Chapter One

Dream Journal Entry

November 22, 1998

                I’m in the desert. I’m trapped here, by two buff cops. They told me I was not allowed to leave this place. I’m on top of a mountain mesmerized by a clean, cool, blue, soothing body of water. It was so inviting. But the two cowboys were now standing in the water with shot guns.

                I climbed down from the mountain and asked, “Am I allowed in the water?”

                With dark sunglasses and no facial expression, the uniformed men answered, “It wouldn’t be a good idea to swim in the water.”

                All the same, I sensed no danger and took my clothes off. Others started gathering around. Standing naked, I told them that the water was good, and there was nothing to be scared of. It’s ok to stand in the water.

                I stepped into the water. It was good.

 

                Depending on the dream, you might not have any idea at all what you just envisioned in your mind and felt in your soul, until the day comes when you know it was more than just a dream.

 

                “Oh my God, there’s something in the water! They’ve done something to the water! I can’t believe this shit!”

                “Calm down, calm down, there’s nothing wrong with the water. It just looks bad from the surf turning up the sand.”

                As if that thought hadn’t crossed my mind after spending every free minute I had on the beach for the past eight years. “No, I’m telling you there’s something wrong with the water Celia!”

                “No, no, I’m sure it’s nothing. You’ll see.”

                What grabbed at my heart that day, I’ll never know. Maybe it was a frightened voice from the future trying to warn me? Why not? It wasn’t as far-fetched as it sounded. When I was a child, maybe eleven or twelve years old, I came really close to drowning. It was a near death experience that stuck with me through out my life. It pretty much shaped me and molded me into the person I am today.  But most importantly the experience taught me that time is irrelevant. 

                (1974 Delaware, OH) - “Come on, I’ll race you!” There was a sign sticking up out of the flooded waters, where we would normally sit, when we visited the beach. “The first one to the sign wins!”

                Being the second oldest of the group and very athletic, I was the first to reach the sign. Knowing that the sign was no taller than I, when I reached it, I wearily stepped down. I hadn’t realized that the water had washed away the sand that surrounded the sign, and I found myself way over my head in the murky water that had now filled my lungs and taken my breath away.

                It’s true what they say, you’re third time down is the last time. And on my second trip up, I could see my mother sitting on the beach watching. There was no panic in her facial expression at all. But I knew I was in big trouble. After my third time down, my life flashed before my eyes, and a calm come over me just as fast. I was no longer afraid. I saw Jesus standing before me. His arms were outstretched and inviting. There was an angel on each side of him; they were kneeling as if in prayer, as they gazed at Him, with adoring eyes.

                Then boom, the vision and all the comfort was gone! The panic did not return though; just a lot of commotion. My older cousin had pulled me from the water. I wasn’t unconscious and very much aware of what just happened.

                When I think back to that day in Ohio, and how fast my life passed before me, it was like living every moment that ever happened to me, at once. It wasn't linear, like living one day after the other.  But like rolled in a ball, and melted together as one experience.  The encounter instilled the belief that the person I am today is a consequence of the person I was, as well as the person I will be; one with my future and my past. Like the water. No beginning; no end.

                And on the third day of May, in 2010, as I stood on the white crystal beach in Pensacola, Florida, I was stunned at the dead sea life that was already washing up from the Deepwater Horizon explosion that took place on April 20th. It was cloudy on that Sunday afternoon. And a blanket of sadness seemed to cling like the grey clouds in the air. Five days later I would find myself cutting my hair and donating it for hair booms. The last time I would ever swim in the Gulf of Mexico would be Memorial Day Weekend, at the annual Gay & Lesbian Pride celebration on the beach.

 

               And by June 4th, not even a week later, Sam Champion would be reporting for ABC’s Good Morning America, when the tar balls began washing up out of the Gulf. There will be no mistaking the oiled sand balls. It would be twenty days later when the heavy black crude would engulf my soul, right along with the entire white crystal coastline and every living creature in its way. Have you ever heard a dolphin cry?

