Butterbars/Seeing Silver

This one? Technically old news. Sorry. These things happen.

You know why the gold bars are called butterbars, right? It’s because they melt under pressure.

Ensigns: I kid. On the other hand, I’m pretty much required to give you a hard time. Specifically, the closer you are to being the Bull, the more obnoxious crap I have to throw at you. JORGs of the world, I’ll leave you alone, at least until you catch up to speed.

Have we talked Bulls and JORGs? Bull: Senior ENS. Ringleader. Designer of pranks. Instigator of My Little Pony wrapping paper attacks on the XO’s stateroom. Oh yes. That one was epic. I almost fell over from laughing too hard when I saw it. The best part? The XO wasn’t mad. Seriously, score 1 (very shiny) point for JOPA.

JORG: First of all, it’s not spelled Jorge. Or George. Though it is pronounced George. The JORG is the Junior Officer Requiring Guidance. The junior ENS in the wardroom. The one who calls attention for the CO when we have meetings in Officers’ Country.

I have never been the Bull or the JORG. It was once suggested upon my arrival that I was, which I declared absurd. I had, after all, been an ENS for almost a year at that point. I never claimed to be particularly useful, but there were ENSs on that ship who had been indoctrinated by my indocs. Darn straight I’m not the JORG. As for the Bull? We have a SWO who commissioned the same day I did. I had my share of obnoxious moments, but I was never actually the senior ENS.

Oh yeah, have I mentioned I’m not an ENS? I’ve upgraded. I’m now DISBO 2.0 (or Ensign Upper Half if we still want to be snarky). Actually, our entire wardroom is growing up. We went for a long stretch where we had a whole slew of ENSs just sitting around waiting to promote, then the SWO and I kicked things off. We’ve had a promotion every few weeks for the last four months. Pretty soon the 2011 NROTC folks will move up in the world, and then we’ll go almost a whole year before anyone else puts on the silver. Yikes.

Unrelated to my wardroom, I know a guy who was the Bull and the JORG at the same time. While he was a department head. Gotta love sub guys.

LTJG Seachop out. Bam.

Put the Wet Stuff on the Hot Stuff

I once again found myself at the Farrier Fire Fighting School. I’m up to thrice over a year plus a little. They’ve now tried to set me on fire twice, drown me once, and gas me once. I still have some anecdotes from my last trip through a few months back, when I took the locker leader course (key highlights: the Buttercup and the confidence chamber).

I’ve noticed a running theme the more I’m involved in DC. Damage control is a team effort.

Can we emphasize that a little? Everyone stand up and let’s say it together. Damage control is a team effort.

These days I’m pretty SWOtivated for a supply JO in that I really don’t mind (and sometimes actually enjoy) all this damage control stuff I’ve been doing lately, so why is it I always seem to come home from Farrier classes, well, irritated? *cough SWOtivated chop cough* I get the whole “team effort” concept. I know other people get it, because I’ve witnessed the majority of people, y’know, working as a team.

But there’s one (usually more) in every group…

Today’s adventure was general shipboard firefighting. Pretty straightforward. Review how fires burn, what kinds of fires we deal with, which agent to use when, equipment, PPE. After about two hours of classroom work, we donned our gear and headed out to the fire field. This was my first time inside the fire structure; my last round of firefighting at Farrier was the mock flight deck. We had four stations: burning cables (C), galley grease fire (B), berthing fire (A), and burning ordnance (was this supposed to be D? It was really just a large interior space with fire on the deck, sprayed with water. That’s not what I would do for your average D. I’d just chuck it over the side).

This is a story about the ordnance fire.

This was really just a practice in basic hose handling. The team lined up on the hose, and once the fire started the fire party shuffled up along the hose relieving the nozzleman so everyone spent some time up at the front. When relieved, the nozzleman would change the water pattern from a narrow-angle V to a wide-angle V, providing more protection from heat for the fire party and relieving some of the pressure on the nozzleman. The new nozzleman would change back to a narrow V to continue fighting the fire. To change the angle, the nozzleman holds the nozzle pistol grip in one hand and reaches forward with the other to rotate the end of the nozzle. The nozzle is held out away from the body (I like to brace my elbow against my hip) to keep the nozzle from pushing the nozzleman around.

I’m only 5’2″; a wild firefighting hose could do me some serious damage, but if it’s under positive control? Easy day. I’m certainly capable of maintaining control over a hose and a brass nozzle. I don’t just mean I can stand there and keep the hose from going wild; I can relieve a nozzleman, move the nozzle in a pattern, change the spray angle, and pass off the nozzle while in a full firefighting ensemble. Even more, I clearly demonstrated today that I can do all of the above using my non-dominant hand to maintain positive control.

