Your Craziest Travel Tales: The Finalists

Last week, we announced our “Craziest Travel Stories” contest, seeking out the most wild, fun, ridiculous, amazing travel tales from the world of law and a chance to win a rapid Midtown to JFK commute courtesy of Blade.

We have our finalists. Now all you have to do is read the stories below and vote for your favorite.

Getting Shot At?

One of the many memorable scenes in Apocalypse Now involves helicopter gunmen sitting on their helmets to protect their groin from incoming fire. That’s a lesson this lawyer could have used to set his mind at ease.

As the sole JAG officer for a Naval Special Warfare (SEAL) unit in Afghanistan, I had to do a lot of traveling for my job as an attorney.

My most memorable trip occurred when I was ordered to be the legal support for a criminal investigation at a base far away from where I was stationed.

Paired with my colleague the investigator, another officer who was not an attorney, we spent hours waiting for a helicopter flight. Long after the sun had set over the mountains surrounding our base, we got the call that a bird was inbound.

Normally I was used to flying in Blackhawks around Afghanistan, but on this night we were greeted by a massive, twin-blade CH-47 Chinook. We had to lean forward as we walked across the gravel tarmac to fight against the backwash from the engines but once we made it on board, it was eerily still.

The huge main cabin had canvas and nylon benches along the walls with only 2 round bubble windows on each side. In the near-darkness, I could see only two other passengers who were seated across from us. From their appearance, they looked like Tier-1 operators. I was jealous because they were apparently allowed to grow beards.

We took off very quickly and as I got settled in, I had a chance to look around more. My colleague was strapped in, seated to my left. At the end of the bench stood two gunmen next to the cockpit entrance, one on each side of the helicopter. They manned what looked like M240 machine guns, swaying them from side to side as we zipped along in the darkness.

After about 10 minutes, my colleague started trying to yell something to me, but over the roar of the blades it sounded like gibberish. Something along the lines of “BEST LIAR!! THEY BEST LIAR!!!”

I shrugged at him and just laughed, leaning back in my straps as I started to feel drowsy. It was after midnight and it had been a long day.

Suddenly, without warning, to my left, I heard a sound: “THUMPTHUMPTHUMPTHUMP!!!”

The gunmen were firing away with their weapons, blasting at something below us. My immediate thought was, “HOLYFUCKINGSHIT,” repeatedly.

My heart was jackhammering and I could feel adrenaline racing through my body.

I know it sounds like a cliche, but it really is true, when you think you might be about to die, your life really does flash before your eyes. Or at least, mine did.

Once Reflection Time was over, I forced myself to breathe deliberately and calm down. I tried to access the situation. My primary weapon was an M4 with an effective range of about 300m. With my shooting skills and no scope at night, I dropped that down to about 100m. I figured we were flying at least 1000 feet off the ground. That meant that even under optimal conditions I was useless. So no ability to help with the fight.

My next thought was self-preservation. Considering where we were, an attack would come from below us.

And since my body armor offered no protection from the waist down…I freaked out.

I was going to potentially die from being shot in the dick??? Or my ass??

This was a nightmare scenario I’d never even contemplated during combat training or the numerous rocket attacks we’d faced back at my base.

For what seemed like an eternity, but was probably about 25 minutes, I kept trying to figure out how to protect my groin area from being shot. To take my mind off myself and my own problems I scanned the cabin. The operators were sound asleep.

But my colleague looked miserable. His face was all scrunched up in agony. Poor guy, I thought, he’s got a beautiful family back home that he must be realizing he could be abandoning tonight. I didn’t even have a girlfriend (got dumped during combat training) to miss me. For a few moments I forgot about my own fears and felt terrible for my buddy.

Eventually the gunmen stopped firing and miraculously we landed safely. There was movement all around us but me and my investigator just sat there strapped in our seats.

Finally, when the blades and the engine noise died down, I turned to the man who could have been the last person to ever speak to me in my life, and I asked him: “how the hell did THAT happen?!”

He laughed…oh, you liked the show? He asked me.

“What show??” I responded.

You know, the TEST FIRE! He yelled, laughing harder now. He explained that he’d tried to tell me this when we took off.

I looked at him incredulously. “But you looked even more miserable and freaked out than me?!”

“Oh, ya, I know,” he nodded in agreement. “I was sitting right under the damn heater for the whole cabin and my fucking nuts were on fire! It felt like someone was trying to shoot me in my ass!” He exclaimed.

What a coincidence.

Never Go Anywhere With David Boies

This one is a doozy involving legal giants David Boies, Randy Mastro and Bob Baron. This harrowing journey through a blizzard dates back to the Boies’s Cravath days and teaches us never to be the most junior associate at Cravath.

