Adventures in Disaster
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Storytelling at its best, transports and enriches the reader's life. Michael Macray has this gift, carefully honed in the bars of Sanibel Florida, his tales are infused with his hilarious humor and highly tuned enjoyment of life and living. A dare-devil of the old kind, working for BP in the Middle East where his knowledge of the language and culture later led to work in third world Disaster Logistics, he lived through narrow escapes in Africa, bomb blasts in Yemen and the burning Oil fields of Kuwait. Seeing always the funny side of things, his memory for detail brings his tales alive and rea...
Storytelling at its best, transports and enriches the reader's life. Michael Macray has this gift, carefully honed in the bars of Sanibel Florida, his tales are infused with his hilarious humor and highly tuned enjoyment of life and living. A dare-devil of the old kind, working for BP in the Middle East where his knowledge of the language and culture later led to work in third world Disaster Logistics, he lived through narrow escapes in Africa, bomb blasts in Yemen and the burning Oil fields of Kuwait. Seeing always the funny side of things, his memory for detail brings his tales alive and real. Try to put this highly entertaining book of stories down - you'll find it hard to do. Why would such a talented writer take ten years to get it written? Perhaps that alone is testimony to Michael's priorities in life - the ongoing need for both living and loving it. "The convoy leader, a wiry little fellow called Solomon, with all the characteristics of a drill sergeant, had chosen my vehicle as his ride, presumably because it looked like the most comfortable of his 46 options. Thinking that he didn't know what we carried was not reassuring. It was not until well into the trip, when it became apparent that everyone knew the secret, that I started to relax. Sitting beside me in this, his 'command vehicle' he would periodically pull us out of the line and then - hanging out of the window and gesticulating wildly - he would yell at each truck, until the rearguard had passed, and he was satisfied that we were all present. Then like a sheepdog, he had me overtake the entire convoy, bouncing over the terrain at breakneck speed until we were alongside the lead truck, where I had to hold station while he and the driver screamed at each other, above the roar of low-geared high-revving engines. All the while, the nuns and our heavily armed 'fighter' rattled around in the back seat like dice in a throwing cup. We would then return for a brief respite in the relative comfort of the middle of the convoy before repeating the sheepdog routine. All this, I should add, was done under blackout conditions. Our red tail lights were visible, but headlights were all blacked out except for a little slit that gave a glimpse of what lay a few feet ahead."
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