On a sunny day in Durham, I learned unexpectedly (and not the hard way) about what happens when a plane crashes in the ocean. It was during my six-week campaign fellowship that preceded my hiring as a paid staff member. Being a fellow was different from being a staffer in that I 1) wasn't paid, 2) was in Durham, not Richmond County, 3) would not necessarily continue on to the election as a staffer, and 4) did not feel the psychotic pressure of being a staffer. As a fellow, I hustled more and was better at voter registration than most of the fellows I was working with, so I got high marks from the higher-ups, and I could relax when I felt like it. As a staffer, I was expected to kick ass everyday, I was rarely the most competent person in the room, and I got daily reminders that if we screw this up, the world is fucked.
So anyway, one Sunday afternoon, two fellows and myself were running our first door-to-door canvass. Once we got our volunteers trained and mobile, I went out with another fellow to do some canvassing ourselves. Along the way, we met an old white guy in this mostly black neighborhood who asked me for change, and, I think, registered to vote. Later, when we were gathering our things once the canvass had finished, he wandered over to where we were and started chatting with me.
One situation that occurred a lot with this job is the one where someone you don't know well decides to talk to you forever and ever. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think this happens a lot more in the South. Sometimes it was really excruciating, especially when I had things to do, but this guy was interesting, and I felt like I could make myself useful by listening to him so that everyone else didn't have to, and could get other things done. He talked to me for about ten minutes, and he was, to say the least, an open book.
He was a broken-hearted fish washed too far inland, but he had stories to tell from it. He was divorced, and his wife wanted him back, but he had caught her with another man, and he couldn't risk being so badly hurt again. From what I could tell, the girl could only temporarily satiate him anyway. The only thing that would truly heal him is water.
The person who comes to my mind when I think of that man is the father character in Big Fish. I feel a strong personal connection to that character, because he had a deep need for water and telling stories, and the two seemed connected in an abstract but meaningful way. This guy was similar, except that i bet if he was back in the water, he wouldn't feel the need to tell his stories.
We happened to be by a public pool while we talked. He was surprised that there could be a pool in the area without him knowing about it. He would have preferred an ocean, but he had no means to travel, and a pool in the neighborhood was worth knowing about.
When I spoke to him, he was without money or employment, but in his past he had had possibly the most adventerous real-life job I have ever heard of. He was a rescue scubadiver for the navy. Meaning, among other things, when a boat sank or a plane crashed in the ocean, he would dive after it to try and save people. He told tales of rescuing people and sharing on an oxygen tank so that they could both make it back. He once won a bet by staying underwater for two minutes. He showed me two different scars from shark attacks. They were marks of achievement. Those wounds may have been the only physical thing he had remaining from his previous life.
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