But the above only holds true when the hose is handled properly by the rest of the team.

The #1 hoseman’s job is to support the nozzleman. S/he braces one boot against the nozzleman’s back foot, presses the forward forearm against the nozzleman’s back, and supports the hose (push it forward to relieve pressure against the nozzle, respond when the nozzleman requests more hose). If the #1 hoseman is doing his/her job, s/he will tire out. If the #1 hoseman is just chilling, something is wrong.

Which brings me to my story.

We were doing our second walkthrough of the structure, this time with live flames. We had already done the entire exercise once with charged hoses, and I had no issues whatsoever. When I took the nozzle, I immediately noticed something was wrong. I almost lost the nozzle just trying to change the spray angle, and once I managed that I couldn’t lift the nozzle towards the fire. Every muscle was straining to move it, but it just didn’t work.

My hose team had pulled the hose backwards while I was first setting my grip, pulling the nozzle towards my hip and twisting my arm so the weight of the nozzle was born entirely in my fingers, rather than allowing me to line up my wrist, elbow, and hip for maximum support. Speaking of support, where the #$%^ was my #1 hoseman?

First things first. “More hose!” I shouted.

The hose inched back even further, wrenching the nozzle and my wrist again. The instructor saw the spray pattern suddenly jerk and immediately came over, fearing I was about to lose the nozzle (as did I). Instead he found me bent over with effort, trying to support a nozzle that just didn’t want to play nicely. “I need more hose!” I shouted at him. I heard him start railing against my team. Not only had they taken all of my extra hose, but they had also let the hose fall slack and start to curve in some places. This was a non-collapseable fire hose; when it starts to curve and twist, the nozzle wants to go with it. At last he got the hose team straightened out, and I suddenly felt some (but not all) the pressure ease, enough that I was able to get the nozzle out in front of me with proper form and start spraying a figure-8 at the base of the blaze. I was still straining; something was still wrong.

At last the instructors told my #1 hoseman to relieve me. I slid my hand forward to change the spray pattern–

–and nothing.

I couldn’t turn the end of the nozzle. My left arm was so beat up from supporting the flailing nozzle that my right hand turning the end of the nozzle was actually overpowering my left, trying to turn the entire nozzle instead of just the rotating piece at the end. Still, I should have been able to do it, except my #1 hoseman still wasn’t giving my any kind of physical support.

I performed the same actions both times through the structure: take control of the nozzle, change the spray pattern, fight the fire, change the spray pattern again, pass off the nozzle. So why was it so easy the first time and so hard the second?

Because damage control is a team effort.

My first time through the structure, my #1 hoseman was actively working with me, and my fire party kept the hose supported. They took over all the heavy lifting, so all I had to do was work the nozzle. The second time through, I had nothing from my fire party. I was alone with both the hose and the nozzle. The full water pressure was working against me, and I didn’t even have enough hose available in front of me to manage it. By the end (when the fire party was solved but the #1 hoseman wasn’t) I was too banged around to be effective. Had the second exercise been an actual casualty, I would not have been able to sustain the fight for more than a moment or two; it’s infuriating because I’m capable of bring much more than that to the table. The trouble is that, in hose handling, if the fire party doesn’t actively do their job they are actually working against the nozzleman. It would wear down anyone.

I’ve since determined the same thing happened when I did aviation firefighting over a year ago. We ran through the entire hose team twice; one time on the nozzle was easy, but the other was hard. The difference was that physical support from the rest of the team.

When it comes to damage control, I’m good (and ever so humble). I have the knowledge, and I can demonstrate the skills.

But to work effectively, I need everyone else to step up to the plate. I don’t necessarily need rock stars; I’ll settle for basic competence if I must. Once that team effort is compromised, I’m compromised. I can’t fight a main space fire from my locker; as locker leader, my job is to maintain the bigger picture, know who needs to go where to do what, and provide direction. For me to do that effectively, I have to trust the rest of my team to be able to function. If they can’t function (if my hose team can’t give me support), my job is at best degraded. At worst, I can’t function. (I had a drill towards the end of deployment that perfectly demonstrates how today’s issue with my hose team can happen anywhere and completely cripple a locker, but that deserves it’s own post. It’s quite the tale.)

So…..

Let’s review, shall we? Together, on three. One….two……three………

Damage control is a team effort.

