Two short stories. A couple of years ago I was going through some rough times in my life. The reasons aren't worth talking about, but suffice it to say that I spent a lot of time on the negative end of the emotional scale. Anyway, early one Saturday morning, I got pretty angry about something and decided to go for a drive. A vigorous drive. OK, I was really beating on my poor Civic. I used to race a lot in sanctioned races, so I generally know how to handle a car and was just out taking my favorite on and off ramps at full tilt and achieving high rates of speed. That said, being somewhat responsible about my foolishness, I will not pass somebody who's doing 60 while I'm doing 100+. That's a good way to get yourself killed. In fact, I won't do anything to endanger the lives of other drivers. Nobody else needs to get hurt for my stupidity if I ever have an accident.
So anyway, I'm going full throttle down an open stretch of highway, and I can see that I'm coming up on a moving roadblock -- three cars who are refusing to pass each other. I stand on the brakes... and nothing. I'd boiled the brake fluid off from all of my heavy braking earlier. So I start downshifting and using the e-brake to bleed off speed. 110... may over rev the engine in 4th. Keep using the e-brake... 100, downshift to 4th... 90, got to stay in 4th... 80, downshift to third. By this point I am really scared that I won't be able to slow down for the cars ahead of me so I start preparing to make a dive for the shoulder. Thankfully, I end up matching speed with them (55!? why so slow!?) about 2 car lengths away from the group. I slowly brought my car to a stop on the shoulder, let it cool off, found a pack of cigarettes that a friend had left in the car and lit one. I've done a lot of dangerous things in cars, including driving in excess of 160 MPH on the freeway, but that was one of the few times I've actually been scared in a car. The loss of control in a moving vehicle, especially at high rates of speed, can be nerve wracking.
The other story may not be a near death experience. It's hard to tell. About a week and a half after Hurricane Katrina, I went back to my apartment in New Orleans to pick up some essential items for a long stay away from home. (For those who don't remember, there was a small window after Katrina when those of us in the western suburbs could return home to pick up some essentials before the shut the city back down for the rebuilding effort.) Anyway, I lived in a nice, small, gated apartment complex where several of my friends also lived. Also, since it was a small place, my friends and I had gotten to know the majority of our neighbors due to our social natures, and frequent parties by the pool. So it was kind of an eerie feeling driving to my complex and seeing signs in people's front yards with claims that they would shoot trespassers on sight. This in addition to the armed soldiers directing traffic on the main streets and the large numbers of police in the city. Except, there was virtually no police presence back in the neighborhoods. At least, not until after an incident was reported. There just weren't enough of them.
After seeing all of this, when I got in to my apartment, the first thing I did was grab my 9mm and my holster, load a magazine into the gun, and chamber a round. I had no idea what to expect, but I had been watching the news of all the violence and mayhem after Katrina and I wanted to be prepared. Every time I left the apartment to make a trip to the car or the dumpster (we had a lot of food that had spoiled), my gun was on my hip in plain view of anybody who cared to look. I really didn't care about any laws against brandishing a weapon at that point. On one such trip to my car, I shut my trunk and turn around to walk back to my apartment when I see a rather large and rather rough looking "gentleman" round a corner to start walking my way. This guy really did not look like he belonged in our complex -- remember, I knew most of the people there and if his manner of dress was anything to judge by, he probably couldn't have afforded the rent in our complex. He also had a large stick slung across his shoulders.
We both stopped in our tracks. Neither one of us was probably expecting to see anybody else in the complex. I met his gaze, but was sure not to make any threatening moves. I watched him looking at me, and then I remember seeing his eyes glance down at my right hip where my gun was holstered. I have no idea what was going on in his head at that time, but I know what was going on in mine. He was about 30 yards out and had he decided to come at me, I was pretty sure that at least one of my 10 rounds would find its way home.
Eventually, he turned and walked towards a gap that had been made in one of the fences of our complex by the storm, passed through it, and walked away. The entire encounter probably only lasted about 30 seconds, but at the time it felt like several minutes. The most sobering part of the whole encounter was that I knew in my head that at that moment in time in that city, I had no problem at all drawing on that other human being and defending myself with deadly force. I didn't buy the gun for self protection. I bought it to go to the range and shoot at paper targets as a hobby. In fact, I hardly ever kept the gun loaded. Still don't, really.
Like I said, that last story may not quite be a near death experience, but it was certainly an intense encounter for me.
Oh, and a postscript about the Civic mentioned above. Twice it has taken its revenge on me for the abuse I've put it through. Once when the transmission started sounding like a rock tumbler and I had it rebuilt under warranty. Somehow the bearings had gone bad. The second time was tonight when it shot a bolt through the cam gear cover. I changed the timing belt today, and apparently which ever of my friends was supposed to tighten the belt tensioner, forgot about the small retaining bolt. I'm just glad that it happened only a couple miles away from the shop and that I killed the engine before it could jump timing and destroy the entire valvetrain.
