ynvurcepublishing.com Blog

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright August 2008

“Prosperity: The eternal flow of all that’s good in life…”

(*This article is based on the ideas presented in the book “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007 and further expanded upon in “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor, Book II,” Release Date: 2008. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.)

In the midst of heartbreak, many of my readers have asked me (repeatedly) how to cope with all their negative emotions. Almost all of them desperately wanted some quick way to stem the flow of bad feelings.

“I can’t stop feeling lousy and I cry at the drop of a hat. Isn’t there some kind of fast, simple “trick” to get me back to some semblance of normality?” They asked.

Even though all personal situations of break-up are different, and recovery from heartbreak can take months (if not years), I’ve found that there really is a simple way to begin healing.

I call it the “Thank You Trick.”

It moves you away from the victim mentality and puts you back in the driver’s seat of your mind (and your life). It replaces resentment with gratitude.

And it lays down a solid foundation for hope.

The following article briefly explains what it is, how to do it, and a few reasons why it works so effectively.

But first, the most common way of coping…

- Denial and Suppression -

The most common, but ultimately useless, method of coping with negative emotions associated with a break-up is Denial or Suppression.

Denial or Suppression of those bad feelings (i.e., confusion, sadness, anger, etc.) will only plant them deeper into your soul where they grow and eventually overtake all the good in your life.

Over the years, I’ve experienced and observed this first-hand many times.

Initially, many people enjoy temporary relief by burying their emotions from plain sight. Like the proverbial ostrich, they think the feelings will automatically go away if they just ignore them long enough.

You know what I mean?

You feel like you’ve finally gotten over it. The heartache monster has jumped off your chest, allowing you to breathe a little easier. In fact, you can actually take a few deep, long breaths again. You’re not “a stutter of a breath away” from sadness and tears anymore.

Then something triggers the flood gates to open - again.

It could be an old song, a familiar place, a food, a fragrance, or even one of the hundreds of “ex look-alikes” that seem to come out of the woodwork after your lover leaves your life. Then the growing, pent up emotions emerge, breaking down all your carefully built barriers like a raging tsunami.

It’s painful and torturous to live on the edge of such an emotional abyss. You need to find some way to gain control of these situations. Failure to do so leaves you at the mercy of everything and anyone that could trigger another session of sadness.

- Don’t try to Erase. Change or Replace -

In the case of your emotions and thoughts, if they don’t serve you in any positive way, they need to be modified or replaced.

Emotions, like thoughts, can’t be erased. They can only be changed (or replaced). Think of it this way: Your mind is similar to digital media. Nothing is ever erased, just edited or overwritten.

The “Thank You Trick” can do this.

But before I explain how to do it, we must discuss the nature of things…

- All Things Must “Be” -

To understand why the “Thank You Trick” works, you need to grasp the importance of “being” and why it’s absolutely vital for healing.

Your feelings, like everything else in life, need to “be,” before they can change and move on. Recognition, Acceptance, and Love are the only ways to let them “have their time” and flow back into the current of life to teach the next person.

You are blocking your own growth by clinging to the past.

The past is past.

Now is your only time.

Your present moment is where your power resides; the power to heal past hurts, and the power to lay the groundwork for a better tomorrow for you and your loved ones.

All living things must change (meaning: grow/evolve) or die.

That’s why it’s called Life.

You need to get to the point where the thoughts of your “ex” have changed/evolved so much that they can pass through your mind without stirring up negative emotions.

- Pain Redux -

There was a reason you attracted him or her; hence, he/she entered your life. Your “ex” manifested in your life to let you experience something and to teach you something important about yourself.

Without learning from this experience, your individual lesson of life, you are doomed to painfully repeat it over and over again.

Ultimately, you must find that lesson, embrace it, and learn from it. Then, and only then can you truly be free.

- The Light Switch Syndrome –

Too many things in life are erroneously categorized into separate, discreet entities; when in fact, they are just gradations of the same thing. Like a light switch, it seems easier to view the world as either on or off, this or that, black or white, etc.

But think of it. Dichotomies in Life are really illusions.

For the Intrepid Life Traveler, isn’t “success” and “failure” just two points on the achievement continuum?

Isn’t “hot” and “cold” just two ways to describe temperature? Aren’t the colors of the rainbow all part of the perceived spectrum of light? Aren’t “misery” and “joy” just two residents on the same plane called happiness?

Indeed, like Paolo Cuello wrote in his book “The Alchemist,”

*EVERYTHING IS ONE*

In fact, the only time anything appears to be separate from the whole, not just a mere individuation, is when someone tries vainly to stunt its growth (i.e., keep it from changing/evolving by stubbornly trying to hold it in place).

And trying to hold a moving, growing object in place takes enormous amounts of energy.

It (stasis) goes against the prime directive of Life: to change, grow, and evolve, etc., and severely taxes the body and soul in the process.

So, why waste your precious Life Energy on a futile activity?

Why stunt your personal growth trying to prevent the inevitable; especially when the only person you’re hurting is yourself?

- The “Thank You Trick” -

Okay, let’s finally discuss the “Thank You Trick.”

The following exercise may sound silly; but believe me, for many simple and complex reasons, it works. Try it for at least one week - but one day, one thought at a time.

Just one week and I bet you’ll feel better.

Here’s what to do the next time you begin feeling bad about your “ex”:

Instead of feeling bad or confused when you think of your “ex,” say this to yourself (preferably aloud),

“Thank You _______ (name of your “ex”). We had some good times and some bad times. I really learned a lot about myself from you. And it’s made me a better person. I completely forgive you and myself. And I sincerely hope you find your way.”

Just simply say Thank You.

That’s it, but I know it won’t be easy. Naturally, it will be hard at first and you’ll feel weird doing it. Don’t be surprised if a part of you actually resists the first few attempts. Don’t worry. It gets much easier with practice.

Think to yourself, “Just one instance at a time. Whenever I get those old bad feelings again, I will use my secret weapon: the Thank You Trick.”

Daily, at an accelerated rate, you will notice many things. The intensity of your hurt begins to diminish and you’ll find yourself employing the Thank You Trick less and less.

Before you know it, you’ll realize that you can think about your “ex” more as an observer and not be thrown into a past experience.

Remember, you can never really leave a situation unless you leave it through recognition, acceptance, and love.

And without going into deep spirituality, the bottom line is this: Saying thank You injects gratitude into the mix.

Gratitude keeps you connected to everything and is purely positive; hence, being more grateful will attract more positive things, events, and people into your life.

Gratitude is much more powerful than you think. It opens the door for love and forgiveness to rush in.

And it will heal you.

- Short list of Benefits -

The “Thank You Trick” does the following:

1. Puts you back in control; moving you away from the victim mentality.

2. Replaces (not suppresses) negative emotions.

3. Instills gratitude and attracts more positive things into your life.

4. Promotes forgiveness and love.

In short, the Thank-You Trick allows you to recognize, accept, and love all situations in your life - no matter how painful they may seem.

And having “run its due course” your pain and suffering will naturally move on.

Try the Thank-You Trick.

What have you got to lose?

I bet you’ll be delightfully surprised how much better you will feel.

Good life to you and yours…

“Until next time, be brave enough to take a Different Path.”