 

The Emotional Mortality of an Oil Disaster

                June 23, 2010 is when the heavy oil hit Pensacola Beach. I did everything I could to avoid the island. The sadness was more than what my heart could bear. Entire pods of dolphins were crying out. You could see and hear them from the shoreline. Never before had I felt so useless, and for the first time, I understood why someone would want to take their own life. A charter boat captain named Allan Cruise shot himself on his boat that week. I like to believe that God forgave him for that one, because I knew God had to be crying too, and Heaven was about to fall from the sky.

                Tropical Storm Alex lingered in the Gulf and was not only expected to become a hurricane, but it also threatened to delay capping the leaking well head for at least fourteen days. There was nothing anyone could do to improve the situation. We were all helpless. All we could do was watch our world disappear.

                Two days after the heavy oil hit, hundreds of people gathered on Pensacola Beach and protested offshore drilling, by joining hands along the shoreline. The very first “Hands Across the Sand” protest was earlier in the year, in February, before the oil disaster. It was started in the State of Florida, due to the threat of drilling just off shore of the sunshine state. But thanks to the Deepwater Horizon incident, Hands Across the Sand went viral on June 26, through out the world. And for the first time, since June 4, I wiped away the tears from my cheeks and went to the beach to make a stand in the sand.

                I was so scared that I would break down again and start crying. I actually had to talk myself strong and dissociate before I arrived that morning. I didn’t know what to expect, which helped my mind focus on other things, other than the sadness that consumed my heart. It was my first protest, and I was clueless as to whether the beach would be open or not. After all, it had only been two days ago since I had viewed thick oil splattered through out my TV set. Where did it go? At the time I didn’t know. Nor did I care to stick around and find out.

                The odor was ungodly that day. The smell of crude hung heavy in the air. While we were protesting, my friend Ginger bent down to pick up a shell and was splashed by a wave. There was oil dispersant stuck to her key chain and small chunks were found in the pockets of her shorts.

                As I spied children playing in the toxic water, I couldn't help but wonder what were these parents thinking?  There was a lady with two darling little girls playing in the water just in front of us. I was close enough that I could stick my foot out and kick her in the butt. But she wasn’t the only one eye-balling her children from the safety of the shore.

                There’s eight hundred people standing behind you joining hands, there’s an oil skimmer no further out than the end of the pier, and two bulldozers are on the beach as well. It was more than evident that the oil was there, but apparently it wasn’t going to stop the people from enjoying their vacations. Suddenly, I found myself more worried about my anger, than the anguish in my heart.

                Unlike the dream in 1998, when I told people the water was safe and invited them to join me, I found myself creating short little YouTube videos that demonstrated just the opposite. I had always followed my visions to the letter, but I just couldn’t in good conscience do it this time. BP poisoned the water with deadly Corexit, as well as the toxic oil. And children were literally playing in the stuff.

                YouTube was my way of handling the frustration and releasing the deep sadness I felt in my heart. And that is how WoMenHead101 came to be. Wo-Men Head was actually a code name given to me by an ex-girlfriend, in the mid ‘90s. When I relocated from Central Ohio to the     Bible belt, I began using the name when selling prayer sticks.

So as the salt life became the crude life, Wo-Men Head went from artist to accidental activist. The original logo changed from an angel, hawk and owl, to a black shadow image of Celia and I standing on the beach, with me holding two fingers up as a gesture of peace.

                Other changes included withdrawing from friends and family, especially those from up North. I used to jab fun at them up there, because of the beautiful warm and sunny weather we seemed to enjoy endlessly here in Florida. And you know I was the envy of them all, after sending everyone photos, shells and sand from the beach, especially in the winter time. I use to call friends and family once a week and rub it in. I was quite the jolly soul back then.  But now, I lived in a waste land.  And their questions made salt water fall from my eyes.

                Three of my closest friends left Pensacola after the oil spill. And making friends down this way had not been easy. Losing three in one year wasn’t too funny either. It wouldn’t be until a year later that I would realize that I had lost that part of me that loved to clown around.

Will the Wolf Survive?