Rota

A local JO first known to me as “Marmoset” was kind enough to point out that I’ve been lazy of late. I countered that life in the yards is hardly exciting enough for the internet. That’s about when I remembered that I had (and still have) approximately 1,314* pictures from deployment chilling on my hard drive. And by “approximately” I mean “exactly.” The majority are just snapshots of JOs doing what JOs do best (posing in front of famous landmarks, making stupid faces, or lounging in the JO jungle playing GTA not noticing that someone is documenting it in order to make fun of them later), but I have a few gems tucked away. A picture is worth a thousand words, but I’ll do you one better and even add commentary. Here we go.

Is this Pictionary with impressionist painters?

“Oh Disbo,” (I imagine you saying) “what is this nonsense? Perhaps you should invest in a better camera?” Probably, but that’s point. That, ladies and gentlemen, was my first view of Spain following a 10ish day TRANSLANT a little over a year ago, the first week of the longest 8 months of my life. You’ll have to excuse my failure to properly capture the enormity of that moment as happiness that I was seeing dry land again (albeit with a lot of water in the foreground). Let’s see if I can’t find you a better shot.

There we go! That’s much better. A quaint little fishing boat with Rota in the background. You can see the houses and everything. I would have preferred a sunnier day for my first seafaring adventure, but hey. Land. I wasn’t about to complain. A chance to stretch my legs literally and linguistically (in theory I used to speak Spanish. It was a little rusty by the time I got to Rota). You work all day, then you wander around eating tapas and drinking sangria all night. Have I already told stories about shore patrol? I can’t remember. I was on shore patrol in Rota. For the record, the middle of the night in January in coastal Spain can get a tad chilly. Let’s have a look at the town.

Oooo that’s pretty.

As is that!

That sign says exactly what you think it says.

And then you have Sam’s American Store. And what exactly, pray tell, so they sell at Sam’s American Store? Fruit loops, cake mix, potato chips, and Christmas candy. Yep. Amurica. Welcome to Rota.

*Please note that I won’t be showing a picture a day for the next 3.6 years. I’ll be a little choosey for the sake of brevity, which is (so it has been said) the soul of wit. That’s it, too much caffeine late at night.

Sarin

It’s been in the news lately, so let’s talk about sarin.

Sarin, or GB, is a very nasty nerve agent. I can’t speak for anyone else, but it’s one of the first chemical weapons I’d ever heard of; well before I even thought about joining the Navy, sarin was the first thing that came to mind whenever people talked about chemical weapons or gas attacks. I’m not going to talk about Syria since I’m not any kind of expert on the situation, but it’s been all over the news and a quick Google search will give you a rundown. No, today we’re talking the nitty gritty of what sarin is and what it does. Just so happens this hit the news while I was in a DC school with a huge emphasis on CBR.

Sarin was discovered in 1938 in a German lab during an attempt to create a stronger pesticide. Of the four G-series nerve agents synthesized in Germany between 1936 and 1949, sarin is the most toxic. It’s potential as a weapon was recognized very early on, though production didn’t take off in time for it to be a real option during WWII. The US and USSR began producing GB in the 1950s. UN Resolution 687 classifies sarin as a weapon of mass destruction, and its production and stockpiling was outlawed in 1993. Sarin is odorless and colorless.

Like other nerve agents, sarin blocks the enzyme cholinesterase. Nerve impulses pass through synapses using the enzyme acetylcholine; cholinesterase is necessary to break down the acetylcholine in the synapses to interrupt nerve impulses and allow muscles and organs to relax. Without cholinesterase, the entire body will clench and be unable to relax. Death is caused by respiratory failure. Though time of death will depend on level of exposure, it can occur within minutes.

Sarin exposure is treated with atropine and pralidoxime (2PAM), but they must be administered quickly. The military also uses an autoinjector of CANA, which is really just diazepam, for buddy aid if the atropine and pralidoxime fail; though diazepam is an anticonvulsant, it probably won’t succeed where the other two failed. It’s purpose is more to decrease suffering after someone receives a lethal dose of a nerve agent.

If you like goats, you should probably stop here. The following video is rather graphic. It doesn’t show blood and guts, but it does show a pigeon and a goat exposed to a lethal dose of GB during an artillery test. The muscle tremors and seizures are caused by the blockage of cholinesterase.

Sandy

We’ve all read the news lately (at least I hope we have; you shouldn’t be hearing this for the first time from me). About a week ago, Hurricane Sandy made its approach to the east coast, causing damage from the Carolinas to New England before passing up into Canada as a tropical depression. New jersey and New York were hit particularly hard, and I know some folks are still bailing out the water and waiting for the power to come back on.

