STEVE SMITH -- What’s up

Long ago, I used to fly up and down the coast at least once a month.

Having grown up in Los Angeles, I would make the short drive to Los

Angeles International Airport, leave my car in Lot C and take the shuttle

into the congestion that was the old LAX, before they built the upper

deck. The last time I was there, it seemed that the new level had only

doubled the number of cars and shuttle vans fighting for the few places

to park.

So it was a pleasure to fly out of John Wayne Airport last week,

traveling from my door to the gate in less than half an hour.

I was accompanying my colleague Linda Wensinger to Carmel via San Jose

to present an ad campaign to an account there. It was a 350-mile commute

involving the plane trip, a rented car and a 90-minute drive down the

coast to Carmel.

At the John Wayne security checkpoint, I was behind a twentysomething

young lady who was wearing a rather large, ankle-length coat that covered

most of her neck and hands. It was a lot of coat for such a nice day and,

as she passed through the metal detectors, the alarm sounded. She reached

into her pockets and pulled out a few of the items that probably caused

the problem and walked back through. But the alarm sounded again.

At that point, she pulled down the collar of her coat and revealed a

rather scary, spiked collar around her neck. She took the collar off,

placed it in a tray, then pushed up her coat sleeves. On each wrist was a

thick, black bracelet with metal spikes. Off they went into the tray,

after which the young lady passed through without a beep.

The flight left on time and was very smooth. When we picked up the

car, however, our troubles began, mostly because Linda gave the trip the

kiss of death. “We’re making good time,” she said. If you’ve traveled

before, even on the freeway up to Los Angeles, you know that the last

comment you want to make is how much good time you are making.

Cay could have told Linda the best thing to do with me at the helm is

to navigate, for there isn’t a city I’ve visited in which I haven’t

gotten lost.

After a small struggle to get to our first road, Highway 880, I

proceeded to get lost in or ask directions in Santa Cruz four times.

Santa Cruz is a nice town, quaint and laid back. And if you call me

sometime, I can tell you all about it. I can even tell you how to

navigate the streets so you don’t get lost trying to get to Carmel.

Just outside of Watsonville, we called our client and told him we’d be

late. But once we got to his exit, I made another wrong turn, then

another. Finally, we reached his office on Crossroads Boulevard, which

reminded me an awful lot of a stretch of shops on our peninsula. It is a

nice place to stroll and very hard to find a parking spot.

Our presentation was a big hit, and Linda and I headed back to San

Jose, which I managed to find without making one wrong turn. It was a

stunning day and a beautiful drive up the coast.

On the flight home, I occupied the aisle seat near the front exit, the

same seat I had on the way up. This seat, the first one on the plane,

faces the rear of the plane, and I like that section because three

passengers ride backward facing three other passengers, more or less

forcing conversation. Having been known to initiate a discussion or two,

I quickly discovered that two of the six people in our riding circle were

employees of a popular men’s clothing chain. Forty-five minutes into the

flight, the group’s conversation turned to the future of air travel in

Orange County and, if ever I needed proof that the city of Newport Beach

needs public relations help more than they do the services of a lobbyist,

this was it.

One guy, I’ll call him “Chuck” because he reminded me of Chuck Norris,

said: “Three or four years ago, I thought that the El Toro airport was a

sure thing. But now, I just don’t think so.”

“Well, the group of people who want it is getting really small,” said

another fellow.

“Yeah,” said Chuck. “And they all live in Newport Beach.”

As convenient as John Wayne Airport is, it wouldn’t bother me a bit if

it were shut down tomorrow and turned into a park. Same for the El Toro

Marine air base. That small group of people who lost the local public

relations war and are now doing an end run with friends in Washington,

D.C., should not forget that, ultimately, it is people such as Chuck who

will decide whether El Toro flies.

As for me, I’m going to get lost regardless of where the airport is.

* STEVE SMITH is a Costa Mesa resident and freelance writer. Readers

may leave a message for him on the Daily Pilot hotline at (949) 642-6086.