Your Friend in this Intrepid Journey called Life,

Carl “J.C.” Pantejo

(Subtitle: “Can you really respect yourself in Thailand now?”)

 

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright May 2008

 

(Author “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.)

 

During an afternoon with a fellow Farang (Thai: Foreigner) we talked about how our lives were going in the Land of Smiles. As usual, we talked about our girlfriends and the challenges of trying to understand them.

 

Somehow we got on the subject of “Love;” specifically, the absence of Love (in the Western sense) in Thailand. The discussion got me thinking. A lot. About a lot of “stuff.”

 

Many personal questions started to run around in my head. And the subject of our talk lingered in my mind long after I left his apartment…

 

- Still a Farang -

 

Although looking like a typical Thai man, I am a foreigner. American. I am not anywhere near fluent in Thai, but most of the time I can get by. Funny thing. Fluency tends to increase with alcohol, with me at least. I wonder if the lowering of inhibitions has the same linguistic effect on other Farangs?

 

Anyway, like several definitions and meanings between English and Thai, I’m sure that Western concepts of love will never fully translate into Thai.

 

And “vice”- versa.

 

To find Eros, Thanatos, and Agape (roughly translated: sexual love, friendship love, and unconditional love) in one person has been an exercise in futility for me here in the Thailand; like the search for the Holy Grail!

 

I’ve tried Thai women from different social strata, differing levels of education, and different ages. Results of my quest? No dice. No joy. Zip. Nada. Nothing.

 

In fact, the only time I thought I had a glimmer of hope was when a Thai woman began treating me as I treated her – with mutual respect.

 

Later, I found out that she had rummaged through my mail and discovered that I was/am a retired U.S. serviceman with a pension, not just another low class (on the Farang social scale) English teacher.

 

At least she never accused me of being kii nok (Thai: Bird sh*t, a grungy looking foreigner) or kii neeow (cheap, stingy; literally translated: “sticky sh*t, you can’t squeeze anything from it!).

 

Upon discovering her discovery and thinking about her seemingly miraculous attitudinal change, I told myself to “Run away, run away fast!”

 

Oh yes, initially, there can be a period of smooth sailing for a few months, pure dove-cooing bliss; but in the end the outcome is the same: In spite of my devotion, support, and sacrifices, I am never anywhere near the top of the list of importance in any Thai woman’s life.

 

Pecking order? Face? Pecking Order? Face?

 

Same Difference!

 

And being relegated to the bench as a second-string observer in the game of life is just not the way I want to spend my days.

 

Sorry. No quid pro quo means it’s time for me to go.

 

Western style generosity has only been met with shark-like exploitation.

It’s as if random acts of kindness are often seen as weakness, especially when a man gives, gives, and gives; while the woman keeps taking.

 

And if a Thai woman wants me to “show my love” via my wallet, she needs to look elsewhere.

 

- Blinded by love and obviously doomed ventures -

 

I shake my head when I witness so many Farangs invest their hard-earned money and precious years of their lives into blatantly lopsided arrangements. Pay for a house or land BUT never really own it? Start the business race from way behind all the locals gathered at the starting line? Support extended family to extravagance? Pay for the “privilege” of residing in the Kingdom WHILE contributing to the local economy AND paying Thai Government taxes?

 

Boy that really makes me feel loved and accepted here.

 

The closest I’ve come to “love” in the Western sense was with an Isaan woman who is a great friend and lover. She’s not a gold-digger. She is trustworthy (a BIG DEAL for me), a hard worker, and selflessly caring.

 

I should be satisfied.

 

But I know from my experiences with her that she will leave me at the drop of a hat if any family “pressures” her to acquiesce.

 

That fact really bothers me.

 

You see, to me, the only way someone can be “pressured” into something is when personal freedom, and oftentimes integrity, is sacrificed in the name of what? Face? I’m sorry. I don’t buy into such shallowness.

 

Why? Because I can.

 

Blindly accepting such customs and gratefully accepting “crumbs from the table” would make me feel like I was not respecting my true nature as an independent, thinking, and fair human being.

 

Again, foreign concepts.

 

Personally, it has to be win/win or no deal. I am neither a despot, nor a doormat. Ideally, I want to be a partner; sharing life’s adventures, challenges, and heartwarming moments.

 

I don’t think this is unrealistically romantic, nor irrational. Well, maybe in Thailand it is…

 

But again, I guess those are concepts (i.e., personal freedom, integrity, mutually beneficial setups, “playing nice” and “fighting fair,” agreeing to disagree, etc.) that will never fully translate/transliterate, nor be fully comprehended by Thais.

 

- Feeling “loved”? -

 

By no means are these foreign, conflicting attitudes confined to interpersonal relationships. They fully manifest in business and the workplace too. Pay in advance? Expect frustration and disappointment. Contracts? We don’t need no stinking contracts!

 

I “love” many things about Thailand (e.g., my girlfriend, new motorcycle, sunny days, Thai meals; time to read, write, reflect, and exercise, etc.). But I tolerate many things too. The list is too long and sounds like a broken record to all who’ve spent much time in Thailand. I fully accept the fact that I am and will always be a Farang.

 

Outsider in perpetuity. And it forces one to really look at one’s life and the role one desires to assume in it.

 

I’m sure that this will be one of the major factors why I will finally leave the Land of Smiles.

 

(It was different in other Asian countries. Japan, in particular. I lived there for over six years and was often embarrassed because I could not match the generosity extended to me by the locals – probably because the Yen was so strong against my military paycheck greenbacks.)

 

True sharing between Thais and Farangs? I’m not sure it’s possible.

 

Equitable arrangements? Fair play? PLEEEAAASE!

 

I guess the only way to make a Thai understand our weird Farang ways is to bring them out of their element (meaning: The hermetically sealed “bubble” known as Thai Culture); and let them experience things in a different setting. That is a huge step emotionally, financially, and psychologically.

 

It is a step I am not willing to make right now.

 

Seven weeks ago I was offered another year extension of a teaching contract at a prestigious government High School, four adult English classes at some language institutes, and quite a few private, one student, classes. Although the pay in all the above instances was well above the norm, I declined.

 

They [the Farang and Thai employers] asked why? I presented my case sans emotion and exaggeration.

 

They gave me “a deer in the headlights” look and again asked, “Why, Khun J.C.? The students, staff, and parents ‘love’ you.”

 

Hello? Anybody in there?

 

A few years ago I thought I had a good plan. I could enjoy retirement while I am still healthy, or at least take pleasure in semi-retirement while pursuing my dream of being a civilian teacher overseas.

 

I think Thailand has cured me of that affliction.

 

- Paths in Life -

 

But seriously, I think I might have retired much too early at age 39. If so inclined, I could easily do another full career. Fortunately, because I am healthy and my skills are not outdated, my choices of occupations are not at all limited. And at this point, the thought of another excitement filled, good paying career with second retirement in about 12 to 15 years seems rather attractive. Who knows, maybe the passing of the years might find me more receptive, tolerant, and satisfied?

 

One thing’s for sure. I can not feel “loved” among those who can not or will not find a common ground in the meaning of the word “Love.”

