BOB KORNEGAY: Sometimes it’s OK to panic

Don’t panic. Now there’s an American standard. It conjures up images of handsome Hollywood heroes, standing tall, cool as cucumbers, while all hell breaks loose around them. Their mere utterance of “Don’t panic” brings cowards to their senses and alleviates all disasters.

One problem I have with this “Don’t panic” thing is timing. Whenever I have chosen panic as the proper course of action, I’ve never heard the command given far enough ahead of time. No one has ever taken me aside and said, “Look, there’s a chance things might get a little hairy in a few minutes. If that happens, don’t panic, okay?”

Nope. That never happens. By the time somebody gets around to telling me not to panic, things have already gone well beyond hairy. At that point my options are (1) continue to panic until the danger passes or (2) swallow an overdose of Valium.

I believe panickers, on the whole, have a longer life span than non-panickers. True, I might look silly up a pine tree with my eyes closed, but I’m a sight better off than the guy who remained on the ground not panicking while the charging grizzly rapidly closed distance. By panicking, I have saved myself the trouble of remembering I’m too fat and old to climb a tree in the first place. Good panickers don’t sweat the small stuff.

When it comes to heroes, our priorities are sorely misplaced. It’s really the panickers among us who save lives and rescue distressed damsels. One who doesn’t panic will often get himself, and you, maimed or killed. General Custer was a legendary non-panicker. Get my drift?

I am panicker-hero material myself. If Hollywood ever comes to its senses, my own harrowing and exciting adventures will one day be duly chronicled on film. If only Clark Gable or Errol Flynn were still around to play me. Actually, they probably would be had they not wasted so much of their lives being cool and calm in the face of danger.

Regarding my panicker-hero status, I offer a case in point:

Several decades ago, my buddy Mike asked me to come along with him to try out a boat and motor he was considering purchasing. Donny, a mutual friend, joined us. Foolishly, neither Donny nor I gave thought to the historical fact that Mike was not known for astute business deals and more often than not his purchases of any mechanized conveyances involved the ultimate acquisition of totally worthless pieces of junk.

Hence, we thoughtlessly left the landing and motored out toward the middle of the lake. A half mile from shore, the outboard sputtered once, died, and inexplicably burst into flames. Mike, who was considering remaining calm, looked me in the eye and asked, “Do you think we should…?”

“Get out!” I finished the sentence and dove overboard. Panic being quite contagious, my companions did likewise. Treading water while the boat drifted away, Mike, in very uncool fashion, stammered, “Wh-what do we do now?”

“Swim for it!” I yelled. “It’s gonna blow any second!”

The younger Donny, exhibiting good potential as a first-rate panicker himself, spluttered, “I can’t swim very good!”

“Grab Mike’s pants leg,” I commanded. “He’ll pull you in.”

“MY pants leg? Why not yours?”

“You’re closer!” I shouted.

Halfway to shore we were rapidly tiring. Then panic saved the day again.

“Let’s swim to that log over there and rest awhile,” Mike gasped.

“Log? Looks like a…” Danny wheezed.

“Gator!” I screamed.

Clearly, Donny lied about being a poor swimmer. Mike and I were hanging onto HIS britches when we reached the dock.

Looking back, it’s really a shame the motor never exploded, the boat didn’t catch fire, and the log really was a log. Even worse, it cuts me deeply that neither of my two buddies have spoken to me for 40 some-odd years now.

Obviously, some folks wouldn’t recognize a hero if he walked up and slapped ‘em in the face.

Email outdoors columnist Bob Kornegay at [email protected].