It was in the middle of winter and David and his associates had to attend a hearing somewhere on the West Coast. When the hearing concluded, they went to the airport and got on a plane back to NY. However, during the flight, the weather had worsened and closed down the NYC airports, so the flight was diverted to Hartford. So David instructed the first year associate to go rent a car in order to return to NYC (at Cravath, the junior most person always had to pay for everything). They all get into the car, but the associate driving (I don’t recall whether it was Bob or Randy), wasn’t driving fast enough (it was a blinding snowstorm at that point), so David tells them, “I’ll drive, I know how to drive in snow”. David then takes off speeding down the Merritt Parkway. Well, the snow got worse and worse. At one point, David loses control of the car, it goes into a spin and smacks its right side into a guardrail. Luckily, no one was hurt. They get out, inspect the damage, but note that the car is still drivable. David tells everyone, the car’s still drivable, let’s get back to New York. They drive for some distance, still in a horrible storm and David loses control of the car again. This time it is the left side of the car that is smashed so badly that the doors can’t open. Again, no one is badly injured. David climbs out the right side of the car. They go to the other side, inspect the damage, but note that the car is still drivable. David says, “We still need to get back to the office. Let’s go.” They climb back into the car, and this time they make it back to Manhattan driving more slowly (David had to drive slowly, one of the fenders was dragging and the engine was making a terrible noise). They pull up to One Chase Manhattan Plaza (Cravath’s home at the time), with the rental car smashed on both sides, one set of doors not working, the fender dragging on the pavement and engine wheezing. David climbs out of the car, turns to the first year associate, hands him the car keys, and says, “Great, we made it! Here, go turn in the rental car.” and walks into the office. As I said before, the rule at Cravath back then was junior most lawyer pays for everything.

Lawyers Are Blood-suckers

This guy seems to think he has a phobia of leeches. In reality we call that, “a perfectly rational response.”

I took a trip to Brisbane Australia in the early 90’s.

I ran across some friendly people who were going to build a chapel in a neighboring state (New South Wales). Jumping at a chance to visit another location in Australia, I agreed to help them move some building materials to their site in the woods.

The location was quite rustic – in the woods with no utilities. Arriving there after a recent rain, the fairly tall grass was wet and we worked together to load the materials from the vehicle to the site. While helping them, I felt something strange in my boots. On a break, I took off my boot(s) to discover leeches. I was somewhat upset and never before experienced leeches. They painlessly bite, but it is decidedly not painless removing them, leaving streaks of blood dripping down my calf(s).

I discovered the strange repulsive feeling that I had a phobia for this new experience and persuaded the group to leave as soon as possible to the pre-arranged lodging. I felt sorry, but was not expecting a phobia for leeches.

It’s Time For A New Job

I struggled with whether or not to include this one since it’s obviously fictitious, but it’s an entertaining romp so I figured, why not?

Over the years, my boss has taken me on several vacations to reward my hard work. Every one of these vacations resulted in personal calamity, ultimately leaving me disabled.  

It all started with Disney World. I had been reading a lot of Schopenhauer and embracing his philosophy, the whole idea that life is just a prison sentence. My boss believed that a trip to “The Most Magical Place On Earth” would somehow brighten my perspective on life and encourage greater productivity in the workplace. Although I had no interest in Mickey Mouse, I accepted her invitation. Besides, what could go wrong, I thought. After walking for hours through Magic Kingdom in the murderous heat, my boss said, “Enough of this shit. Let’s go see the real Florida.” “Okay, sure,” I said, and off we went, deep into the Everglades with “Captain Bucktooth” as our guide. We zigzagged on an airboat through miles of swampland and eventually came to rest next to a cluster of mangroves. The sun unleashed a deluge of gold into the water and everything seemed peaceful and harmonious. Birds chirped and insects droned in the nearby sawgrass. As I leaned over the edge of the airboat and dangled pieces of bread just over the surface of the water, feeding a swarm of fish, an alligator shot up and bit off several fingers from each of my hands. Captain Bucktooth raced back to land with such speed that the wind ripped off my tear-away athletic pants. My boss applied pressure to my open wounds with a towel and sang the lullabies that I had favored as a child.

Then came Japan, six months later. My boss had been desperately trying to get me out of the office. “You haven’t stepped outside since the alligator accident,” she’d remind me. She knew that I had grown fond of Pokémon and the idiosyncrasies of Japanese pop culture, and she used that against me. I finally succumbed to her incessant offers to visit Tokyo, although I must admit that I was secretly excited for the trip. The first several days were everything I wanted, but the frantic movements and sounds of the city, with its endless layers of lights and unapologetic bravado, became exhausting and made me crave isolation and calm. As my boss underwent colonic hydrotherapy at the hotel spa, I followed a trail into a forest adjacent to a rural town and sat against the base of a primordial tree where I listened quietly for any whispers of wisdom that the tree wished to impart. Just then, it opened its enormous mouth and said, “Run, you fool.” A loud buzz ripped through the silence and a cloud of Asian giant hornets engulfed me, each insect about the size of my thumb with a stinger that spanned a quarter of an inch. They preferred my face and probably would have crawled through my eyes and devoured my brain had I not ran like hell. Their venom contained a neurotoxin that dissolved large swaths of my skin. I wear a mask to this day.