 

In my Thai apartment I pointed a finger at the man in the mirror and said, “After over two years ‘in country,’ can I really respect you now?”

 

Gravely thinking about relocating,

 

Carl “J.C.” Pantejo

Pantejo@ynvurcepublishing.com

 

Love, Crossroads, respect, Farang, Western, Thai, face, generosity, exploitation, losing ventures, relationships, life.

 

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright May 2008

Author “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.

*The following story is incorporated in “My Friend Yu – the Prosperity Mentor: Book II,” Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing. Release Date: 2008.

“[Life] Amazing! Isn’t it?…”

- Medical Turf Wars -

“So, am I gon’na live?”

“Chief, I don’t know how you guys do it. I took a double-take on your birthday ‘cause your “biological” age and your “chronological” age just don’t match! What kind of veggies or vitamins are you taking? I haven’t seen a 28” waist since High School! I still lift (weights) regularly and am an amateur bodybuilder. What’s your bodyfat percentage?” He said.

Trying to get on his good side, I said, “I don’t know. Four months ago, the Aviation Medical Technician doing the prelims for one of my physical exams said it was ‘too low to be healthy’, I think. Whatever that means?”

He was the DMO (Diving Medical Officer), a lieutenant (Officer Grade 3 in the Navy), and in his mid-thirties (my age at the time). He was already beginning to bald, and slightly paunchy. He still had the big arms and barrel chest of a Navy Diver, but probably hadn’t seen a six-pack on his body for years.

“So, what’s your secret? My wife would go totally ga-ga if I could get my college body back.”

I didn’t want to tell him that the simple answer was to get rid of his wife. Single men tended to be more “hungry” and had less extraneous obligations.

And it took a very understanding spouse to put up with the lifestyle of “an athlete in uniform.” The hours of training were just too long for even the most loving wife.

I knew. I was on my second wife and the marriage’s prognosis looked very bleak.

Grinning at the doctor I said, “Amazing, isn’t it? I attribute my girlish figure to celibacy and pure thoughts.”

(In reality, I PT’d [physically trained] for at least 3 hours a day, ate like a pig all day, then drank beer and chased women at night.)

The rest of the time I wasted on frivolous things (like work).

We both laughed.

Then I asked, “Sir, when can I leave?”

“If it was up to me, I’d let you go now. But as you know, you need to be cleared by the ‘other guys’ too,” the DMO said.

“I can’t be medically disqualified right now. I got some important orders,” I desperately whined.

The truth was that I was to do some “exchange student” exercises with a few of my counterparts from foreign military units (e.g., Republic of Korea, British, Australian, and Thailand teams) in the next few weeks.

“Cobra Gold” was the official name of the annual joint military exercises held on and around the Pattaya Beach area of Thailand.

I looked forward to this yearly “Work Hard, Play Hard” event.

I especially loved the beautiful women. They’re always amazed that: 1) I am American, not Thai (I’m a mix of everything Asian) and 2) in spite of being “gaa” (Thai: old), like a Tantric Sex Master, I can go on for hours in the bedroom.

Similar to Jack LaLane on his birthday (who?), I added more “degrees of difficulty” (meaning, participants) to my personal exploits every year.

“Chill out. I’m sure you’ll be discharged in time to go to Cobra Gold. Jeez! I love that place! Anyway, I’ve arranged for my most responsible Corpsman to keep you company. Just don’t corrupt her too much” he said, smiling like the devil.

These “Medical Turf Wars” were a hassle for people like me.

Instead of periodic physical examinations by one doctor, I had to be cleared by several different doctors (e.g., Med/Specwar guy, Diving Doc, Flight Surgeon, PTSD Psychiatrist, etc.).

This meant having at least three, instead of one, rectal exam every year!

I never got used to that.

One year, after getting past the point of being pissed off, I invited all the nurses to witness my rectal exams.

Since all Military Hospitals double as learning institutions, there was never a shortage of an audience (mostly interns, new Corpsman, and fresh Nursing school graduates).

Laying prone on the examination table and my bare ass in the air, I proclaimed to the giggling group of students, “Have your way with me. My ass is your ass!”

The responses (and phone numbers afterwards) were well worth it.

But when I saw who was going to be my companion during her Duty Day, I didn’t mind that I’d be here (on a Submarine Tender Medical Ward) overnight.

“Thanks Doc!” I shouted as the DMO bade his farewell.

- Those Medical Slackers -

Looking down at the cute Filipina Corpsman at the foot of my bed, I asked, “Are you sure you want to hear this?”

“Yes, of course. I’ve read about it, but I’ve never met anyone who has actually experienced it,” she said, momentarily breaking her gaze away from my powerful erection to smile a little, naughty smile.

Did she just lick her lips?

Then, silently, she stood up, walked to the “wrong” side of the patient bed, reached across my body, and checked the I.V. bag and drip chamber hanging on a metal hook on the other side of the bed.

“Accidentally” smothering me with her chest, she whispered, “Oops. Sorry.”

 

“No problem, no problem at all, HN (Hospitalman, E-3 paygrade) Marisol.”

During my short stay in her Sickbay/Ward, we had already established a close, informal rapport. I teased her by addressing her by the appropriate military title “HN,” but then finished it with the totally inappropriate, overly friendly use of her first name (Marisol) instead of her last name.

I could usually tell when to cross the line or not.

Medical personnel (officer and enlisted alike) were notorious for employing lax military standards and sloppy decorum.

Line Officers called them “Slackers, referring to their apparent lack of military bearing. I couldn’t blame them (the medical personnel). In fact, initially, when I first joined the service, I was just like them.

You see, most military medical personnel were just biding their time, simply repaying the military back for their medical training. After one hitch (tour of duty), they usually left active duty to pursue a more lucrative, civilian medical career. This applied to the majority of doctors, nurses, and Corpsmen within all branches of the U.S. Military Services (Army, Air Force, Navy, and Marine Corps).

The U.S. Marine Corps had no indigenous medical personnel. That was why I, a Navy Independent Duty Corpsman, was technically a sailor, but, for all practical purposes, was a Marine at heart. Except for my mandatory stints at Navy Hospitals and “Tin Cans” (small ships), I spent the bulk of my career deployed with Marines (specifically, the Diver/Jumper types).

I spent equal time honing my technical skills AND my Marine (grunt) skills. Consequently, I had little time to gather dust. If I wasn’t doing the required CME (Continuous Medical Education - emergency medical training), I was busy diving, jumping, or shooting.

Since I love those activities, the years zoomed by. Before I knew it, over two decades had past and it was time to retire. Mainstreaming into regular, civilian life was hard for me. (But that’s another story).

Back to this story.

Almost sadistically, I prayed for missions because they had an immediate and direct focus (no trivial, unrealistic training and classes by some civilian geek or hospital administrator with no clue about real life operations).

Ninety-percent of any mission was spent on prep time (warning orders, mission briefs, physical examinations, immunizations, equipment checks, etc), travel time (ship, submarine, or airplane); and, once the mission was completely executed, aborted while in progress, or cancelled before going operational, there was the required extensive de-brief time and after action reports.

- My Angel of Mercy Revisited -

Turning my attention back to the sexy Corpsman, I said, “Hell, I’m just glad to have company!”

