By George Brown

Yvonne and I are considering an air travel vacation later this year, which would be our first since 2009. When I began checking on flights I found that a lot has changed since 2009. Airline fees are higher and security regulations are tighter than ever. One of those regulation is the 3-1-1 rule for carry-on liquids, gels, aerosols, creams, and pastes. The rule states, “…no more than 3.4 ounces per container, placed in a 1 quart-sized, clear plastic, zip-top bag; and 1 bag per passenger.” Now I’m in favor of tight security, but the 3.4 ounce rule is, well, just a bit too tight, which brings me to the story of this week’s backpack adventure.

It occurred as we prepared to depart on that vacation in 2009. To avoid the risk of lost luggage we each had one carry- on, which brought to bear the 3-1-1 rule. Our dilemma was this. You can only find miniature bottles of contact lens solution in 4 ounce containers. Yvonne said she was going to wait until we arrived at our destination to purchase a larger bottle of lens solution and other restricted items, but I decided to go ahead with the 4 ounce bottle. “I wouldn’t do that”, Yvonne warned

“I’m not worried”, I said. “I don’t think they’ll care. Besides, what’s the worst thing that could happen, having it confiscated?”

We arrived early, printed our electronic tickets at the kiosk and headed for the security checkpoint. I placed my open suitcase and backpack on the table to slide through the scanner, then placed my shoes, keys, cell phone, belt, watch, and the quart-sized, clear plastic, zip-lock bag in a bin to follow my backpack. The zip-lock bag contained only two items, a tiny tube of Crest toothpaste, and the 4 ounce bottle of contact lens solution. I stepped through the metal detector with no problem and waited for my belongings. “All’s well”, I thought to myself.

“Sir, please step over here”, the middle aged mustached agent’s voice was calm but firm as he motioned for me to step behind a table where he had placed my belongings. The security line was packed and everyone suddenly froze and stared in my direction as the security agent held the bottle of contact lens solution high in the air and examined it as though the label read, “Caution, highly explosive.” “You’ve exceeded the 3.4 ounce limit”, he said, returning the lens solution to the bin. “I’m sorry, but we’ll have to detain you.” Then, with a firm hand on my left arm, he guided me toward a nearby door.

As the agent ushered me through the door I glanced over my shoulder and called to Yvonne, “This should only take a minute. Go on to the gate and I’ll meet you there.” Once inside I was less certain of those words. The room was small and bare, much like a police interrogation room you would see in an NCIS episode. A small table stood in the center of the room with a chair on each side. My belongings had been placed on the table. On the opposite wall was a large tinted glass window that obviously was a two-way mirror, and beside the window was a door with a sign on it that read, “Not an Exit.”

“Sit down”, the agent said, gesturing toward the closest chair. I did as instructed and watched in silence as he dumped everything out of my suitcase, then carefully shook and inspected each item, including my underwear.

“Good grief”, I thought. “Surely he doesn’t think I’m an underwear bomber.”

Next he looked through my backpack, which was empty except for two granola bars, an empty water bottle and a newspaper I’d brought along. Finally, setting the backpack aside, the agent glanced toward the tinted glass window and in a raised voice said, “He looks clean except for the 4 ounce bottle of liquid.”

Now I was genuinely concerned. Who was behind the glass and what did they think I had in the lens solution bottle? My face went flush and I could feel the survival instinct of “fight or flight” taking over, but neither was an option so I decided to try negotiating. “Mike”, I said (I had noticed his name on his ID badge), I can explain. I went to three different stores; a four ounce bottle of contact lens solution is the smallest you can buy. Can you just pour an ounce of it out”, I said half jokingly.

Before Mike could respond a gruff female voice boomed from behind the tinted glass, “I know he’s hiding something. We’ll have to do a strip search.” Mike looked at me with what almost appeared to be an expression of sympathy. “I’m sorry”, he said. “You’ll have to take your clothes off.”

My former concern now turned into full blown panic. This couldn’t really be happening. A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. Should I ask to see my attorney or just comply? And what would they do if I didn’t comply? I decided I didn’t want to find out. I unbuttoned my shirt and slipped it off and was starting to take my pants off when the door labeled “Not an Exit” opened and in walked a burly female agent who stood at least six feet tall. I couldn’t make out the name on her ID badge but I was sure it had to be Helga, and there was no doubt that she was the strip search police.

But, as proved to be my good fortune, a slim, distinguished, sixtyish looking man wearing a sharp business suit also entered the room with Helga and stepped in front of her and said, “You can keep your cloths on. Your George Brown, aren’t you, the guy who writes a column for the Clermont Sun?”

“Yes”, I said, pulling my pants up. “How did you know?”

“Your backpack”, he said, pointing toward it. All eyes turned toward my pack, which still held the rolled up newspaper I had brought along, and the paper was rolled just so that you could see the words, “…ont Sun”. Then the distinguished looking man walked over, slipped the paper from my pack, and opened it for all to see. “I love your column, I read it every week”, He said. Then turning to Martha (which proved to be Helga’s real name) he said, “It’s okay, He’s clean”. “Now go on, get out of here”, he told me. “And the next time you fly, don’t try to slip a 4 ounce bottle of anything past security.”

When I reached the gate Yvonne asked, “What happened back there?”

“Nothing happened”, I said. “But thank goodness for my backpack and The Clermont Sun.”