                Beach businesses were hurting; there was no denying it. The island looked less alive on Independence Day than on a warm Sunday in January. Yet it was still evident that people were visiting the beaches and swimming in the water just by looking at the wooden walk-outs that joined the beach with the smaller parking lots to the East of the main (Casino) beach. There were tar ball stained footprints everywhere! Including those of a child.

                There were even signs posted, by the Escambia County Health Department, in the parking lots that put people on Notice that the beach had been impacted by the Deepwater Horizon incident. In short, the signs said avoid wading, swimming, or entering the water and to avoid contact with oil and oily material, especially children and pregnant women. But apparently no one cared.

                Then just sixteen days after heavy oil washed up on Pensacola Beach, on Friday morning, July 9th, I about fell over watching WEAR Channel 3.

                “The Blue Angels Beach Air Show begins in about an hour, and the Blues will be taking over the skies this afternoon around two, and Jared Willets and Meteorologist, Christian Garman are out there on Pensacola Beach soaking up the sun and enjoying a beautiful day,” squawked the newscaster in the studio.

                The cameras pan to Jared and Christian standing on the beach, “I'll tell ya, it is a beautiful day but it is a bit - now I’m not a weather man, but it’s hot!”

                Yeah, It’s hot, yeah, and not hard to soak up the sun right now. The huge upside is there’s not a cloud in the sky . . .” declared the meteorologist.

                “High show,” brags Jared Willets like an excited little boy. “Yeah, yeah, it’s gonna be the high show unless there’s a dramatic change. And there’s not going to be. But it’s very high. Ninety degrees now in Pensacola. That’s the new number just in. The good news is at Pensacola Beach is not quite as hot, but, but, very warm.”

                “That’s true, and even better news is the over,” as Willets stumbled through the words, “the water will be open for swimming on two occasions .. .”

                “Yeah,” added Garman, as he wagged his tail like puppy that just pleased his master.

                I couldn’t believe the local news station was advocating for people to come to the beach and go swimming. Willits was wearing a white shirt, and Garman was wearing an off white shirt, and the sand in the background was darker than either one of them.

                The following day was the Official Annual Blue Angels Air Show. Apparently BP kicked in some advertising money for the area, and what we thought would be a perfect weekend for the locals to enjoy the show for once, was just as scary as the oil spill itself. People came from everywhere! It was the biggest turn out we had ever seen! Celia and I decided to bypass the slow crawl traffic and drive to Navarre to get onto the island. The only BP workers seen that day were hidden on the Santa Rosa County side of the beach, far from tourist eyes.

                It had been rumored twice that week that BP workers were told to only look busy. And as we drove past a large crew, I concluded it had to be true. One person actually was kicking sand up in the air. So we pulled off the road and began video taping. As we shot our video, one worker kept walking in circles, while another simply stood there the entire time doing absolutely nothing, and another was scratching his ass and then bent over and began staring at the sand. These three people stood within fifty feet of each other and were observed for a good two minutes or more.

                Celia broke out in a rash, after about twenty minutes on the beach that day, and we left the island immediately. When we arrived home, she showered and the rash disappeared. We were left with the most logical assumption that in had to be something in the air, or something toxic she had touched on the beach. I was a cigarette smoker at the time, and seemed to be totally unaffected by the environment. But I’ve never been allergic to poison ivy either. We’re all different, and people seemed to react a little differently to the chemicals that became part of the atmosphere along the coast. Some would die from chemical exposure, before a year would even pass.

 

Hear No Evil, See No Evil, Speak No Evil

                Wikipedia actually has a page dedicated to, “Denial.” The simple definition of denial is the disbelief in the existence or reality of a thing (like oil). Kind of reminds me of that Shaggy song, where he got caught butt naked, banging the girl next door, on the bathroom floor. But he continues to stick to his story, by constantly repeating, “It wasn’t me,” to his girlfriend, who caught him red handed.

                A second type of denial is minimization, where one might admit a fact, but deny the seriousness.  The third is a kind of denial where the subject admits both the fact and seriousness of a given situation, but denies the responsibility, called projection. Thus, denial is a negative characteristic.