I had a big sh*t-eating grin on my face; mainly because I was not talking directly to her face, but to the uniform-bursting breasts that were currently dancing in front of my nose.

She blushed again.

With a half-smile, she resumed her position at the end of my bed –fixing her eyes on my blatant hard-on and continued her “Watch.”

“Imagine That…”

Marisol propped her elbows at the foot of my bed and held her face in her hands. The posture instantly conjured up “peek-a-boo, hide-n-sneek” breast fantasies in my head (both of them)!

In any other situation I would have initiated “full-body, hand-to-butt/bust CQB (close quarters combat),” but held back to examine my angel of mercy, visually savoring her youthful beauty and tight, yet buxom, body.

After looking at her full lips and angel face, I wondered if she liked big popsickles?

Then I continued my story about the first time I suffered from “Priapism,” an uncontrolled erection that often becomes a medical emergency…

…Okay, there I was, wildly falling through the air. My main parachute had malfunctioned and all my attempts to correct it proved futile. I was losing altitude by the second and now it was time to use the last resort: the reserve parachute.

The reserve chute was considered the last resort for a couple of reasons. First, it was much smaller than the main chute; and secondly, the reserve chute for this particular Army Infantry configuration was worn on the stomach. It was called “the belly pack,” because the rest of the soldier’s gear was worn below the main parachute pack on the soldier’s back. Located at the small of the back and extending down past the buttocks, this additional gear worn under the main chute was called the “butt pack.”

In this way, supposedly, the soldier was somewhat balanced in the weight distribution of his gear. Nevertheless, especially with a deployed (opened) butt pack (and its accompanied, lanyard connected, extracted gear), the normal, preferred vertical posture was almost impossible to maintain.

I had to jettison the main chute via its harness clips (specialized buckles with a two-step process for separating the shoulder harness straps from the main parachute risers).

The real trick was timing. Ideally, both buckles are to be opened simultaneously.

Bad news for me.

I couldn’t open both buckles together because I was wildly oscillating through the air. The parachute canopy above me looked like a bag of worms, while I felt like the main attraction at a public hanging, dangling by one riser.

This meant that I could only reach one buckle. The other riser was far above the first, tangled amongst shroud lines and the beginning of the canopy skirt.

The furthest buckle had to be opened first. If I opened the nearest buckle, I would have had to wrestle with a taught riser and a buckle buried under tight material. (It would be like trying to get to a coin embedded in a fist full of tight shoelace knots.)

Doing a pull-up and climbing past the exposed buckle, I cut away a mass of shroud-lines with my hooked shroud-line cutter, found the buried buckle, and released. Immediately my body assumed an awkward “hanging by one arm” position. The jolt of repositioning was felt all along the left side of my body. Not much pain (probably due to adrenaline). My left hand, arm, and shoulder felt numb and clumsy. I tried to re-stow my hooked shroud-line cutter, but…but, it was gone! I must have lost my grip on it when the opening shock jolted my body.

“Imagine That…”

Oh well, if I survive this, I guess I’ll have to bribe another Survival Equipment person for another cutter. (I wasn’t the best at sanitizing my actions. I lost or forgot gear often - a bad habit that would severely impact my life later on. Yet again, another story for later consumption).

Bribing a lower ranked Marine in the Survival Equipment shop was much easier than filling out the mountain of paperwork required when reporting missing gear for replacement.

Then I released the second (last) buckle, dramatically accelerated downward, and saw the tangled mess of the main parachute assembly, shroud-lines, and canopy material fly away from me like a bird of prey releasing a mouse that was too small to eat.

I put one arm out and rolled to my back (facing the sky) and assumed a “reverse free-fall position,” that is, instead of the normal free-fall position (face toward the Earth and spread eagle), I now looked more like a dead cockroach.

Ironically, through all this, I smiled while I rolled.

I always loved maneuvering during free-fall. It is intoxicating and called “relative work.” It really feels like you’re swimming through the air. It’s like doing gymnastics in a loud, raging river. For example, if you do a stiff-legged, double leg lift, your body is put into a reverse somersault. If you stick one arm or one leg further away from the body, you rotate in that direction. One birthday I did an ungodly amount of jumps and went to sleep that night exhausted, happy, and dreaming of being Superman.

Supine, I pretended to be a badminton birdy.

And within seconds, my free-fall was controlled.

Reaching to my belly pack (reserve parachute), I found the pull ring, and prepared to pull. In one, symmetrical motion I pulled the ring with one hand and abducted my arm (moved the arm away from my body) while simultaneously mimicking the same motion with the other arm.

It looked like I was doing the top half of a ballet dancer’s pirouette. The reason for this was aerodynamic symmetry. If I didn’t copy the motion of the pulling arm, there was a chance that I may rotate onto my stomach again – not a good thing with a “belly pack” reserve setup.

Experiencing “temporal distortion,” I saw the flaps of the reserve shoot open in s-l-o-w m-o-t-i-o-n. A small drogue chute peeked out of the pack and began to extract the rest of the material. It all seemed surrealistic, like I was sliding face down on a giant synthetic “silk” slide in the sky.

(My mind flashed to the briefing before this jump. Almost as a premonition, I asked the PR [Parachute Rigger] what were the procedures for a malfunctioned reserve chute.

With an evil grin, he said, “Do a Michael Jackson.”

“A what?” I asked.

“Beat it! Beat it! Beat it!” he chuckled.

“Imagine That…”)

 

Then the wall of moving silk disappeared and all of a sudden shroud-lines pulled taught and slapped me in the face.

In spite of being a smaller chute, the combination of my relatively light Asian frame and no additional weight from Infantry Gear made the reserve parachute’s opening shock turn me into the helpless victim of a T.V. Wrestler. I was getting the infamous “back breaker” maneuver.

Great.

Earlier, the first opening shock of the now defunct main chute made me feel like I was being split in half (from the crotch up); and now the God’s were trying to bend me in half backwards - like I was some chemlight stick that needed to be activated!

Oh well, at least my day was getting a little better.

I was now under a full reserve parachute, swaying like an airlifted cargo crate.

- Pondering my PLF -

The next challenge on my checklist was the task of doing a decent PLF (Parachute Landing Fall). The purpose of the PLF was to distribute the impact of landing across the whole body, therefore; theoretically reducing the chances of injury.

But my experiences over the years showed me that even the most perfect PLF’s can result in sprained ankles, broken legs, shattered clavicles (collar bones), fractured hips, dislocated shoulders, etc.

The Landing Procedures and textbook PLF is as follows:

1. Maneuver (steer) into the wind, so the chute falls behind you. This is easily done during training jumps. One only has to orient himself into the opposite direction of the wind as indicated by a windsock (on land) or a boat’s flag (over water). Just think “stab yourself with the windsock or flag” and you’re going into the wind. But during real missions, one had to use other clues (e.g., whitecaps on waves, swaying branches of trees, etc.).

2. Keep your eyes on the horizon – don’t look down. Looking down makes the jumper incorrectly anticipate ground impact because of the illusion of “ground rush.” It also compromises the vertical posture needed to perform a good PLF.