We weren’t even supposed to visit Peru.

We weren’t even supposed to go there because a client had just requested that we oversee a complex cross-border transaction, but my boss insisted. “It will be good for you,” she claimed, “a needed break.” Before we went, I did some research and discovered that Peru was a hotbed of activity vis-à-vis the illegal organ trade. “Stop being so paranoid,” my boss said. “We’re going to stay at the Ritz Carlton. No one will steal your organs.” Of course, two days after we arrived, I suddenly experienced an intense and unbearable craving for macadamia nuts and took half a dozen or so wrong turns as I walked around in search of a grocery store. Then, I awoke in a bathtub full of ice in a dark room of an abandoned building. My captors were thoughtful enough to have stitched me back together after they removed one of my kidneys. I wandered naked in the streets until a nice man, who may or may not have been Jesus, drove me to the hospital. Eventually, my boss found me and my health improved enough to come back to the firm.  

Due to this chain of mutilating vacations, I developed a phobia of leaving my office, a phobia that plagues me to this day. I can’t step outside without collapsing and messing myself from fear. I spend most of my time working at my desk, surrounded by Schopenhauer books and Pokémon toys, lonely and friendless, with missing fingers, a missing kidney, and a distorted face that hides behind a hockey mask. On top of all that, I didn’t make partner this year.   

I’m really fucking regretting my decision to go to law school.

The Massage

I’ve edited this one for length, but the set up is that this is taken from an actual email sent by a lawyer in 2011, describing a massage in Bangladesh after a round of interviews.

For context, the author is a woman, so we’re not going into “happy ending” territory on this one, but it’s no less awkward.

I arrive at the health club at exactly 5 p.m.  The facility is of adequate quality.  There are a few treadmills, an exercise bike, and a room full of yoga mats.  The man at the desk directs me towards the back.   There is a narrow door labeled “massage room.”  The room is completely bare except for a clock on the wall, a massage table covered in towels (rather than a sheet), and  small table against the wall.  On the table are two bottles.  The first is Johnson’s Baby Oil.  The second is Imported Spanish Olive Oil.  I hear the man at the desk yelling for the masseuse.  After a few minutes of yelling back and forth, she arrives.  She is the stoutest person I have ever seen.  Her dimensions are approximately 4×4.  “4×4” (as I will call her) had very large hands, which made me hopeful for the massage despite my surroundings.  “4×4” walks in, closes the door, and locks it.  She looks at me and says, “Take off your clothes.”  I’m a little thrown-off by the door locking, but I take off my clothes as instructed.  She stands there as I undress, grunts her approval/disapproval of my physique, and then tells me to get on the table.  
 
There is no music.
There is no dimming of the lights.
It’s just me, “4×4”, and the selection of oils.
 
“4×4” drapes a towel over my top half, indicating that she will begin with the legs.  I am face down when the oiling begins.  “4×4” does not pour the oil in her hands to warm it up.  Instead, she holds the bottle over me and just pours it out.  The lack of a baby-fresh scent lets me know that she has chosen the spanish olive oil.  The massage is painful.  It’s as if “4×4” has no hands, only elbows and knuckles.  I wince and ask her to use less pressure.  She responds, “the pressure is fine.  relax.”  I attempt to relax.  Eventually my legs go numb with the pain.  Because “4×4” is so short, she has to stand on a small foot stool in order to massage my back.  I tell her about my shoulder, and she directs her elbows and knuckles to that area.  She keeps grunting, wiping her brow, and saying “whew.”  I wish she would take it easier on us both.
 
After about twenty minutes, she tells me to turn over.  I comply.  At this point things get weird.  The towel is moved to cover only my lower half.  There is pouring of oil.  And then she begins massaging my abdomen.  This is strange and uncomfortable.  I must have made a face, because she looks at me and says “good for digestion.”  After a few minutes, I start to black out because I’ve been sucking in my stomach and not breathing during this part of the massage.  Apparently I’m still concerned with what she thinks.   I give up and start breathing normally.   This was premature because after she finishes my stomach, she heades North.  I won’t go into further detail, but it was as awkward as you might imagine.
 
Finally, my 50 minutes are up.  Not surprisingly, “4×4” remains in the room while I put my clothes back on.  Before I leave, she looks at my sternly and says “don’t shower.  oil good for skin.”  I’m somewhat afraid that she will know if I shower too early, so I’m writing this email all oiled up.  I smell like tapas.

Thanks to everyone who sent in travel stories. We’ll keep this poll open until Friday, February 10 at 10:00 a.m. Eastern.

[poll id=”584″]

Earlier: Tell Us Your Craziest Travel Story, Win A Prize
The Smartest Trip You’ll Ever Take In Your Biglaw Career

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Joe Patrice is an editor at Above the Law and co-host of Thinking Like A Lawyer. Feel free to email any tips, questions, or comments. Follow him on Twitter if you’re interested in law, politics, and a healthy dose of college sports news.