seat so that I can help the pilot watch for other aircraft in our vicinity) before he sat back down beside me.
When I fly, there is a certain ritual to it. First, I immediately buckle my seat belt and pull it really tight. Then I search through my tote bag to make sure I have everything that I need, though, what I would do, at this point, if something were missing, I do not know. I read the safety pamphlet (found in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me) and count the seats to the nearest emergency exit (remember—if the plane crashes, it will be dark, and I will have to feel my way to the emergency exit). Last, but not least, I get out my rosary. I don’t actually say the rosary—I’m much too agitated at that point to pray anything as regimented as a rosary. Still, I have to hold the rosary.
I closed my eyes and tried to think good thoughts while the pilot prepared for take-off. I was fine until the plane began to move—very slowly—to the end of the runway. Right about that time, I decided that the pill I’d taken before leaving the house and the pill I’d taken while sitting at the gate were not doing it for me. I snapped open my eyes and started rummaging, rather frantically through my tote bag for my container of very tiny pills. I popped one into my mouth and washed it down with a swig from my bottled water, hurrying so that I could stow my tote bag under my chair before the flight attendant got to our row and took it away from me.
"Are you okay?" The Tank Top asked.
"I will be," I said, with my eyes clenched tight while the plane picked up speed. "As soon as that pill kicks in."
"You don’t like to fly?"
I turned my head towards him. "Gee. What gave me away?"
He chuckled and started to talk about how much he loves to fly, about all the times he’s flown, how he’s jumped out of airplanes, jumped into water, jumped at night—just blah, blah, blah, blah, blah, until I realized that he was pulling my husband’s trick. Keep talking. Talk about anything. Don’t let her sit and think too much.
Finally, when the plane was off the ground, and hurtling toward New Orleans, I started to relax just enough to actually take part in this conversation with The Tank Top.
"So, what do you do that you have to jump out of moving planes?" I asked, grateful, once again, to the manufacturer of Xanex.
"I’m a Navy SEAL," he said.
Now, at this point, there are several things you have to keep in mind. First, I had just days earlier finished reading Suzanne Brockmann’s The Unsung Hero, Book One of the Team Sixteen series that chronicles the lives of a fictional team of SEALs. I loved that book. Next, you have to remember that I now had three times the prescribed dose of Xanex coursing through my veins. So, what did I do?
I opened my mouth, and said to the big, hulky man sitting beside me, "A Navy SEAL, really? Have you read any of Suzanne Brockmann’s Navy SEALs books?"
Now, I am a big fan of the romance genre and don’t generally subscribe to stereotyping, but you have to have seen this guy to know how truly outrageous this question was. I mean, he was an honest to God Navy SEAL! I don’t imagine they spend much time curled up with a cozy blanket and a good love story.
I almost fell out of my seat when he said, "As a matter of fact, I have. My wife made me read one."
Of course, being a writer myself, I had a ton of questions for him. Mostly, I wanted to know how Suz had done in creating Team Sixteen.
The Tank Top (who introduced himself as Jeff) said that she’d done a really good job. He said, however, that in real life, the job was a little a "grittier" than Suz had portrayed—exactly the kind of answer I would expect from a man who does the kind of work he does. Somehow, I am sure that "a little gritty" does not begin to describe his job.
I have thought about Jeff so many times since then. Why, I wondered, did he have to be stuck next to me, a semi-hysterical woman? Why wasn’t he on one of the hijacked flights that crashed into the Twin Towers two months later? Why wasn’t he on the plane that hit the Pentagon? Why wasn’t he on Flight 93?
If he had been, I know without a doubt that he could have saved lives. A man with SEAL training, a man who routinely puts his life at risk in order that the rest of us can live in ignorant bliss would have been furious that anyone dare to attack the country he’d pledged to serve. Just one person with the type of training that Jeff had would have had a plan hammered out within minutes.
What is it that gives some people the kind of bravery that makes them willing to put their lives on the line to protect people that they do not know? Why do they do it? Certainly, not for the pay. Definitely not for the recognition they get.
The only reason I can come up with is that certain people are born with a greater sense of patriotism than the rest of us. It’s easy for us to say that we live in the greatest country in the world. How many of us are willing to risk our lives to defend that statement? How many of us have the physical or mental strength to endure the things our men and women in uniform have to endure?
Suzanne is one of my favorite writers, and she does a great job creating the characters that fill her books. Each member of Team Sixteen is unique. Each one of them brings something special to the group, whether it is John "Nils" Nilsson’s mastery of foreign languages or Wildcard’s computer hacking abilities.
But, that flight to New Orleans forever changed my view of Suzanne’s Navy SEALs. They aren’t fictional anymore. They aren’t pretend. In my mind, every one of her heroes comes to life in a way they never did before. Every one of them becomes a living, breathing man. Every one of them becomes Jeff, The Tank Top, protector of the innocent, savior of the fearful flyer.
Denise Daniels has published two historical romances with Kensington. Love's Legacy was a December 1998 release, and Always a Bride was a June 1999 anthology that included her novella "Wedlocked."
Denise reports that she's still writing, but says: "I've changed tracks a bit. I'm currently writing contemporary women's fiction. I have not yet sold in that genre, but I am having great fun with it. It's the first time I've ever used humor in my writing. Strangely enough, I didn't set out to do that, but I'd begun my first WF story just a few days before 9-11. As was the rest of the country, I was paralyzed with disbelief for weeks. When I got back to my story, which was just a few pages long at that point, all this humor started pouring out. My heroine (if they are even called that in WF) is a 40 year old divorced woman reentering the dating world, and all this funny stuff just keeps happening to her. She meets all sorts of freaks along the way and finally finds some happiness with a much younger man. I think the humor in the story was a direct result of my trying to "think happy thoughts" in the wake of devastating tragedy."
Thank you, Denise! (And thank you, too, Jeff, wherever you are!)
That's all for now! Be sure to come back for Monday's installment in the Countdown to FLASHPOINT!
See you tomorrow!