Tubular dude an airhead for sure

PETER BUFFA

It’s a tradition. Letterman has his “Stupid Pet Tricks,” and in this

column, we try hard to recognize stupid crime tricks whenever

possible -- like the transvestite who tried to hold up a bank in

Newport Center last May but was foiled when one of the customers

recognized him, or her, from his day job at Ralphs on 17th Street.

But criminals aren’t the only intellectually challenged fish in

the sea. No sir. Remember the rains last week? You probably do.

Nearly 30 people died in California alone, including the nightmare

landslide in La Conchita. And emergency crews risked their lives time

and again to rescue people who had been swept into raging waters. And

then there was young Magellan ....

Adventures

of tube-boy

Last Sunday, in a heavy rain, an unnamed young man in his 20s

pulls on a wet suit, straps himself to a large inner tube and jumps

into the water at 56th Street on the Peninsula. Some of his friends,

who apparently graduated from the same school as he did, are standing

on the beach, waving goodbye to young Magellan and using a video

camera to capture his excellent adventure. Within minutes, he’s gone.

What they don’t know is that he has drifted up to the mouth of the

Santa Ana River, which is spewing about a zillion gallons of storm

water a minute into the ocean. The outflow catches Magellan’s inner

tube and rockets tube, with rider attached, about a third of the way

to Catalina.

Back on the Peninsula, the send-off party gets worried and races

to the lifeguard station to file a missing-dunce report. Two

lifeguards charge out to sea in personal watercraft, followed shortly

thereafter by lifeguards from Huntington Beach and the Orange County

Sheriff’s Harbor Patrol. Let’s review. Rescue crews are dangling from

ropes and cables strung from bridges and helicopters up and down the

state, trying desperately to grab people who are about to be swept to

their deaths, while back in the land of Newport-Mesa, six lifeguards

and Harbor Patrol deputies are roaring up and down the coast in a

driving rain, looking for bozo-in-a-tube. They searched and searched

and they searched some more, but they never caught as much as a

glimpse of tube-boy.

According to Newport Beach Lifeguard Capt. Eric Bauer, “There were

a lot of resources being used for somebody doing something not real

smart.” No argument there, captain. Magellen stumbled ashore at

Huntington Beach about an hour later, where lifeguards found him and

sent him on his way. For reasons unexplained and unexplainable, the

boob tuber was not cited. Harbor Patrol Sgt. Karl Von Voigt, an even

greater master of understatement than Eric Bauer, said: “It’s not a

good idea being in the river this time of year.” No, Sarge, it is

not.

Does the story of tube-boy deserve a spot in the National Bonehead

Archives? Probably not. But I do think we need a new policy for

situations like this. In the future, unless someone is in imminent

danger, rescue workers should shout a simple question at them: “How

did you get in there?” If the answer comes back: “I strapped myself

to this inner tube and jumped in,” they should ask a follow-up

question: “Why?” If the answer is: “Thought it’d be fun,” the

rescuers should wave, say “Good luck!” then move on to the next call,

where they can save an actual person.

An outmoded mug

And now, some housekeeping. I’ve confessed many things to you over

the years, and the time has come for one more. You see the picture of

me on the front page? Yes, that one. It ain’t pretty -- we all know

that -- but it’s also really, really old. How old? I’m embarrassed to

tell you. When that picture was taken, Aimee Semple McPherson was

still missing; “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers” was playing, but you

had to go to Graumann’s to see it; and the St. Louis Cardinals were

an expansion team.

Why have I used it for so long? The plain, pathetic truth is that

I hate pictures of myself, a lot. I usually look like a radioactive

mutant from a 1950’s horror flick that lives in the desert outside

Twentynine Palms and only comes out at night to eat teenagers who

have pulled off the main road -- with two exceptions. One is a baby

picture in which I am fully exposed, and the other is the one on the

front page. But here’s the problem. I don’t look like that anymore.

Not by a long shot. And lately, it’s made for some awkward moments.

Once in a while, someone in a checkout line or a waiting room will

recognize me and tell me how much they enjoyed reading this or that.

But in their eyes, I can see what they’re really thinking but are too

polite to ask: “Excuse me, but that picture of you in the paper, is

that from high school or what?”

And so, starting next week and until further notice -- against my

better judgment, for better or worse, and it’s usually worse -- you

will see a brand new me above the fold. Brace yourselves. I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].