Way back when, in the halcyon days of youth (if that isn’t a literary cliché), there I was: an almost-19-year-old college student at the University of South Carolina looking forward to the brand new decade of the 1980s. I was idealistic, only slightly jaded, and more interested in playing guitar than I was in most of my classes.
Even then, I was civic-minded, having learned from examples about getting involved and trying to make a difference. That’s how I came to be a volunteer in the reelection campaign of President Jimmy Carter. I worked for weeks in the state campaign headquarters, doing a bit of everything from making phone calls to stuffing envelopes to database management on primitive computer-type machines.
It was mostly drudgery, and there was nothing very exciting … until the campaign. HQ received notice that the president would be coming to Columbia, S.C., a few days before the election. And I swear everything I am about to tell you from here on out is true – you can’t make this stuff up. What had been a relatively quiet office shifted into warp drive. The advance office was established at a downtown hotel on Assembly Street that no longer exists. It was at that office that President Carter’s press secretary, Jody Powell, made an appearance asking if anybody (presumably from D.C.) was there. Seeing no one that he knew, he told us to tell anyone who got there that he would be at the bar.
During the rush to prepare for Carter’s visit, someone asked if anyone could drive a passenger van to transport dignitaries in the presidential motorcade. The president would be staying at the Governor’s Mansion overnight, and he would need to be delivered to the airport to meet Air Force One. Having had some experience driving vans, I volunteered. After passing a background check by the Secret Service, I went to the Governor’s Mansion and was given a coded lapel clip and my passenger van. The Secret Service agent in charge of me gave me only one instruction: no matter how fast the motorcade moved, I was to keep up with the vehicle in front of me.
I waited for what seemed like a very long time for any dignitaries to show up. Right before the motorcade was ready to pull out, I got my only dignitary: the then-junior senator from South Carolina, Ernest “Fritz” Hollings. (I wondered why he wasn’t riding in one of the limousines.) He walked up and asked me, in that genteel South Carolina Lowcountry accent, “Is this the van that’s going to the airport to see the president off?” I responded in the affirmative and closed the door behind him, and in minutes, we were moving.
For those who don’t know, presidential motorcades travel along a prearranged route where all the crossing streets are blocked so that the motorcade can proceed unimpeded. Also, President Carter (like many before and since) had a reputation for being behind schedule. The motorcade was a way to make up for lost minutes. Keeping up with the vehicle in front of me meant traveling over 80 miles per hour through the streets of downtown Columbia and speeds exceeding 100 on the larger highways. Taking turns on city streets at these speeds was quite an exhilarating experience.
Not to mention that I had a United States senator freaking out on a white-knuckle terror ride as he slid from side to side on a beltless vinyl bench seat in the back of my van. I heard a couple of epithets emanating quietly from the back seat just after the beginning of our trip, followed by a plaintive plea in that genteel Southern Gentleman accent: “Son, don’t you think you’re driving this thing a bit too fast? Slow down, son…”
I replied, as calmly as I could while violating every posted speed limit known to man, that the Secret Service agent with the badge and the gun told me in no uncertain terms that I was to keep up no matter how fast and that I couldn’t break the motorcade. I heard a few more soft groans of terror as we made our way to the airport. Upon arrival, the senator could not wait to get out of the van. The president got out, waved at everyone and boarded Air Force One to his destiny.
Although I was supposed to take the senator back to the Governor’s Mansion, he never showed up for the return trip. I can only suppose that he made alternate transportation arrangements, not daring to trust his life to a college student willing to drive a passenger van at speeds they were never designed to handle.
That was one of life’s experiences I’ll never forget. Looking back makes one realize more and more that it truly is the journey, not the destination.
– Catch John live Thursdays at Sparky’s Landing, this Friday at Isla Bella, Sundays at Skipjack Tiki Bar and next Tuesday at Schooner Wharf in Key West. Find his music anywhere you download or stream your music. www.johnbartus.com • johnbartus.hearnow.com
