Facial Recognition

It started out as a fantastic idea. “Come fly right seat in my CJ2+ to Mexico,” offered Randy Broiles, Chairman of the CJP Safety Foundation. Randy is a wine connoisseur and had planned a four-day excursion to Valley de Guadeloupe, a burgeoning wine region just south of Tijuana. Patty and Cindy Broiles were looking forward to a long weekend of relaxation.

What could possibly go wrong?

On the morning of departure, I woke up with a terrible sore throat. But since I was just the “right seat guy,” I rationalized that I was fit to fly. Our westbound trip from Houston at FL430 went perfectly. After a fuel stop in Tucson due to 120-knot headwinds, we landed under clear skies at Abelardo L. Rodriguez airport.

A little over an hour later, after a beautiful drive along the Pacific coast, we arrived at the gorgeous resort nestled in the vineyards. Our casa at El Cielo Winery and Resort was lovely, and the wine was fantastic. The entire area was probably what Napa looked like fifty years ago.

My increasing cough and congestion were masked by the atmosphere and the Broiles’s hospitality.

And, of course, the wine. I took a couple of over-the-counter medicines to keep up with the group.

After a full day of touring and tasting, it was time to gather for dinner at a Michelin-starred restaurant located along a dark, unlit gravel road. The driver remained behind while we walked the quarter mile on a narrow pathway to the establishment. The food was marvelous.

Several hours later, it was time to return to the van.

Now, in pitch-dark blackness, we retraced our steps. Emboldened by several glasses of wine and some cold medications, I insisted on leading the group along the shrub-covered gravel path.

Up ahead, I saw our van 30 feet away parked along the road. “Just follow me,” I yelled to the group as I picked up the pace.

And then it happened.

I walked straight into a barbed wire fence. Never saw it. I felt a sting on my face as I recoiled from the collision. Then blood coming from my mouth. It was so dark I still could not see the barbed wire.

Stunned, the group extracted me from the fencing and helped me into the van. We drove quickly back to the resort. A medic was called. I was mostly embarrassed. Disfigured, but embarrassed.

The medic, who spoke no English, cleaned the wound. I had the translator ask him if I would be able to play the piano after I recovered. He said he thought so. Then I told him that was odd because I had never been able to play the piano before. He shook up and down for several minutes laughing at the joke.

Returning to Dallas, I had to come up with a reason for walking head-on into a barbed wire fence.
“Cindy Broiles pushed me,” I told everyone. That story is working pretty well so far.

Now, I have a mustache to cover my indiscretion. Patty says it looks more like a fungus.

Fly safe.