3. Raise hands over your head, grasp, and hold onto the parachute risers throughout the PLF. This minimizes injuries to the shoulders, arms, and hands by preventing the chance of “flail” injuries - if you’ve ever stubbed your toe, replace your toe with an arm and you know what I mean.

4. Point toes downward and slightly bend the knees.

5. Tuck in the head (chin to chest).

6. Upon impact, immediately allow the body to roll laterally to whichever side that momentum, wind, and terrain moves your body.

7. Spread your impact force over the following parts of the body: balls of feet, calf, side of thigh, buttock, side of back, rear shoulder.

When performed correctly, the body should naturally fall and roll; ending up in a sitting position and opposite your parachute.

But instead of vertical, I was laying backward at a 45-degree angle. The reserve chute attached to my stomach and absence of butt pack weight forced me to keep as upright as possible by continually pulling on my risers.

I felt like I was stuck at “half-rep” on a Lat-Pull Down machine in the gym set with a full stack of weight.

Oh well, the horizon was in full view. I’d just have to make do.

- Ouch, that’s got’ta hurt! -

If you saw the way I landed, you’d probably wince with empathy.

Like fans at an American football game who witness a particularly nasty hit (tackle), you’d probably say that familiar American cliché: “Ouch, that’s got’ta hurt!”

Instead of balls of feet, calves, quads, glutes, lats, delts, and roll; my heels hit first.

Then came the vicious ground impact on my coccyx (butt bone).

The next assault was to the back of my head (Thank God, my Protech helmet didn’t shatter).

I tried to stand, but only made it to my knees. Everything was a spinning, blur. I wasn’t sure if my chute was in front of me or behind me.

My question was promptly answered. It was in front of me.

How did I know?

It re-inflated and began dragging me, head first, along the dirt, grass, and rocks of the drop zone!

Whack! One lens of my goggles breaks. Now one-half of my limited vision looked like a muddy spider web. Afraid of plastic chards going into my eye, I shut both eyes and ripped the goggles off my face.

Whack-whack-whack! The side of my helmet kept bouncing off the uneven ground.

(Another gust of wind.)

I tried to lift my head.

Bad idea.

The wind shifted into second gear and the chute began dragging me faster.

Shroud-lines that had wrapped themselves around my helmet and neck forced my head back down into the rock-strewn earth.

Great, now I’m digging a trench with my face.

“Imagine That…”

 

(Continued in “Imagine That…[4]”)

Your friend in this Intrepid Journey called Life,

Carl “J.C.” Pantejo

Pantejo@ynvurcepublishing.com

Cobra Gold, Thailand, Sexy, Filipina, PT, physical training, Corpsman, Medical, Turf, tantric sex, parachute, reserve chute, PLF.

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright May 2008

Author “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.

*The following story is incorporated in “My Friend Yu – the Prosperity Mentor: Book II,” Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing. Release Date: 2008.

“[Life] Amazing! Isn’t it?…”

- Volunteering for Extra Pay -

I was always pretty “open-minded” about extra pay. What the Hell, I got’ta work anyway, right? Why not get a little extra, for just a little extra misery.

One time I volunteered for Experimental Pay that involved me doing a cold-weather mission “while wearing a core body temperature data collection device.”

The data was needed to engineer better anti-exposure gear for missions where hypothermia was a real danger; and also to design nutritionally sound, cold-weather MRE’s (meals, ready to eat) individualized to the size and activity of each operator.

In reality, the “…while wearing a core body temperature data collection device” was the official way of saying that I and my whole team were doing our jobs in a very cold region WITH RECTAL THERMOMETERS FIRMLY LODGED UP OUR BUTTS AND ANCHORED THERE BY AN INFLATABLE BULB AT THE END OF EACH PROBE!

Needless to say, it was a hassle to take a dump – and rather painful if you forgot to deflate the bulb!

Another time, when the military was designing new ejection seat trainers for their jet pilots, I volunteered for ejection seat training duty. In the old days, the trainers used live charges instead of pneumatic propulsion and hydraulic breaks. I “shrunk” a centimeter or two (because of spinal disc compression), but later regained my full, manly height of 5’ 5” a few months later.

One more Extra-Pay Duty story?

O.K.

A study was ordered to measure the effects of full body armor (Kevlar) in the event of emergency egress from a downed helicopter. I got first dibs on this assignment because…well, mainly because no one else volunteered!

That should’ve been a sign.

Anyway, I strapped into the 9D5 NAWSTP (Naval Aviation Water Survival Training Program) helicopter emergency multi-egress/crash simulator.

The simulator resembles a giant oil drum. The inside “cabin” is about the size of the cabin of a troop transport helo. It is suspended above a small, training tank (pool) by thick, steel cables. When the operator/engineer is prompted, he releases tension on the supporting cables and the device slams into the water (just like a real helo would during an emergency crash landing into the ocean). Then, as all top-heavy helicopters do, the device begins to turn upside down.

I knew/taught all the correct egress procedures.

I remained strapped into the seat. I took a nice, long breath before the water level reached my mouth and nose. I kept a little internal air pressure in my nose to keep the water from filling up my sinuses.

(It’s always amusing to me how a huge Marine can morph into a panicky, little baby when confronted with an underwater emergency - simulated or not. The disorientation and water up the nose causes many rough and tumble, macho, overly muscled Marines to panic, unbuckle too early, and get trapped in the trainer.

I think the only other thing that produces more sheer terror in these finely tuned, mindless killing machines [translated: first-wave, canon fodder] is the sight of an immunization needle.

I sh*t you not! I’ve had many a monster Marine pass out when I waved a needle and syringe in front of him!

It’s hilarious and not really a problem.

My only concern is that the big boy doesn’t hurt himself with his fall to the ground, slump into the chair, or the instant, involuntary prone position on the gurney. After a nice chuckle, I just inject the passed out Marine with the originally prescribed medication, break an ammonium nitrate ampule under his nose, and tell the now awake killer that the brain surgery/castration/rectal exam is over and done with - no problem.)

Back to the helo crash simulation.

Inverted, I waited for all violent motion to stop. I took a handhold of the seat beside me and reached for my buckle. It was stuck/jammed. No worries. I’d taught this to my survival students and done this procedure thousands of times. I hit the locking mechanism with my fist, making sure it was fully locked down; then tried to open the buckle again. It opened. Cool.

But the normal smooth, underwater weightlessness I’d experienced in the past was replaced with a vicious surge to the surface. Like a bug on a car’s windshield, I was plastered on the upside down deck of the simulator.

“Imagine That.” Kevlar floats!

The body armor was so buoyant that I was stuck, upside down on the deck of the 9D5. Even worse, the rest of the gear I had on was getting snagged on everything in my egress path. Cargo hooks, helo frame, and seats proved to be just one more thing to disentangle myself from before I could leave the simulator.

I’m not sure how long I’d been holding my breath. Activity and emotional state can severely cut your breath holding time.

Outside the trainer, the safety diver, a buddy of mine, motioned the “need assistance” signal.

I smiled and waived him off.

Finally, I said “f*ck it,” grabbed my HEEDs (helicopter emergency egress device – a small SCUBA bottle the size of a large café-latte at Starbucks), purged the mini-regulator of water, and took a breath of compressed air.

