Heed this warning, all ye folksingers.  No matter how much you try to sing about peace, love and understanding, those airport security (TSA) personnel are going to assume you’ve got a bomb in that guitar case.

 

Actually, I think it was my guitar strings that did me in.  I was off for a trip to Tacoma, Washington, for a music conference and showcase, and to visit some family up there.   I was packing along my guitar, a couple of suitcases, and accompanied by my little darlin’ Ethan Henry (age 7 1/2).  We flew out of our little local airport,  Eureka-Arcata International.  (Just kidding about the “International” part.  I don’t think the Oregon and Nevada state lines truly qualify as international borders).   This airport is so small that the only time you ever actually see a plane is when one flies in and lands.  Otherwise the place is completely dead.  With the exception of closures due to fog, for the most part it’s super easy to travel in and out of there.

 

But listen, just because our airport is truly dinky, it doesn’t mean that security isn’t tight.  TSA is in full force there, just like everywhere else.  Thus, when we checked our bags, my guitar (a Godin acoustic-electric model, which I love) was closely scrutinized.  As it turns out, testing revealed an anomalous chemical residue somewhere on the guitar or inside the case.  The security folks went over it and over it, but finally, after quite a while, came to the conclusion that it wasn’t laced with explosives.  It did, however, contain some kind of trace chemical compound that made their sensors jump.  I suggested it might be the coating on the strings, or perhaps the varnish on the guitar.  We chatted pleasantly about the mystery of it all, they closed up the case, and off I went for a week in the unseasonably sunny Pacific Northwest.

 

Now jump ahead a week, and Ethan and I are in a line of a hundred people or more going through security at SeaTac International Airport outside of Seattle.  When we finally get to the front, I show them our boarding passes, and first one, then two, then three guards confer over it.  One of them looks up, says follow me, leads us back through not one, not two, but three different security screening areas, and hands us over to two other guards with the message “make sure you don’t take too long or they might miss their plane.”  I’m thinking, on the one hand this sounds ominous, but on the other hand, at least one of them is concerned about us making our flight.  But I still don’t really know what the hell is going on.   Just then I remember the guitar-scrutinizing incident on the first leg of the trip, not to mention how completely adamant I was, just a bit earlier at the check-in counter for Horizon Airlines, that the gate agent secure my guitar case with strapping tape.  I absolutely insisted that she do it in my presence before I would hand the thing over.  I think I was rather firm… perhaps a bit forceful.  OK, I was an asshole about it.  Oh brother.  No wonder I was flagged.

 

At this point, a gregarious African-American female security guard looks at our passes, gestures to us to follow, and tells another officer, “Not the baby.  Just her.”  (Ethan is looking around going huh? Who is she calling a baby?).  The two of them go through all my stuff, etc. etc.  I tolerate the search with a tip-top attitude in the interest of setting a good example for Ethan, and also I’m worried that the whole thing might begin to make him upset.  Look Ethan, I say as they are patting me down, if I were a criminal I might try to hide a weapon under my clothes, but these guys would find it.  They’re just trying to make sure everything is safe.  Everything’s OK.  Don’t worry.  Just then I realize Ethan is watching with only distracted interest, fiddling with his loose front tooth, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to see his mother getting frisked by the police.  He’s having a great time.  He’s going to go home and tell all his friends about it.  Later he tells me he might even want to be a cop when he grows up.  I tell him:  don’t even think about it, wise guy.

 

As it turns out, we made the flight and got home OK.  I must say it was with great relief when I saw my guitar had arrived in one piece as well.  The strapping tape on the case was even still intact.  Apparently no one in TSA back at SeaTac had bothered to inspect it.

 

Next time, I think I’ll drive.