I'm sure glad a few snowbirds are still in town

So I'm driving into town to cover a baseball game today when I see a low-flying helicopter making a quick descent.

I live nowhere near an airport, so this was a rather curious sight.

As I moved up the road, the chopper appeared to be landing less than 500 feet ahead, right on the road. Cars are backed up in traffic, police lights are flashing, a crowd is gathered — and I have a camera in my passenger seat.

I'm on my way to shoot a baseball game, but I figured I'd try to play news guy and get a few shots of the action unfolding in our quiet town. I pulled around the traffic, behind a church that runs parallel to the road and parked my truck, scrambling to get the camera ready to shoot whatever's happening. I called our photographer, telling her I'd get what I can, but that she might want to rush down and get some usable shots.

Long story short, a bicyclist was hit by a car on a county road and was being life-flighted out, and though I was a few hundred feet away (the fireman watching the scene said to me: "You don't want to be any closer once that thing takes off") I got a few pics and felt pretty good about myself.

Then I got back into my car.

I stepped on the gas ... Nothing.

Again.

Nothing.

In my haste, I'd pulled around the back of the church, and parked where the ground is basically loose sand. I'm stuck, and now, instead of getting a great news shot and exiting the scene to do my job, I look like an asshole who tried to get around traffic, and is now shooting a rooster-tail of sand into the air.

My tires are only digging deeper. The game's in the second inning. My breaking news moment is suddenly looking like it's going to be old news by the time I'm free.

Luckily, a random group of strangers came upon me in my time of need.

There was a young guy on a walk with his mom and an old man on an evening stroll with his wife. Without batting an eye, the guys are on the ground with me, digging in the sand, while grandma's in my truck, punching the gas. Another guy pulls up in a car and yells, "Hey guys, I'll go get my truck and pull you out!" Southern hospitality, indeed.

There happens to be a few planks of wood resting against the church, and, risking life and limb, grandpa's jamming the planks under my tires with me, telling his wife to punch it to get some traction.

A few hearty pushes later, and my truck is free.

I thank them again and again, offering them money, a drink, a ride into town — anything. They want nothing, accepting only my business card, which, on the back, has a coupon for two free weeks of newspaper delivery.

Luckily, during the struggle, our photographer arrived. Because the chopper had left, she snapped away in our direction, documenting the epic struggle between sand and machine.

I stopped my truck thinking I'd be the hero of the newsroom for being Johnny-on-the-spot on a breaking news story. I left the scene realizing I'd instead be known as the stupid Yankee who learned the hard way not to park in the sand. But I can't complain — I wasn't the poor guy on the stretcher.