This was always a last resort because ascent to the surface and breathing had to be controlled afterwards. On a breath hold, one could rule out the dangers of DCS (decompression sickness) and AGE (arterial gas embolism - the more serious condition when a bubble travels through the blood vessels and lodges in some rather inconvenient places; namely the heart or brain).

Oh well, it was going to be a longer day than I expected.

Without the immediate need for air, I methodically doffed the Kevlar vest, and hooked it around my arm. I looked at my buddy and waived my middle finger at the Kevlar vest.

My buddy took out his regulator, smiled, and stuck his thumb in his mouth. Then he simulated poking himself in the ass with it. The meaning was obvious: F*ck me! I’m never wearing Kevlar in a helicopter flying over the water!

And neither will I.

- A Bad Day at work -

Back to the situation at hand: “Big Army Parachute, Not-So-Big Man.”

I knew it was going to be a bad day when the archaic body harness of the big parachute and opening shock made me feel like I was being split in half - from the crotch up!

After beating on my numbed legs, I immediately checked my canopy and saw the next hint of my bad day.

Reflexively, I said out loud, “Imagine That” (my personal “bleeding down” catch-phrase).

For those of you who haven’t been indoctrinated into the wonderful world of hazardous duty, let me cue you in. Almost all operators have a “bleeding down or releasing pressure,” personal catch-phrase they say to themselves to instantly calm down.

These catch-phrases serve a vital purpose. They put you into a mindset that’s conducive to survival, especially when you’re “having a bad day at work.”

Catch-phrases will:

1. Delete damaging/time-consuming emotions from your current scenario.

2. Help you mentally step out of a hazardous/time-sensitive situation to facilitate quick – often life-saving - decisions objectively (as an observer, not a participant).

3. Relax you (even make you laugh) as you marvel at the absurdity of life!

Again, I said, “Imagine That.”

Above my head, instead of a heavenly full, round canopy, I saw what resembled a huge, used condom! Either a line-over or static electricity was preventing air from inflating my chute.

I was oscillating wildly.

All my attempts to inflate the main chute proved unsuccessful. I spread the main shoulder risers – nothing. I did a pull-up and climbed up on one riser and let go – hoping that the popping, spring action of my bodyweight would let some air enter the canopy. No joy. I looked for the usual 4-line release system (a way of controlling/steering a parachute by releasing four lines at the rear of the canopy), but then remembered that this was an old army chute with no such capabilities.

I pondered whether I should try and find the possible line-over and start cutting lines (one by one) with my hooked shroud line cutter.

By experience, I could “feel” that I had not regained terminal velocity (about 147 mph)…yet. It was probably because of the minor friction caused by the “Used Rubber” flailing above me. Physicists will tell you that one square yard will decrease your free-fall momentum by up to 20 per cent.

But a quick glance at the on-rushing ground (perception of ground color begins around the 10,000 to 12,000 foot ceiling) and verification with my wrist altimeter told me that I really didn’t have much time for playing Sherlock Holmes/Brain Surgeon with any offending shroud lines.

Damn, I hate it when this happens…

[Continued in “Imagine That…(3) - Medical Turf Wars and Angels of Mercy Revisited.”]

Your friend in this Intrepid Journey called Life,

Carl “J.C.” Pantejo

Pantejo@ynvurcepublishing.com

Hazardous Duty Incentive Pay, Kevlar, hypothermia, experimental, hashish, line-over.

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright May 2008

Author “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.

*The following story is incorporated in “My Friend Yu – the Prosperity Mentor: Book II,” Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing. Release Date: 2008.

**Note from the Author:

When asked about my military career, I simply tell people that I was “Dumb, Stubborn, and Lucky (Dumb enough to volunteer, Stubborn enough to stay, and Lucky enough to survive).”

The “Imagine That…” series chronicles some of the more amusing experiences (that I can still remember) from over two decades of U.S. military service; most of which was in the Asian theater.

But, please keep in mind the following conversation:

Curious Man: “What did you learn from your years in the military?”

Me: “The first and last thing they teach you is to forget.”

Curious Man: “Who are they and what were you supposed to forget?”

Me: “I don’t know. I forgot.”

Curious Man: “I see. You must have been a good student.”

Me: “I’d like to think so.”

The above conversation gives a clue why some things will neither be mentioned, nor explained in some of the stories of this series.

Simply put, I forgot.

Nevertheless, I am certain you will enjoy these stories, my friend.

Carl “J.C.” Pantejo

“[Life] Amazing! Isn’t it?”

- Asian Angel of Mercy -

Assuming that I’d not heard her the first time, she repeated, “Chief, is there anything else I can do for you?”

She was a 19 year old Fil-Am (Filipina-American) who had recently graduated from Basic U.S. Navy Corpsman School. She was doing her mandatory clinical phase/rounds aboard this Navy Submarine Tender (a ship equipped with hyperbaric chamber facilities), the ship I’d been flown to almost 20 hours ago for hyperbaric treatment. I had just finished a Table VI (or V?) treatment in the “squeeze chamber” and was on the ship’s tiny medical sickbay cum ward.

The cute Corpsman had assumed correctly.

(And what a sweet ass-sumption it was! But I stray from the story. Many tangents will follow.)

I hadn’t heard a word of what she said since reporting to her ward. I was too enamored with her brown skin, almond eyes, and oh-so-slim and sexy body. Most other bodily functions were put on hold – except of course, you know what.

Us men are like that.

When I arrived at the Tender yesterday night, via emergency MEDEVAC (medical evacuation) helicopter, I was semi-conscious and clad in only my dive shorts (the Navy issued “UDT”, khaki-colored shorts worn by all U.S. military divers, Special Warfare, and Explosive Ordnance Disposal Teams) and wrapped in a couple of black wool blankets to combat the coldness of shock.

The helo crew and medical attendants were more than happy to release/dump me on the Diving doctor at the Tender. Apparently, and later verified by the official medical reports, I was so disoriented and obstinate that I tried to free myself from the gurney straps and jump out of the MEDEVAC helo… not once, but three times!

Luckily the attendants were consummate professionals; and although they couldn’t sedate me (sedation masked symptomatic alterations of consciousness and rendered further neurological checks useless), they nonetheless; “motivated” me to behave.

They did this by menacingly waving a large urethral catheter in front of my face while simultaneously snapping the bases of their surgical gloves! The meaning was instantly understood: “Chief, play nice or we’ll have to shove this rubber tube up your crank; AND/OR perform a sphincter muscle control check. BOTH WITHOUT LUBRICATION!”

Prudently, I acquiesced to these kind and caring medical professionals.

Most divers “free-balled” it.

We didn’t wear anything under our dive shorts. It was much more comfortable and practical. At least that’s what we’d rationalized as we pissed and crapped in our shorts during long dives, or scratched sand from our balls while on the beach.

Of course, we were more disciplined during cold water dives that required a wet or dry suit be worn over our dive shorts.

Fantasizing about the Filipina Corpsman, I was pitching a rather obvious tent under the bed sheets.

The Corpsman blushed as she took my vital signs.

She went about her business as professionally as possible (temperature, pulse, and blood pressure checks, I.V. drip check, neurological/circulation checks, level of consciousness checks, etc.) while still managing to steal glances, and sometimes longer looks, at my erection.