                Addicts are a consequence of denial. It plays an important role in recovery, via the twelve-step program. And the American Heart Association blames the delayed treatment of heart attacks on denial. Furthermore, the first of Elisabeth Kubler-Ross’s five stages of grieving is denial; then anger, bargaining, depression and finally acceptance.  So you see, even victims are not immune to the disease of denial. I know, because I wanted to believe the oil was gone too.

                The majority of the Pensacola population became victims of denial, when they began supporting BP’s false allegations regarding the impact the oil was having on the environment. It was like one day I woke up, and I found myself on the wrong end of the gun. Trolls began to attack my character and the content of the videos that I was presenting. The assaults came from faceless YouTube channels dedicated to planting seeds of doubt to anyone watching the truth unfold. I soon found myself, one of two YouTubers left representing Pensacola.

                Gregg Hall, a.k.a. “pcolagregg”, became quite popular, after video taping the Gulf water boiling at the shoreline, back in June. Whereas I would take a creative approach by mixing music and news once a week, Gregg was out there everyday. He uploaded his video directly from his cell phone, and he wasn’t afraid to dig in the sand and expose himself to the toxic oil, introducing it once again into the air. I use to hate watching his videos, because I too wanted to buy into the denial. Plus, it made my stomach turn when I would see the black goo Gregg uncovered. It was something I couldn’t get use to seeing.

                Still, the Deepwater Horizon well was capped on July 15th, 2010. BP was dumping so much Corexit into the water, the media and the public were scratching their heads asking, “Where is the oil?"

                BP responded with, “It’s safe to eat the seafood too!” It would be a month before area fishermen began to speak out in regards to recovering oil in Pensacola Bay.               On August 29, Kimberly Blair of the Pensacola New Journal reported, ““We were recovering it in a boat . . . scooping it up out of the sand and dumping it into bags. They’re just trying to keep it quiet. Out of sight, out of mind,” said a commercial fisherman who asked not to be identified, because he was working for BP in the cleanup and feared losing his job.” And there were photos to back his words up.

                The oil was in the bay including along Bayfront Parkway, Pensacola Pass, Big Lagoon, Old River to Perdido Bay, Santa Rosa Sound, and near shore in the Gulf of Mexico. And at that time, BP reported that at least 175,000 million gallons of dispersants had been used; but scientists doubted BP and doubled that number. It was rumored that low flying planes were still dumping dispersant in the bay under the cover of night. In addition, beach residents were finding traces of oil and other chemicals in their blood, including the relentless Gregg Hall.

                If it wasn’t for Gregg Hall, we would still have thick sheets of oil buried underneath the tainted sand of what’s left of our beaches. Gregg pretty much forced BP into reversing itself a second time in a two day period.

On September 1, Kimberly Blair was on the front page of the News Journal once again telling readers that BP couldn’t dig more than six inches deep into the sand. But nobody knew who, why or what dictated the stupidity of such a law. Not even Buck Lee, Director of the Santa Rosa Island Authority. “We want to find out who the person is that said no,” defended Lee.

                It wasn’t until two days later when WEAR TV presented the public with the lame excuse that digging anymore than six inches into the sand was a violation of the National Historic Preservation Act, stating that only an archeologist could dig further. I found this to be hilarious considering people go to the beach all the time to dig and play in the sand. I’m sure it would be one of the top two answers on Family Feud’s, “What do people do when they go to the beach?”

                Not to mention, Celia and I both witnessed the beach being refurbished, after we had moved here in 2002. They stuck a boat out in the Gulf about a couple hundred yards out with a long hose. It sucked sand up from the sea floor and shot it up onto the beach. The beach was refurbished before Hurricane Ivan (2004) and again afterwards. The sand on Pensacola Beach gets whipped up every time a good storm comes through the Gulf. Never in the entire time I have lived here has anybody said, “You can’t dig more than six inches on the sand.”

                On September 5, I decided to challenge the insanity of such a notion. So Celia and I took our camera and we dug a hole six inches deep or more to put up an umbrella in the sand. You could hear the wind in the air when we panned the beach and showed how other people were breaking the law by digging in the sand to secure their umbrellas too. One couple appeared to be sneaking off the beach with a bucket and shovel. “How dare they!” I joked.