If this all has a “been there/done that” feel, it should. You might remember a little over a year ago when the ensignmobile and I were moving from Newport to Norfolk, with my planned route directly along the path of the storm. I ended up taking some crazy detours and still ended up in a downpour. I’d post a link, but due to the joys of leave and airport-blogging from the phone, it just isn’t happening.

If you’ve seen some of the local Norfolk news, the word “sortie” had been tossed around. Part of the fleet did sortie, but it was canceled before all of the ships went out.

Obviously, the question I’m leading you to is, “Did the ChipsAhoy sortie?” Eh, not so much. We actually put the ship in drydock a few weeks ago, so it ain’t going nowhere. I was not on duty over the weekend, but the folks who were on the barge when the storm hit have declared that they earned their sea pay.

As for me, I barricaded myself in my apartment with water jugs and packaged food. I guess that’s kind of a letdown, bringing up the sortie only to say that I don’t really know anything about it because I spent the weekend perusing Netflix Instant except for the brief period when my internet died.

At any rate, if I have any readers who were affected by the storm, I hope you stayed safe, and I hope you have power.

You do what now?

I had reason to see a civilian eye doctor not long ago, and during the course of the appointment I realized just one more way my life was awkward.

First question: Have you had any recent eye injuries?

“Well, I was pepper sprayed about a week and a half ago. Does that count? It was during a training exercise; I wasn’t doing anything bad.”

Second question: Do you know which eye is your dominant eye?

“The right.” (A little too quickly)

Followup: ……..is that your shooting eye?

“…………Yes.”

Second followup: Are you sure it’s your dominant eye?

“I saw what happened when people tried to shoot with their other eye, and it just plain didn’t work. I was able to hit the target, so yes, I’m fairly certain I’m right eye dominant.”

So what? My life is awkward. At least the occasional bizarre encounter serves to make the world around me a little more interesting. But still awkward. (I was also informed by a different technician that the drops he was about to put in my eyes were the worst thing that would happen to me all week, but they really weren’t that bad. I mentioned that they couldn’t possibly be worse than the OC. He didn’t really know what to say to that.)

7.5 to 16.5 Pounds of Pressure

As an epilogue to the recent pepperspray adventure, we took a trip to the range. Gots to keep those quals current, y’know. I’ve shot before, though not on a regular basis. Still, two days at the simulator quickly got me back on track, and away I went.

The M9? Easy day. Sure, from far away I (rather consistently) tend to aim a smidge low, but the shots are still effective. Low light was an adventure. You really can’t hold a pistol and a flashlight at the same time, at least not without practice (and we had none). The practical course was crazy fun; they gave us three different targets at various distances with obstacles. We had to respond to commands as to which target to shoot while maintaining cover. I also had to figure out how to shoot a pistol while prone on the fly (without getting smacked in the face on the recoil).

Then there’s the M16. The infamous rifle. It’s been about 2.5 years since I’ve fired a rifle, and last time there was certainly no attempt to be tactical. Have I mentioned before that I’m 5’2″ on a good day, 5’3″ if I’m lying? A side effect is that my shoulders are really not built for rifles. Generally, the more upright I am, the more messed up my stance. When I’m standing, I’m nearly at a 90-degree angle to my target, and even then I don’t have enough space. I can either get up close and personal with the sights or give the butt stock proper support with my shoulder. Can’t do both. To spice it up even more, you can hold a rifle maybe 10 seconds before things start to fall apart. It has nothing to do with being tired; the rifle just tends to move as your body compensates. I’m slow to sight in on the rifle (short and inexperienced; it happens), so at best I have 2 or 3 seconds to take the shot between my sighting in and the rifle starting to wobble. Kneeling was something of an improvement, though on the uncomfortable side. Then there was prone.

My shoulders are still a little wonky prone; at the simulator I was twisted almost completely sideways, but for some reason I was able to get comfortable on the range without going so far. I wish I could have kept the target after I was done; the GM took one look and said, “Wow, ma’am; you killed the prone.” All of my shots were either in or touching the bullseye. Go Disbo.

An interesting aside about the kick on the M16: it’s not very much. The internet is failing me for numbers. Still, it was enough that after shooting in the prone position (about 20 rounds if you include sighting in), my elbows were a little scraped, even through my NWU sleeves and the mats we had on the floor.