Probably projecting my wishes upon her, I could swear she looked hungry.

- Too much of a “Good Thing” -

She asked me if I was experiencing “priapism,” a medical condition characterized by an uncontrollable erection and can be caused by trauma to the spinal cord, various drugs, neurological disorders, and vascular diseases.

Prolonged priapism can be a medical emergency because the human penis was not meant to be perpetually engorged. The specialized, sensitive tissues can be permanently damaged or necrose (die). The condition is considered hazardous after three hours, critical after four hours, and a medical emergency after five or six hours (depending on the patient’s age and physical condition).

The treatment for priapism begins with mild, over-the-counter medication (e.g., pseudoephedrine). If that doesn’t work, treatment becomes more aggressive.

To make your erection go away, blood is aspirated from the corpus cavernosum (a reservoir for blood and pressure). Layman’s translation: The doctor sticks a needle in your dick and tries to deflate it by relieving the build-up of pressure. Sound fun?

Finally to the final of all options, if all else fails – AMPUTATION OF THE PENIS IS NECESSARY. Yikes!

That’s why the abuse of erectile dysfunction drugs (e.g., Viagra, Cialis, Levitra, etc.) can literally cost a man his own manhood!

“Unlike the mind, a penis stretched by new stimuli MUST return to its original size.”

I had only experienced priapism once in my life. It happened a few years ago after a rather nasty PLF (Parachute Landing Fall)…

…I couldn’t “John Wayne” it in (meaning: a trotting, stand-up landing) because we, my Jump Team on the stick, were jumping with old Army “Set 10” parachutes. These chutes were big, awkward to steer, and were made for average, “American-sized” men carrying full Army Infantry gear.

Everyone on my team was Asian or Hispanic and much smaller than the average American soldier. To make matters worse, we weren’t wearing any Infantry gear. That meant we were using parachutes designed for much bigger men and much heavier loads.

Why?

Although I wasn’t paid to ask why (I was paid to Do), I figured that someone, probably a Department of Defense scientist/geek working on his thesis and/or government contract, needed the data. And of course, we volunteered for the two weeks of “basket leave (free vacation)” and additional “Experimental/Hazardous Duty Incentive Pay” upon mission completion.

Besides, what could happen?

We were all well-versed in jumping. We all wore the gaudy, golden “Jump Wings” on our uniforms. The Jump Wings and shiny, silver “Dive Bubble” (the Navy SCUBA Diver pin worn above the wings) proclaimed to all that we were loony enough to be free-fall qualified and macho/horny enough to be Navy Diver certified.

And of course, in our minds, we (my team mates, fellow connoisseurs of beer, PT - physical training, women, and out-of-the ordinary adventures) were all crazy, little f*ckers – a batch of brown escapees from the local Mental Ward.

In short, multiple incarnations of Superman.

Oftentimes, hushed words were spoken from onlookers when one of us was seen in our uniforms.

I never got used to all the attention. In fact, all the hoo-hah about divers, jumpers, and shooters usually made me feel uncomfortable. When someone asked too many probing questions, I would find an excuse to quickly leave.

Perfectly happy doing my job out of the limelight, I performed my duties as professionally and quietly as possible. Yup, being “invisible” was just fine with me.

It’s always the shiny, “special” things (or people) that become targets first.

To my knowledge, there is only one photo of me in my “work clothes and green/brown make-up” in existence. It (with other documents and computer files) is in the custody of a very trusted friend; safely tucked away in an old wooden desk, in an old Asian village home, in an old and remote Asian Province. And there it will stay until enough time has passed and I don’t need “insurance” anymore.

All smart people have insurance.

‘Nuff said about that.

- Wannabes and Groupies -

Most of the other “normal, honorable, respectable” soldiers envied the lifestyle I and my men lived everyday.

To them, we were all Desperados.

It was a well-known fact that we enjoyed more p*ssy, more money, and more excitement than the usual serviceman. On top of that, we wore our uniforms less frequently and enjoyed more individual freedom on the job.

Those men who “look, want, but can’t” are affectionately called “Wannabes.”

And the women, oh the women.

There were two types of “Groupie Women.” The first type, the Thrill Seekers, got off by having sex with us “dangerous, young studs.” The other type, the Gold Digger, was looking for security (meaning, the money and security left by a deceased serviceman spouse).

If a woman thought “we were what we were,” the usual response followed: Instant Flirting. Her pupils would enlarge, she’d heave whatever chest she had, she’d fiddle with her hair, smile, and lick her lips. You could almost read her mind. She wanted to sample the athletic, wiry, six-packed, muscular bodies we all possessed.

Our hardbodies coupled with our permanent, devilish, sh*t-eating grins that seemed to make all of us look half our ages were most irresistible to the overtly (and covertly) available members of the opposite sex.

Gold Diggers are available around the globe and the U.S. was no exception. Everyone knew of the SGLI (the soldier’s life insurance) and Death Gratuity Benefits extended to the dead soldier’s family/beneficiaries.

Since people like me and my men tended to die from mysterious “Training Injuries” much more often than the normal guy riding a desk job, we were all that more attractive to the “long-range minded women.”

It’s “The Golden Rule.”

Same-same around the world, I guess. Those with the Gold/Money (or the promise of it) rule!

“Don’t mess with THEM. They’d rather kill than f*ck!,” one young sailor said to another while I was standing in line at the Base’s Mini-Mart.

On the very few occasions that I went shopping in my uniform, when I would walk toward a crowd of shoppers, the reaction was like the parting of the Red Sea.

It was weird.

If you saw me in person and in civilian clothes, you’d probably think I was someone’s meek, Asian driver or cook. But put a uniform on me, replete with those two “itty-bitty” pins, and I’m magically transformed into some mysterious, dark-hearted assassin?

Assassin?

The word assassin brings a wry smile to my face. You see, its root comes from the word “Hassassin” – meaning, followers/users of hashish.

Neat story.

Well, actually, many stories revolve around the word “assassin.”

Some references reinforce the etymology of “assassin” from “hassassin;” while others refute it, saying that:

1. The Koran and the creator of the Hassassins group staunchly opposed all intoxicating chemicals (e.g., alcohol, hashish, etc.).

2. Trained killers require disciplined training, and therefore; could not have been drug addicts.

3. Hashish in the form of a “potion” (that is, liquid form) and mentioned below in the famous “Marco Polo” accounts of the assassins and their leader is not the normal form of ingestion.

But let me include two other stories.

And they both involve killers and hashish.

The first story, popularized by Marco Polo, tells of the “Old Man of the mountain” (believed to be Hasan-i-Sabbah, leader of the Nizari Ismaili militant group) using a “potion” of hashish as a recruiting tool.

Supposedly, he drugged prospective recruits and brought them to a “Paradise” that he’d setup in a secret, secluded compound. Once there, the recruits were provided anything and everything they desired (wine, women, song, etc.). Soon after, they were drugged again and brought back before the Leader.

He [the Leader] promised them a trip to Paradise again if they served him (or died in his service). Either way, if they completed their service, they (or their souls) were guaranteed a return to Paradise.

The second story involves enemies of the Crusaders.

