LostSole
Registered User
- Joined
- Aug 27, 2024
- Messages
- 33
- Points
- 8
My story begins about 8 years ago when I was a new Class B truck driver, driving a 40-foot box truck and working team expedited delivery with my boyfriend/co-driver. I was 23, it was late at night, I had only been at this new career for a couple of weeks, and I had a delivery to make to a nuclear power plant. You would’ve thought it was New Year's Eve with how hard the ball got dropped that night.
I arrived to find an open entrance gate and an empty guard station. Thinking nothing of it, I drove right through. After all, if it was supposed to be locked and guarded, it would have been, right? At least, that’s what my unconscious logic told me. To the right was a small parking lot where I spotted vehicles—perfect! That meant people were here, and I could deliver the load and be on my way. Feeling confident, I parked the truck, walked up to the entry gate leading to the main area of the plant, and pressed the buzzer.
No response.
I pressed it again, repeatedly, calling out, “Hello! Delivery! I’m with Gone Nuclear Delivery here with your expedited part!”
Still nothing.
Now, one thing you should know about me is I have terrible situational awareness. At the time, I had no idea nuclear power plants were supposed to have insanely tight security: armed guards, cameras, alarms—the works. Apparently, big, tall fences with razor wire and multiple empty guard stations didn’t raise any red flags in my brain.
So here I was, standing there oblivious, pressing the buzzer like a slot machine addict pulling the lever, growing more confused by the minute. The cars in the parking lot told me people were here, so where were they? Maybe the guard fell asleep? Maybe the buzzer was broken? It was somewhere between midnight and 4 a.m., so I figured no one expected deliveries at this hour.
Yet determined as I was, I wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. Armed with my trusty clipboard and confident ignorance, I began wandering around, knocking on doors. There were two rows of small shed-like buildings a few yards away. I didn’t know if anyone might be inside, so like a walking knock-knock joke, I started knocking and calling out, “Hello! Anybody? Delivery driver here!”
No luck. It seemed my presence just wasn’t sparking a chain reaction.
Still, I refused to give up. Spotting a larger shed-like building closer to the gate with the buzzer, I made my way over, knocked, and called out again: “Hello! Anyone here? I’ve got a delivery!”
Good thing it wasn’t a board game I was delivering, because no dice.
With no more doors left to knock on, I shrugged to myself and headed back to the truck. I climbed into the driver’s seat and waited. And waited. Hours went by. I think it was about 7 or 8 a.m. when I finally spotted someone walking toward the entry gate. A real person! I practically sprinted up to him, waving my clipboard like I was flagging down a lifeboat.
I explained my whole ordeal—how I’d been there all night, how no one had answered, how I’d knocked on every door I could find. He looked at me, paused for a moment, and said something I’ll never forget: “Well, you look pretty harmless.” Then he went through the gate and disappeared inside.
Harmless?!
Let me tell you, that’s not a descriptor I’d ever thought about before. Why? Because it’s just… obvious. I’m basically the human female version of the Pillsbury dough boy—5'2", carrying more than my fair share of extra weight, and if you poke me, I giggle. Harmless should’ve been a default assumption, like Oreos being a major food group or the fact that cardio and I have been in a long-term, toxic, on-again-off-again relationship.
Intimidating? Not even close.
After I finally got the truck unloaded, the facility manager came out to talk to me and my co-driver. She looked serious, almost grim, as she said, “You’re lucky.” Confused, I asked what she meant. She explained that at any point during the night, I should have been confronted by a team of armed guards.
I couldn’t help myself and replied, “Honestly, that probably would’ve been better than wandering around aimlessly for hours.” She and my co-driver laughed, but then she added, “Oh no, you really wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Now, years later, as I think back on that night, I can’t help but feel relieved that I wasn’t confronted by armed guards. Life has since taught me that in high-pressure moments, I have an unfortunate talent for saying the most absurd things. If I had been confronted, I can only imagine myself blurting out something like, “It’s just a clipboard, not a gun!” or, “Go shoot! I mean, do shoot! I mean, don’t shoot!”
As amusing—and mortifying—as that thought is, it also makes me wonder: what really happened with their security that night? Did someone lose their job because of my little adventure? Am I flagged on some obscure government list? I’ll probably never know.
