When "I'm Sorry" Isn't Enough!

Where the Gulf of Mexico meets the sand at Panama City Beach .

When I was in college – about a century ago – I had a prized Pontiac sedan. It was a “hand me down” from my parents, so it wasn’t very sporty, but it did have good clean lines. (It was before the design trends had embraced the look that made an automobile appear to be going 100 mph even when chained to a tree.)

One Thursday morning, on my way back to college from an overnight with my parents, a large dump truck made a left turn into the passenger side of my vehicle as I was attempting to pass. They had not signaled any intent to turn. The result was considerable damage and I was without the car for several weeks.

I was excited to pick the vehicle up when it was restored to its original pristine look, even newer in appearance than before the accident. I had the car for about three weeks when the residence across the street from where I lived at college had a dinner party and three different guests, heavy into Jack Daniels, backed into the side of my parked car. (Dealing with three separate insurance companies is not easy. "No, I do not know who did what to my car!")

Again I was without the vehicle during the repair.

Once more I was happy to have the car back. As I left the parking lot at school, I inadvertently ran over a low concrete post and caused damage to the area below the back doorway on the driver’s side. (I was the responsible party this time!)

Again to the repair shop. By now, I had not had my car for three of the past four months. It seemed an eternity.

Finally, it was all mended. A few weeks went by. Then the inexcusable occurred. You already know what is about to happen, you merely lack the gory details.

First let me set the stage.

My parents home sat on a large plot of land. The driveway was the width of a 2-lane highway. There were no obstructions alongside the edge of the drive save for the single lamppost beside the front walk. There were no visual impairments.

My sister, the one that always made me wonder if I was adopted, was enjoying being a newly licensed driver. She also liked my car, since she had inherited my old one - a much older Pontiac.

One evening, after dinner with the family and some friends, I decided that I would spend the night at home instead of driving back to school. My sister, seizing the opportunity, offered to move my car so that a friend could depart.

You are already ahead of me. You know what happened.

In all the vast expanse of where you could choose to drive, she elected to drive so close to the lamppost as to leave a large gash in the rear fender of my beautiful, multi-repaired beauty.

This is the car that had been the target of a dump truck in early February, three cars in late March, and a concrete post in May. And now its three-times painted back fender had a foot-long gash from the only vertical object within 100 feet. Plus it had a 150-watt bulb marking the spot.

She was profuse in her apologies. There were even some tears. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it.”

But, owing to my frustration with the series of events involving my car, “I’m sorry” just didn’t seem to help. It was woefully inadequate for the enormity of her crime.

Cars are replaceable; machines wear out. The world in which we live in is not so resilient.

The human race is proving daily that our demands on our planet are taking a great toll. We are pitiable caretakers. Yet, we are arrogant in our belief that we can accomplish the seemingly impossible. We believe our technological prowess to be without question. We believe our expertise to be limitless.

Yet, on a day in May, Deepwater Horizon became a household word around the world and sent a searing message that perhaps we are not as proficient as we thought.

No result of our arrogance is more evident than the daily videos of the ruptured pipeline 5,000 feet down in the Gulf of Mexico. For days this disaster has poured an alien substance into a pristine environment and all the best minds have yet to achieve a viable solution.

People have lost their life, families have lost loved ones, jobs are lost, economies which depend upon the Gulf have been severely impacted, and the consensus among the scientific community is that the environmental impact will be felt worldwide and not be remedied within the foreseeable future.

For those who do not know the coast of Northwest Florida and South Alabama, or have made the trek along the shores of Mississippi toward New Orleans, you have not experienced that special beauty (and charm) which is the Northern Gulf Coast.

The sands are sugary white and dotted with patches of sea oats. The water is clear with a special hue that takes your breath away. The freshness of the air brings you alive. Dolphins often swim near the shoreline. Seagulls are abundant. It is a breeding ground for sea turtles. The brown pelicans float on unseen air currents before diving into the water for fish. Trawlers depart from marinas spotted along the way to bring back seafood that is without equal anywhere.

You may now read the previous paragraph and place everything in the past tense because all this has now changed; it seems for the rest of our lives. Oil is both above and below the surface of the water. There is no good end to this in sight.

In the midst of all this, BP - the group responsible, has launched a 50-million dollar advertising campaign to try to salvage their image.

I want to say, “BP, I’m sorry is not enough.” It is woefully inadequate for the enormity of your crime.

When I was a child on one of our family trips to the Gulf, we brought along our housekeeper. It was her first trip there. When she saw the bright, emerald green waters lapping against the pure white sand, she exclaimed, “how high does it get when it rains?”

Her fears were based upon her sphere of reality. What about ours? How much has to happen before our sensibility demands, “Enough!”?

Can we muster the same enthusiasm as those who chanted "Drill baby, drill?"