                But on September 20, when a good friend came to visit, it wasn’t so funny anymore. Carol had relocated to the Tampa area, right before the Deepwater Horizon blew. She asked about the beach, so we took her out and decided to dig for oil this time. We didn’t have to dig deep, and we didn’t even have to dig on the shoreline. We were up by the dunes. It wasn’t thick oil, like Gregg showed on the western side of the island. It was more like an oil residue. It smelled awful. We buried it back right away. But now the sand was mixed, and my throat became sore. And it stayed that way for few days or so afterwards.

                From that moment on, all I could think about was the children. There was no doubt in my mind that the beach was not a safe place for children to be playing. I never thought I’d say this, but it really sucked that the beach looked so beautiful; even the water appeared to be clean and so inviting. But it was all just a facade. Even if you couldn’t see oil, it didn’t mean that there wasn’t any Corexit or some other highly toxic dispersant in the sand. It was all mixed together.  Yet, all of those tourists were encouraged to come down and play in the Gulf of Mexico.

The Dilemma of Lisa Nelson

                Lisa Nelson was a massage therapist, who lived and worked in Orange Beach, Alabama (approximately thirty miles from downtown Pensacola). During a November 7 (2010) YouTube interview, with Jerry Cope, Lisa said she was out on the beach on the 22nd of September to see the Harvest Moon. When she returned home that night, she said she had a major attack on her throat and head. She said it felt like knives were sticking in her throat and her throat closed up. It was obvious during the interview that she had trouble breathing. Her voice was raspy, and her face and neck were swollen three times the normal size.  She had bruising all over her chest, along her diaphragm, and on her sides.

                The doctors were clueless when it came to treating Lisa’s symptoms. Lisa was convinced that BP was spraying Corexit along the coast that evening, while people were out on the beach, admiring the moon. She went to the doctor five times, before the November 7 interview. Lisa stated that they had her on enough Prednisone to kill a horse; she had two shots; and had been on four different kinds of antibiotics. Although nothing seemed to help Lisa heal, her doctor insisted that the southerly wind off of the Gulf had nothing to do with Lisa’s symptoms. The doctor believed it was a type of pneumonia, because three other individuals he had seen the morning after the full moon, had symptoms just as Lisa had. “It’s a bug going around she told Lisa.”

                From that point on, Lisa was pushed from one doctor to another. Steroids seemed to be the only answer the doctors had for her. But they only provided temporary relief, if any at all. Lisa passed away on March 7, 2011. Lisa’s death shared headlines with several dolphins washing up dead along the Mississippi and Alabama coast.

 

The Pope, The Queen & The Economy

                On July 30, Kenneth Feinberg told a crowd of Gulf Coast residents on Orange Beach that he was going to simplify the claims process, by eliminating the extra paperwork (that BP continually used as an excuse not to appropriate funds). Feinberg also promised that claims would be paid within three weeks. On September 16, not only had BP continued to ignore the oil buried on the beach, but Feinberg fell short on his promises as well. Only twenty-two percent of claims had been paid, as reported by the Pensacola News Journal.

                As I watched the Queen of England rubbing elbows with the Pope on the evening news that very same night, the ABC anchor never once mentioned how British Petroleum (BP) contributed to the lack of employment our nation was facing, as she tackled the topic of the National Economy.  I was livid!

                How is it we allow a British company to contribute to the destruction of the economy of this nation, when it was that very same empire that prompted America to free herself from the tyranny of the royals, known as the Revolutionary War?

                By all rights, British Petroleum shouldn’t even be in business anymore. The entire coast line between Louisiana and Northwest Florida should have been evacuated in 2010. There are thousands of Lori Nelson’s out there. Every dime of profit BP makes belongs to the people of the Gulf Coast and no one else. Not the CEO, not the Chairman, the Board of Trustees, or any other BP executive. Needless to say, it was never their oil to begin with. It wasn’t the shores of England that were splattered dead and black, like a war zone.