During the Crusades, a group of small, but deadly armies meandered through the lands to defend the populace from the Christian Marauders (Crusaders).

Their ruthlessness and efficiency with which they dealt out death became legendary. After each successful defense (killing fest), these men would then perform their routine, celebratory ritual – a party and trance induced by heavy hashish use.

They soon became known as “Hassassins.” Over time, the word changed into “assassin.”

When I was in Laos, I often wondered if the cute purveyors (and tourists/ buyers) of those innocent looking, little, dark-brown-to-black cubes knew the hashish-“assassin” word connection?

Probably not.

[Continued in “Imagine That…(2) - Hazardous Duty Incentive Pay (HDIP): Anything for a Buck?”]

Your friend in this Intrepid Journey called Life,

Carl “J.C.” Pantejo

Pantejo@ynvurcepublishing.com

Imagine That, Filipina, Asian, Angel, hyperbaric, Gold Jump Wings, Silver Dive Bubble, Hassassin, assassin.

 “It was a weird dream.

I am in bed with Nueng. Her face is nestled into my shoulder and her arm is draped over my chest.

She looks like a sleeping angel – mine, my special, lovely angel.

I inhale deeply, smile, and silently thank God for all the joy she has brought into my life. I smell her hair and the sweet fragrance makes me feel loved, safe, and secure.

Like an experienced ground fighter, Nueng has strategically wrapped a leg behind and around one of mine. (Even in her sleep, she’s afraid of me leaving her.)

Then I hear it.

It sounds like…like…no, it can’t be!

It sounds like the voice of my ex-girlfriend! She’s coming up the stairs, calling out to me, AND I REALIZE THAT THIS IS NOT A DREAM!”

“Prosperity: The eternal flow of all that’s good in life…”

By Carl “J.C.” Pantejo, Copyright May 2008

(Author “My Friend Yu – The Prosperity Mentor,” Copyright August 2007. Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing.)

*Below is the twenty-fourth installment in a series of real life events experienced by the author. The only deviations from the truth may be the names of people and places. These stories are also incorporated in “My Friend Yu – the Prosperity Mentor: Book II,” Pantejo - Y.N. Vurce Publishing. Release Date: 2008.

- Dramas -

Upstairs, in my bedroom and half asleep, I hear someone slip a key into the front door. The door creaks open (I always seem to forget to oil the hinges of that thing). I assume the person I hear entering my townhouse is my sister coming home from the open market where she sells clothes and second-hand items.

But then the sound of a voice puts me on instant alert.

It’s the unmistakable, girlish voice of my Ex-girlfriend (Kai)!

“J.C.! J.C., tee rak (darling)! J.C? Tee rak, kid tueng yu khun maak maak (Darling, I missed you so much)!”

I close my eyes again and listen more intently, hoping that this was not happening, maybe just a bad dream.

But the footsteps on the stairs confirm the worst. They are definitely the awkward, “stutter-steps” of Kai. (She was never the most graceful of women).

To prevent constant stumbling, she basically stomped her way through life. It was always an amusing sight to see her walk in her favorite high-heeled shoes (kind of like watching a spinning top wobbling as it begins to slow down).

- Locked Doors, Open Doors -

I had forgotten about the spare house key I kept amongst the shoes in a shoe rack outside the front door. The Ex didn’t. She had used it to “quietly” enter my townhouse and “surprise” me with her return.

By this time, Nueng was awake and knew what was going on. She put a finger to my lips and whispered “Shhhh…Reo, reo (fast, quickly)!”

Nueng wanted me to exit the bedroom before Kai reached the top of the stairs and “accidentally” lock the door behind me. Even under the most extreme circumstances, Nueng was always level-headed.

Damn! Why didn’t I move out of this townhouse when I decided to cut all ties with the Ex?

 

I had permanently written Kai out of my life over six months ago.

Nueng and I should’ve found another place, a secret place no one knew of (meaning her ex-husband and my ex-girlfriends), to genuinely start anew.

- Who Cares? -

Nueng, my sweet and strong Nueng.

She was the most honest and caring woman I’ve met in Thailand. I remember when the running water had stopped in our townhouse and we were tired and grimy from spending the day outside.

Without a fuss, Nueng grabbed some empty, six-liter drinking water containers, hopped on my motorcycle, and sped off to fill them up at the drinking water machine.

Upon returning, she then dumped the water into the large, black rubbish bin we used to store water.

When I offered to help, she just sniff-kissed my neck and told me to “Abp narm, tee-rak (bathe now, darling),” then sped off to get more water.

In short, she cares. She REALLY cares.

And I knew that it was my laziness (and stupidity) that has put us in this current situation.

- Same, Same? -

I kissed Nueng, whispered “Rak khun kon deos (I love you, only you), and quickly pulled on some shorts. Exiting the bedroom, I entered the upstairs hallway; locking the bedroom door behind me.

Double-timing it to the top of the stairs, I saw Kai.

I intercepted her on the small landing half-way up the stairs. As I looked at her, I didn’t really know how to feel.

Definitely, I was in shock.

It was as though all the feelings of rage, confusion, and despair I’d experienced during my discovery of her lies and infidelity were being painfully resurrected again.

The acidic emotions were beginning to reach my stomach (via my throat and heart).

It was like the reflexive shock, gasp, and searing pain you get when you accidentally gulp down some burning, hot coffee.

Apparently, Kai didn’t notice any hints of my inner turmoil. I guess she assumed that my expressionless, lukewarm demeanor was another one of those mysterious (translated: stupid) “Farang (foreinger) Things.”

She smiles her trademark, dazzling smile and hands me a belated Christmas gift (a small stuffed toy).

Wrapping her arms around me, she kisses me; then buries her head into my shoulder and says, “Me-lee Klees-mah (her attempt at saying Merry Christmas in English), tee rak. Chan rak khun (I love you).”

Uncomfortably, I accepted her gift and returned her embrace – ALL THE WHILE THINKING OF NUENG HIDING IN MY BEDROOM!”

As I held Kai, my only thoughts were:

“Wow. I don’t remember Kai being this small before. She feels so fragile! Nueng is so different, better. No matter how hard I hug Nueng, she can always hug me back harder.”

Then situational awareness returned and I led Kai by the hand back down the stairs, saying that we need to talk outside.

My plan was to take her out on the front porch, sit down, and ask her why she returned.

Of course, I pretty much knew already. In my mind, the scenario had been firmly formed:

1. Her “suicidal” boyfriend probably ran out of money.

2. Profoundly wise to her “money management habits,” I knew that she most surely was broke too.

3. Her more convenient cash cows were now unavailable or unwilling to be scammed again.

4. She probably thought she could easily convince me to take her back (until she could find something/someone better – again).

It’s always the same with her. It’s always about the money!

- She Knows! -

We finally reached the first floor. But to my surprise, Kai ignored all my requests to go outside, picked up her suitcase and charged back up the stairs!

It was then that “I knew that she knew.”

I attempted to stop her at the landing, she shrugged me off. She was furious. Her eyes were on fire, shooting flaming daggers as she looked at me, the bedroom door, and the plastic bags packed with all her belongings through the open door of the spare bedroom!

I had never, ever, ever seen her so fierce.