Back in 1994 I was a news-punk in a station windbreaker covering the aftermath of Hurricane Gordon at Kitty Hawk, N.C. All was going swimmingly until a rogue wave kicked me square in the keyster, sending me and my fancy-cam into an impromptu underwater breakdance. To make matters infinitely worse, my network counterparts rolled tape on the incident from the safe perch of a nearby beach cottage. That night my Nantucket Sleighride dominated the opening moments of the ABC, CBS and NBC Nightly News. Headline News aired it every half hour all day, even playing the shot of me pulling my dead camera out of the water in slow motion. It was not my finest moment.But the memory of my on-camera baptism lived on; as did the dusty videotape that contained my shame. About a year ago, I sat down to unfurl the long, twisted saga of that day - in hopes other young photogs would learn from my mistake (or at least wet themselves giggling at my misfortune). However, sharing the video itself proved more problematic and I shelved the idea for a while. But now blogging technology and a far savvier colleague have enabled me to spread this case of "When Nature Attacks!" far and wide. So dim, the lights, break out the popcorn and enjoy this one minute clip. I'll be out back, wringing my clothes dry and hiding my head in shame. Wouldn't you?
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I've been looking forward to 
Strangely, Corn isn't the only the photog 
Of course these two camera scribes aren't the only TV news photogs aloft in
But first I have to show you this frozen image from another time. As anyone who grew up East of Raleigh with a TV set can tell you, this is Carolina Today. For more than 35 years, this esteemed broadcast started everyone’s weekday morning with news, information and the down-home stylings of one Slim Short and Diane Bowen. What the show lacked in glitzy production values, it more than made up for in technical difficulties, cornpone delivery and intensely loyal viewers. I first stumbled onto the set in the latest of the eighties, just another half-sober drifter pretending to know a thing or two about television. Before I knew it I was dragging an ancient studio camera across the floor, juggling an avalanche of free ham biscuits while I marveled at the homegrown legends all around me. There was a time I thought I’d do that forever.
But then my wife’s co-worker David Melvin took a friend of ours hostage at an area restaurant. When he did, I rushed to the scene and wormed my way behind the viewfinder of one of my station’s news cameras. The next several hours dragged out as jacked-up SWAT cops, gaping onlookers and one very nervous gunman made time stand still. In the end, the gunman’s level-headed uncle coerced him to let the hostage go and give himself up. When the front doors opened, a surprisingly handsome frat boy type, strode out in camouflage pants and an ECU sweatshirt. I can still hear the still cameras' rapid-fire shutter as the SWAT team moved in and dropped him to his knees. David Melvin changed a lot of lives that morning, the least of which was mine. But from that day I gave up the studio cams and the cheesy car commercials. It’s been a lurching blur of murders, mayhem and meetings ever since.
For example, I know I’ll log many a mile behind the wheel of my mobile office. Every week I traverse the Piedmont Triad in my trusty news chariot, ricocheting from city to city to city in a single afternoon. For a kid who couldn’t wait to drive, I now get more than my fill of the open highway, especially after a cannonball run of lane-changing madmen. Luckily, I have my music on board. This week’s featured disc? The latest offering from 
I also fully expect to run into other lenslingers throughout the hunt. We’ll rendezvous at some unlikely location and act like we belong there in the first place. I treasure these summits, as it gives me a chance to examine my breed. Most of the other camera pirates I encounter are hearty souls, electronic journeymen who feel at home in a hospital ward, fancy ballroom or ghetto stand-off -- as long as they have their camera, that is. 
It’s just as certain I’ll shoot lots of footage that will never see the light of day. Each and every time I hoist my expensive toy, I use it to record images destined for the cutting room floor. Of course, we don’t use razors and film anymore, all my slicing and dicing occurs on a non-linear timeline. But all that technology doesn’t stop me from wasting time effort and batteries on shots I know are useless. But hey - what’s a photog to do while trailing a group of high school students through a new school, reveal how incredibly unhip I am?
As much as I’ll try to avoid it, I’ll also spend a measurable amount of time in and around a live truck. The masts and dishes atop these marvelous vehicles allow us broadcasters to do just that - broadcast! From outside the bank robbery hours after it occurred, to the roadside report alongside the ten mile tie-up, tot the dusty hallways of a sequestered jury, we’ll take you there live even when our better judgment says not too. As soon as I pull 500 feet of this cable into a crowded sports bar, that is.
Alas, another scenario is a virtual lock. For no matter how I try to hide in the backwaters of b-block feature pieces, I’ll no doubt be summoned to the edge of someone else’s calamity for extended team smotherage before the workweek is through. Panning the yellow tape rarely wears you out physically, but too much time on buzzard patrol slowly erodes the soul. I work hard to avoid the ubiquitous crime-scene scene, but when it comes to grisly assignments, I still ain’t bulletproof.
As my old 311 CD played in the background, I hurtled down a highway by the same name. Setting my cruise control for just a few miles over the speed limit, I drummed the steering wheel and wondered how long it would be before I was turned around, for the only thing more certain than an impromptu balls-to-the-wall airport haul is that the desk would call you off of it before you were made it halfway there. So it was with great smugness that I answered my cell phone before it could even ring a second time.
Somewhere above me a passenger stowed her tray in the seatback before her and peered out the plane’s window. Piedmont Triad International Airport lay below amid the gently rolling landscape of Guilford County. Just south of the Interstate exchange, a grimy white Ford Explorer with garish logos raced for the airport, it’s weary driver wondering where in the hell Runway 2 was.
Closing in on the airport’s perimeter, I gunned the engine and visualized the next ninety seconds.