Dirty Side Down, Shiny Side Up and Other Lebanese War Stories on the 101

By Danny Mac

I had just left Eureka, CA with a fresh, smog-checked vehicle and an Italian sub sandwich the size of my head when I continued my journey up the 101.

Littered across the coastal Highway are state beaches accompanied by quaint, sandy towns that fit snugly between the jagged coast and towering red wood giants of the North.

It was here that I was seeking a view to enjoy my sandwich when I spotted a peculiar looking man with a bad limp struggling with four brown paper bags on the side of the highway.

I pulled over and offered him a ride.

“You heading North?” He asked. “My campsite is about a mile and a half up from here.”

“I am. What’s your name?”

“Scott Davis. I got two shots of Moderna in this arm right here so no need to worry.”

I told him I wasn’t and it was a pleasure to meet him. I began throwing my front seat possessions into the back, including my Italian sub. It took about a week on the road before the neatness of my vehicle became an after thought.

Davis first placed two brown bags at the foot of the passenger seat before squeezing in with the other two on his lap.

“I wouldn’t be needing a ride if my damned friends hadn’t went ahead and got drunk at one o’clock in the afternoon, “ he sighed. “I can’t stand that.”

“Going shopping?” I asked, eyeing his bags.

“Groceries for my buddies at the campsite. A real grateful bunch they are.”

When achieving a ride up the road from a stranger, hitchhikers feel the need to give something in return. Usually, but not always, the return comes in the form of story telling.

“I’m a disabled veteran,” Davis offered. “Hurt my left hip by a suicide bomber.”

I almost pulled a muscle in my neck when I whipped my head to face him. This was not a story I had expected. My reaction spurred him on.

“Yup. Beirut, Lebanon 1983 at the Multi National barracks. You can look it up!” His voice raised, whether with excitement or adrenaline on reminiscing on the moment, I do not know. “When the bomb exploded, the wall behind me hit me in the back and lifted me off my feet. I got thrown into a stairwell and they had to dig me out!”

“You are one lucky bastard,” I replied.

I am ashamed to admit at the time of our conversation, my historical knowledge of Davis's time in the military was lacking. I have since done my research.

On Oct. 23, 1983, 350 American service members lay asleep in their bunks of an aviation administrative building near the Beirut International Airport. They were a small portion of a 1,800 man Marine unit that had been sent in to Lebanon a year earlier in an effort to over see the withdrawal of foreign troops during the Lebanese Civil War. Among the Americans were French and British soldiers. In a blink of an eye, a yellow Mercedes truck strapped with explosives drove through the front doors of the barracks, detonated and killed 241 military personnel - 220 Marines, 18 Navy sailors and three Army soldiers. Scott Davis was a stairwell away from certain death. A lucky bastard, indeed.

“Ha! That stairwell saved my life and my hips not too bad. I’m biking the coast right now. I got a beast of a bike. I just put this leg up and peddle with the other one and it gets me where I want to go!” He grinned.

“It’s a long way from Lebanon from here. Where you from, Scott?”

“Los Angeles but I’m looking for a new place. I’m too white for my neighborhood.”

I asked where he was from exactly, Los Angeles is a big city after all.

“Valley Plaza Park. It’s north of the city. Have you ever heard of the gang MS-13?” He asked.

I told him I had.

“Well it got to a point where every time I left my apartment, I got confronted by one of them. It was getting scary so now I’m up here, looking for a place to live. Feels good to be on my own. Where you headed?”

"Oh, I am just driving. I got a few places in mind to stop and look around but for now I am kind of moving as the wind blows," I told him.

"Well you be careful. This country ain't the same as it once was so don't do anything I wouldn't!" He laughed before adding, "That gives you some wiggle room!"

I wondered if he would pick up a hitchhiker with four brown paper bags and a bad limp.

The rest of the drive was spent in small conversation about this and that until we arrived at his campsite at Big Lagoon County Park where he let me take his picture.

Before departing, Scott Davis left me with one final piece of advice.

“Dirty side down, shiny side up!” He yelled as I drove away.