Still, I like to imagine my midnight misadventure has since been immortalized in training sessions—a prime example of what happens when security at a nuclear power plant lets its guard down.
I arrived to find an open entrance gate and an empty guard station. Thinking nothing of it, I drove right through. After all, if it was supposed to be locked and guarded, it would have been, right? At least, that’s what my unconscious logic told me. To the right was a small parking lot where I spotted vehicles—perfect! That meant people were here, and I could deliver the load and be on my way. Feeling confident, I parked the truck, walked up to the entry gate leading to the main area of the plant, and pressed the buzzer.
No response.
I pressed it again, repeatedly, calling out, “Hello! Delivery! I’m with Gone Nuclear Delivery here with your expedited part!”
Still nothing.
Now, one thing you should know about me is I have terrible situational awareness. At the time, I had no idea nuclear power plants were supposed to have insanely tight security: armed guards, cameras, alarms—the works. Apparently, big, tall fences with razor wire and multiple empty guard stations didn’t raise any red flags in my brain.
So here I was, standing there oblivious, pressing the buzzer like a slot machine addict pulling the lever, growing more confused by the minute. The cars in the parking lot told me people were here, so where were they? Maybe the guard fell asleep? Maybe the buzzer was broken? It was somewhere between midnight and 4 a.m., so I figured no one expected deliveries at this hour.
Yet determined as I was, I wasn’t ready to call it quits yet. Armed with my trusty clipboard and confident ignorance, I began wandering around, knocking on doors. There were two rows of small shed-like buildings a few yards away. I didn’t know if anyone might be inside, so like a walking knock-knock joke, I started knocking and calling out, “Hello! Anybody? Delivery driver here!”
No luck. It seemed my presence just wasn’t sparking a chain reaction.
Still, I refused to give up. Spotting a larger shed-like building closer to the gate with the buzzer, I made my way over, knocked, and called out again: “Hello! Anyone here? I’ve got a delivery!”
Good thing it wasn’t a board game I was delivering, because no dice.
With no more doors left to knock on, I shrugged to myself and headed back to the truck. I climbed into the driver’s seat and waited. And waited. Hours went by. I think it was about 7 or 8 a.m. when I finally spotted someone walking toward the entry gate. A real person! I practically sprinted up to him, waving my clipboard like I was flagging down a lifeboat.
I explained my whole ordeal—how I’d been there all night, how no one had answered, how I’d knocked on every door I could find. He looked at me, paused for a moment, and said something I’ll never forget: “Well, you look pretty harmless.” Then he went through the gate and disappeared inside.
Harmless?!
Let me tell you, that’s not a descriptor I’d ever thought about before. Why? Because it’s just… obvious. I’m basically the human female version of the Pillsbury dough boy—5'2", carrying more than my fair share of extra weight, and if you poke me, I giggle. Harmless should’ve been a default assumption, like Oreos being a major food group or the fact that cardio and I have been in a long-term, toxic, on-again-off-again relationship.
Intimidating? Not even close.
After I finally got the truck unloaded, the facility manager came out to talk to me and my co-driver. She looked serious, almost grim, as she said, “You’re lucky.” Confused, I asked what she meant. She explained that at any point during the night, I should have been confronted by a team of armed guards.
I couldn’t help myself and replied, “Honestly, that probably would’ve been better than wandering around aimlessly for hours.” She and my co-driver laughed, but then she added, “Oh no, you really wouldn’t have wanted that.”
Now, years later, as I think back on that night, I can’t help but feel relieved that I wasn’t confronted by armed guards. Life has since taught me that in high-pressure moments, I have an unfortunate talent for saying the most absurd things. If I had been confronted, I can only imagine myself blurting out something like, “It’s just a clipboard, not a gun!” or, “Go shoot! I mean, do shoot! I mean, don’t shoot!”
As amusing—and mortifying—as that thought is, it also makes me wonder: what really happened with their security that night? Did someone lose their job because of my little adventure? Am I flagged on some obscure government list? I’ll probably never know.
Still, I like to imagine my midnight misadventure has since been immortalized in training sessions—a prime example of what happens when security at a nuclear power plant lets its guard down.