For the record, I passed both weapons. With the low light and practical for the M9, I’m now fully qualified; unfortunately, we ran out of time for the M16 low light, so I’ll have to go back with the next group.

On the Disappointing Side

The time is drawing near for me to cast the butterbars aside with a hearty “Adieu!” and move on to bigger and better things. More accurately, move on to silver things of the same size and shape.

I’ve recently had a bit of a shopping spree at the NEX uniform shop. I’m already set for shoulder boards, but I needed to fill out the rest of the set. I have enough NWU blouses set aside to finish off my ENS days, but the rest are already with the tailors, along with my SDB and SDW jackets. I have all my shiny new LTJG bling and a brand new LTJG 8-point cover which never had to roll around in the SUYA compliments of OCS.

Then the announcement came: Fall uniform swap is upon us; SDB inspection next week.

Wait. My SDBs are at the tailors. Having an extra piece of gold lacing attached to each sleeve. An extra piece of gold lacing I won’t be entitled to wear until just after the inspection.

Crud.

Fortunately, this announcement came the day after I’d dropped off the jacket, so I only had to awkwardly explain the situation to the uniform shop ladies and ask for my jacket back instead of having to pay double with a rush fee to have the lace removed and the oak leaves moved back down AND having to pay YET AGAIN after the inspection to have it all moved back. Probably would have had to buy another package of lace.

I still felt rather silly. “Sorry, Seachop, but denied! No JG for you just yet.”

*Sigh* It kind of took the wind out of my sails (oh snap) and has put a cramp on my wetting down plans, morale-wise. Though really, I do need to get on that; I only have a few weeks left to figure out when/where/who to feed and water on my dime. Hopefully I won’t end up being that silly LTJG who waits a month before wetting down, though I guess that’s still better than not doing one at all.

A few parting thoughts before we move to something new

Let’s review the list of peculiar reactions to last week’s pepper spray incident before we find something new to talk about:

• Ice cream. Jiminy cricket, how I wanted ice cream. You know how evolution has programmed us so we crave things we need even if we can’t articulate that eating X will relieve Y? I’m convinced that’s what was going on. I’ve always been a fan of ice cream, but never before in my life have I needed it. Sadly, by the time I got the grocery store (delayed until I was no longer a walking chemical hazard), the feeling had passed. I’d suffered through whatever the ice cream was supposed to fix. That said, please see my earlier point about my being a fan of ice cream; I bought it anyway, and it was delicious.
• The day after, I was cooking dinner. Chicken nuggets, nothing complicated. On deployment, I got into the habit of putting black pepper on chicken, and it stuck around when I got home. Without thinking, I pulled out the pepper again. Really had to stop and reevaluate if I wanted to open it. In the end, the memories of bland chicken won, and I managed to not get pepper in my face (just like I’ve never gotten pepper in my own face while cooking ever and can’t even imagine that I would suddenly become clumsy enough to do it now). Interestingly, if you find Wikipedia surfing interesting, you can’t really compare black pepper to the Cosmic Death Spray they put in my eyes, since black pepper is spicy due to piperine and the Scoville scale measures capsaicin, found in chili peppers.
• During that same cooking experience, the oven was set to 400 degrees. I opened it, and my first thought when that initial puff of hot air hit my face was, “Is that all ya got?”

And with that, I think I’m done thinking about OC forever.

There’s no crying in baseball!

Let me put that another way.

OC spray will either make you cry or make you angry. Or both! In other words, chill for a moment while I wax philosophical about pepper spray, of all things.

As I see it, the real measure is when you cry and when you get angry. Need to take down the assailant? Need to take down a padded suit man (conveniently provided for you to project your feelings towards the instructor who sprayed you)? Need to smash the crap out of something with a baton?

All of that requires anger. You better believe I was angry. It was all very Star Warsy. Much as I hate to quote the prequels, “I feel your anger. It gives you focus.” You have two options: you can be reduced to a blind, blubbering mess on the spot, or you can concentrate and take it out on something. Wallup some volunteers holding bags. Simulate breaking the legs of the redman. Continue doing your job effectively even though you are in debilitating agony because some day your life or someone else’s life might depend on it.

My point is that you have to find something to focus on. Once you lose focus, you’re done. I don’t want to say I didn’t notice the pain because I was concentrating too hard on finishing the course (because whoa nelly was I feeling it), but the combination of adrenaline and concentration kept the pain at bay. The main thought on my mind was, “Get through the course and think about the pain later.” If your brain shuts down, all you’ll have left is the pain; it’s infinitely easier. It’s hard to focus on anything else, because you know sooner or later that it’s going to catch up with you. Besides, focusing on anything else is exhausting. Wouldn’t it be so much easier to just let go?