                In Pensacola, I began to see new faces standing at busy intersections, with small simple signs saying, "Anything will help." I was seeing women too; not just men anymore. I saw an electrician in my neighborhood one day, with a sign that said, “I’m Trying To Expand & Grow Not Stay High Or Glow. Homeless & Unemployed Electrician With Tools!!! Need Day Work But Anything Helps.”

                I had even seen a priest holding a sign that said, “Help Needed - Starving Families;” the other side read, “Feed the Poor.” I stopped and talked to him. He told me he was used to seeing sixteen or so people at the first of the month in need of some sort of assistance, but now they were coming mid-month as well, and the number of people had increased to eighty-five.

                You know, when you see a priest and an electrician, with a business card and tools standing under the hot Florida sun, surrounded by concrete, black pavement, and gleaming metal containers spewing exhaust fog everywhere looking for help, then there’s a problem. And there was no denying that BP had contributed greatly to the unemployment in the area. Escambia County (Pensacola) ranked the highest in unemployment throughout the Sunshine State.  The majority of the BP clean-up crew was from out-of-state.

                What made matters even worse was an eighteen year old Hooters Girl getting paid $20,000 with the promise of three more payments by BP, while business owners were calling it quits due to the lack of business and without any compensation at all by BP. The Hooters girl is the daughter of a close friend of mine. She only worked at Hooters four months prior to the oil spill. Her friend and sister-in-law, a year or two older, had only worked at Hooters three months prior to the spill and received approximately forty-five to sixty thousand dollars; she got boob job with her money. Go figure.

                Two other women working at an Applebee's, on Nine Mile Rd, in North Pensacola, made claims with BP and were paid too. They do not own any property on the beach. They lived nowhere near the beach, and their place of employment was approximately thirty miles north of the beach. But they got paid, while doors closed for those who truly needed the money. And that’s your twenty-one percent of claims paid, since Feinberg had taken over the claims process.

 

 

Truth and Consequences

                Being a minority isn’t easy by any means. Celia wasn’t crazy about participating in the videos we shot of the beach. She wanted to deny the oil was there along with everyone else. But I kept after her, as if I was trying to convince myself. I relied on her to keep me grounded, and my imagination in check. Plus, including Celia in the videos seemed to keep the trolls away. A second set of eyes gave our presentation more credibility.

                Still, when everybody wants you to shut up, they tend to sling crap at you. One day when Celia and I were crossing over to the island, the guy at the toll booth called me “Injun Joe,” (Injun Joe was a character in the Adventures of Tom Sawyer; he was an Indian who was portrayed as evil) and he made a couple other smart Alec remarks, before he allowed us to cross the toll booth. And twice I’m sure we were followed, while we were on the island.

                By mid October BP let their guard down and began to tackle the buried oil on the beach. Considering it was a step in the right direction, I let my guard down as well. They made quite a show of it. There was heavy equipment everywhere. And tourist were far and few in between during the fall and winter months.

                On the morning of October 22, on my way to work, I felt compelled to do a video about why I felt dedicated to do the videos. I didn’t want to be at war with my community. I wanted to tell my story. I edited the video that evening when I got home, and posted it the next morning on YouTube. My video not only explained why I continued to post videos of the beach, but it gave props to Gregg Hall and a handful of other people I knew of that supported the cause. The same day I posted the video, Gregg Hall decided to call it quits. He deleted his YouTube channel completely, as well as his facebook page. I sometimes wondered if he would have seen my video first, maybe he would have never erased all that history regarding the oil spill. It was such a loss.

                Word was that Gregg was tired of the harassment. I found out a week or so later that he had lost his job, as well as his truck. Southern men in this area have a hard on for their pretty white pick-up trucks. Needless to say, Gregg hit his breaking point. I had been threatened a couple of times on YouTube, and I figured with Gregg putting six times more the video out there than I, he probably received at least three times the amount of threats as I did, if not more. And truth be told, when you’re faced with negative circumstances day after day, it works on your nerves, regardless of who you are. Gregg lived on the beach and had to deal with oil in his front yard daily. Not to mention the health issues he had to confront as well. On October 26, Gregg started a new YouTube channel, called True Reporting. But he never did another video regarding the oil on Pensacola Beach, after November 30th.

