The Heebie Jeebies

"​I was driving the dusty backroads in Virginia one day when I took notice of a tanned and grizzled farmer standing near the road at the end of his lane. Being as I wasn’t quite sure where I was in this neck of the woods, I pulled over and ambled his way to ask directions. Before I could speak a word, the man said, “You’re the guy that teaches survival up in these parts, ain’t ya?”

“Yes sir, I am,” I answered in a polite tone.

“Ticks!” he said. “They get on your students, don’t they?”

“Well, they sure do,” I answered. “Damn things get on me too.”

“Well, Mr. Survival Instructor, you sure got lucky today! Name’s Rafe. Rafe Jacobs. And I got the sure-fire answer for ticks.” Rafe let go a doozy of a fart, shivered twice, spit once, and went on to say, “WD-40! That’s the answer! Spray WD-40 all over your students and spray some on you too.”

“Are you kidding me, Rafe? Really? WD-40 works for ticks?” And that’s about when the fella started laughing. I thought he would never stop. Once his guffaws had petered out and he’d caught his breath, Rafe slapped me hard on the back and said, “Hell no, WD-40 don’t work for ticks! But y’all sure won’t squeak when it rains!” I instantly wanted to slap him silly, but he turned and went back up his lane without a word. Nary a goodbye. Nary a see ya later. Nary any directions.

When I think about ticks for too long, two things happen: 1) I get to feeling buggy; and 2) the cobwebs of my brain part and I remember a funny incident with a soccer coach from Puerto Rico.

Eight students and I (the soccer coach included) were finally enjoying the luxury of walking on a trail. For more than two hours we’d been tromping through thick underbrush, fighting skeeters, and slicing through vines. Our bodies and clothing had become bathed in sweat. Ahh, the Florida wilderness. Finally, camp was within view. Through the leafy branches, about one hundred yards away, we could just begin to see the orange and white colors of the parachute canopy stretched tight over our fire circle.

For most of the day Benny the soccer coach had been in the lead. And now he was our point man tasked with getting us home. This was our final stretch and all was good and wonderful until Benny went and tripped over a root and landed in a bush in the woods. Ol’ Benny picked himself up as gracefully as he could and acted like nothing happened. After brushing off a few leaves and pine needles and a spider web from his face, Benny was good as new. Off he went leading us to our cozy camp.

Benny didn’t take more than ten steps when he let out a blood-curdling scream and started scratching and hopping and fidgeting all over the place. Then he was gone faster than a Pabst Blue Ribbon at a Nascar event, making a mad dash for the parachute canopy.

The students and I hurried after Benny. And there at the fire circle he stood. Crying. And naked, except for his blue thong. One lady giggled. Another gasped and covered her eyes, The men stood saying, “Whaat?”

“You okay, Benny?” I asked.

“No, I am not okay! My body is covered with hundreds of tiny ticks!”

Benny bent over, grabbed his clothes and shoes, and ran barefoot - sans pack, tent, sleeping bag, or any personal gear - a half mile to the vehicle parking area, jumped in his car, and drove away.

Wearing a thong. And hundreds of ticks.

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