By Bradley Duke Daum
I believe if you search somewhere between the red-light runners and speeders on our highways of bad behavior, there lies submerged the heart of the “Old South”—those that maintain the values and spirit, the brave fight. Those are the heroes among us. On this page, you’ll find two separate stories of Hometown Heroes.
The story of “Has Anyone Seen My Leg?” is the story of one of those heroes. The afternoon I was waiting with a group of paddle boarders behind Scullys (now AJ’s on the Bayou), I had no idea it was a fundraiser for an amputee foundation.
A young woman was paddle boarding April 11, 2015, on Cinco Bayou near Shalimar when she was struck by a speed boat in a hit-and-run accident. That woman was the Airforce pilot Cristy Wise. Since that accident, she started the foundation “One Leg Up on Life,” I found out later after being touched by her simple words while looking for her second watersport prosthetic leg.
On July 22, 2016, Christy was the first female pilot amputee to be cleared to resume flying missions. On that day, she took off in the captain’s seat of a HC-130J located at Moody Airforce Base, Ga.
A Poem:
Has Anyone Seen My Leg?
A crowded patio fills with young energy and movement,
Water nearby embraces boards and balance.
Celebration of unfortunate circumstance beyond their control,
Gathering of the best of their generation.
Bodies glisten in near-perfect proportion,
Communication between athletes – not a cloud in the sky.
Silent auction begins with measured excitement,
Chosen treasures with water-sport intention.
Clouds move in as festivities slowly come to a close,
Hugs and handshakes conclude celebration.
Across the room comes the most dramatic sound,
A brave young woman innocently calls five powerful words: “Has anyone seen my leg?” was spoken,
Joking as she searches for her carbon-fiber best friend.
Taking the edge off the pain of losing her limb,
Bravery comes in all shapes and sizes,
Her beauty on the outside was overtaken for a moment,
One leg up on those among us.
Flying Bridge Warriors
April 19, 1996–Destin, Florida
Waking that morning at 6 a.m., my friend and I shared a numbed excitement for the upcoming adventure. Showered and shaved, we stumbled off in search of breakfast and trophy. The fog so thick like pea soup looming over the harbor enhanced our apprehension for a questionable conclusion.
Greeting us at Harbor Dock’s restaurant was a platoon of gracious grandmothers whose only intention was to provide the same continuous supply of nourishment and attention they had shared with family and friends since the beginning of time.
If the strength of the coffee was any indication of the seriousness of events to follow, we were in for a real butt-kicking. Alex looked across the table at me and asked, “Do you really have this charter all arranged?” “No, not really,” I said, “but I think Charlie is a real stand-up guy, and if it falls through, it’s probably for the best with bad weather and all.”
We finished breakfast and decided to go pick up some beer to go out on the boat with our box lunches provided by the gourmet grandmothers. I couldn’t stop thinking about how dedicated they were to be stationed in this sportsman’s paradise, building box lunches for fishermen as though they were the ammunition they once toiled in factories to produce for their loved ones to be deployed in battle. It was like a culinary salute to these Flying Bridge Warriors as they slowly penetrated the mist.
Arriving at the dock, we approached the boat and noticed an unshaven local with long hair and baseball hat getting the bait and tackle ready. Inside the galley, the captain was securing some gear and peered out as the owner and his son approached the vessel. Alex and I looked at each other as if to wonder what the hell we had gotten ourselves into this time.
Effortlessly, the gang cast off and started to drift into the fog. Everyone introduced themselves and away we cruised. I quietly sized up the crew to myself. The captain, Mike, looked like he could be a professional baseball player. Owner, Charles, had worked hard never to pass puberty and feed enough tourists to fish for a lifetime. His son, Eddie, whose seriousness and lack of a sense of humor could scare a prison inmate, and first mate whose hat, hair and camouflaged jacket somehow reminded you of the movie Deliverance.
On our way West to locate the big ones, Captain Mike told me he would probably yell at us, and that we would hate his guts by the end of the day, and things sometimes got a little violent. But, he ended by saying we would probably have a great trip. It was at that moment when I considered having my first beer.
Big Al and I laid down and napped while the crew stood watch for the cobia on the bridge. As soon as the engines were cut off, we would jump to our feet to grab a bent rod with the expectation of being pulled into the ocean by Jaws.
As the day progressed, it became evident my first impressions of the crew couldn’t be farther from the truth. This was an elite precision-fighting squad of the highest caliber. Men and young men that knew their respective skills backward and forward, and demanded the best from themselves and each other. All the behavior and costumes of these warriors only helped to throw the enemy off their trail long enough to perform their skills in battle with uncommon excellence. True professionals, they never expected not to produce the abundant catch we enjoyed that day, but on the other hand, they didn’t pretend for one minute it wasn’t going to take total concentration to pull it off.
The respect they shared for each other, and the newly developed respectful way we felt towards them, filled the ocean air as we sped back to port, victorious in battle and human endeavor with these Flying Bridge Warriors.