I’ve already described the moment when the OC leaked into my eyes as feeling like a knife. My face was on fire, and someone decided to shove knives in my eyes. It left me staggered. I could barely move; the only thing I had was the pain. Then suddenly, the baton was in my hand; it gave me something to focus on. Once I registered the baton and took the first swing at the bag, I could concentrate on the feeling of striking the bag.

“Just keep swinging,” I told myself. “Focus on the baton, focus on the physical sensation of each strike.” You better believe it still hurt, but I didn’t notice it as much (by the slimmest of margins, I’m sure). I stopped thinking about the pain. When they moved me from strikes to blocks, I was able to open my eyes enough to see the attacks coming, and I had the wherewithal to respond correctly. By the time I got to jabs, I was already thinking about how to take down the redman.

Speaking of the redman, he gave an entirely new distraction from the pain. I started fencing in college; I’m used to “fighting” people who are better than me. I know the feeling of trying to think through a strategy when I’m at an obvious disadvantage. It’s uncomfortable at best. I was in pain, and a giant red padding monster  kept trying to hit me in the head (c’mon, look at this thing. When you have concentrated Texas Pete in your eyes and are tap dancing the fine line between sanity and panic, it looks like something from Halo). If that’s not distracting, I don’t know what is. Sure, you’re distracted enough from the pain, but the “I have no idea how to take this guy down” thought process makes it a lot hard to, y’know, take the guy down. I vaguely remembered I was supposed to kick and hit him, but I was too frustrated to think through it logically and form a strategy.

All that went out the window when he pushed me down. That’s when it went from “What’s up with the giant red monster?” to “Hey! This guy just pushed me down! Am I going to sit here and take that?” That’s when it all came together. I was angry, I was focused, and I had a strategy. (Note: It wasn’t necessarily a strategy to take the guy down; it was a strategy to make the instructor end the exercise. My attacks were useless against the redman but would have been very effective in real life. I was mimicking specific actions the instructor told us would make the exercise stop and was able to think logically enough to add a knee kick to the pattern to keep my assailant off balance.)

About now is where you accuse me of over thinking, and I probably am. Humor me for one step further in my theory that focus can hold back the pain. As soon as the instructor stepped in and started the real life equivalent of the cutscene coup-de-grâce (recover a baton from a grab, then complete a baton take down), I started to lose steam. There was nothing left to focus on. By the time I had him on the ground and the instructor told me to secure my baton (tuck it behind your knees while you cuff the guy), I couldn’t figure out how to untangle it from the redman’s shoulder or how to secure it. I was thinking the words “behind the kness,” but I really struggled to actually find my knees. The adrenaline was gone; the focus was gone. By the time they led me to the hose, I was sobbing. The pain caught up with me, plus the exhaustion of refusing to deal with the pain for roughly five minutes.

It didn’t last long; I was done by the time they finished flushing my eyes. Sure, everything else was on fire, but at least the searing pain was out of my eyes. Eyes on fire–overpowering. Face on fire–really, really annoying. Really, really annoying I can deal with. Maybe I can’t deal with much else at the same time (no really–I was mentally in control, but I could neither walk nor talk. I could vocalize, but it was like something out of Act 1 of 2001: A Space Odyssey).

Now let’s pretend that either the mental collapse when my eyes caught fire or the loss of physical functionality afterwards had kicked in while I was still on the course. It does happen. People panic. People spazz. People fall to the ground screaming and sobbing. People start flailing and have to be restrained. People try to run away and have to be tackled.

Now pretend that it happens in the middle of a riot instead of on a controlled obstacle course. That’s the feeling pepper spray is designed to incite. Panic and helplessness. You can’t let it overpower you. If you can stay in control long enough to get somewhere safe and apply first aid (flush the eyes), you’ll be okay. It will never be as bad as that first moment. It’s a little dramatic to say it will totally ruin your day; my morning was shot, but within 45 minutes I was functional, within 2 hours I could drive, and within 6 hours I was fully decontaminated and out of pain.

Please note that all of the above applies to OC contamination in a carefully controlled environment. I am not going to even try to speak to an OC assault in the real world; there is no way for my experience to mirror that.

Notice to the frat boys filming themselves getting sprayed just for kicks and putting it on Youtube: You are all stupid.

Also, see this page of an article unpleasantly titled “How Fear Works” that talks about fight-or-flight. Because that’s totes what we were playing with last week.