                My employer had been throwing threats my way since the first of August. I guess that’s when they decided I wasn’t good for business anymore.  On November 15^th, I lost my job.

                I was working for a real estate company, as a rental property inspector. I was glad when they cut me loose. I had become tired of fighting endless faces of ignorance and greed. I couldn’t say that I lost my job, because of the oil spill, but I soon found out that WoMenHead101 was going to keep me out of the real estate profession, as long as I kept producing videos showing the oil on the beach, and toxic dispersants, like Corexit, in the water. I may not have been using my real name on YouTube, but my face apparently made its rounds within the community.

                Still, I had come this far, and someone had to speak and represent those who couldn’t represent themselves. And throughout the rest of the month, I shot video and told the story that no one else wanted to. Thousands of tar balls began washing up out of the Gulf along Pensacola Beach. It was rumored that there were tar balls as big as my feet washing in on Johnson’s Beach, approximately eleven miles away.

                It cost eight dollars to get onto Johnson’s Beach, which is part of the Gulf Islands National Seashore, in Perdido Key. It was littered with so many tar balls that it made it hard not to step on one. I was not surprised to see families playing in the sand and water. Celia and I had gotten pretty used to the stupidity by this point in the game. But I was amazed at how someone would want to pay eight dollars to play in that brown sticky stuff that looked like dog feces, when they could have gone swimming elsewhere for free.

                Thousands of man-o-wars began to wash up later in the month of November, for the second time since the spill. I had photos of the creatures before the oil spill hit, and when I went to match them with the man-o-wars that were washing up, they looked sickly in comparison. And there seemed to be an awful lot of black where there should have been blue. In the eight years I had lived here, I had never seen so many jelly fish and man-o-wars wash up on the beach like I did that fall.

                The last video Celia and I put out, for 2010, was on November 21. Like Gregg, I was ready for a break. It was the holiday season. The season of love, and peace on Earth and goodwill towards man and all those cozy emotions that were missing in my life; yet very much needed.

                Celia and I began arguing half the time when we went out to do the oil videos anyway. “What’s that smell like to you?” I’d ask.

                "I don't know?  Exhaust fumes from one of the boats out there I guess."

                "What boat?" I asked.

                "I don't know?  There's a boat way out there," Celia argued.

                "I don't see a boat.  What are you talking about?"

                "I don't know, but I know there's a boat out there somewhere!"

                "You know, you don't have to get pissed off with me Celia!  I'm not the one who spilled oil all over the freaking beach!  If you want to get mad at somebody, get mad at BP and tell it like it is!  It smells like oil!"

                "Get that camera off me now!"  Celia snapped back.

                After a while, you begin to question yourself.  Am I being obsessive over this oil spill or what?  The only support I found was in a handful of YouTube comments that supporters posted in response to our videos.  At the time, I truly believed that I wasn't going to do anymore videos of the beach again.  Plus, BP was going to clean the oil up.  "They said so."

                It wasn’t until the holidays that I realized how depressed I had become. I found myself wanting to go back to Ohio. I missed my family and friends. And I knew Celia did too. She had three grandchildren now. The third just came to us in October. But the Northern wind reminded me of how cold it can get up there. And I chased away the thought with a shiver.

                “How would you feel about moving to Tennessee?” I suggested.

                “It snows up there too. Why can’t we just go back to Ohio?” Celia begged, yet adding, “I don’t want move. I like my job, and I like the people I work with.”

                And that’s exactly how it feels when you become unsure of yourself. It was like being pulled into two different directions. Should I stay or should I go? Is that crude I smell coming off the water, or is it fumes from some far away ship? Do I have the flu? Or is my body reacting to the oil and dispersants in my blood? Is it safe to live here anymore? Am I crazy? Did the toxic air eat away at my brain cells? Maybe cigarettes saved me, and the air took away everyone else’s intelligence? Maybe I’m not crazy after all - they are!

 

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