1971 - Stage Fright On The Fantail

When performing I have always kinda been "outside my body" in some state of modified shock. The kind that allows you to perform your duties while being some kind of observer of your own event. I can adlib, jam or play or speak as directed, or as required, at the moment but I, still, remain somewhere outside my body. Having dealt with my stage fright at an early age (ask my brother Steve about Chickery-Chick) I learned to use this reaction to enable continued performance during times of stress. Not everyone had this early experience. Not everyone can continue to perform while in this state. Not everyone...


1971 – Stage Fright On The Fantail

We practiced with the amplifiers strapped to the walls of the helicopter hanger. The sea was fairly calm but, as always, the ship continued to rock from side to side. We were “The Ships’ Rock Band” as the Captain called us. Not long before we had managed to “accidentally” leave an official Navy publication, the All-Hands Magazine, open on the Captain’s at-sea chair. As planned, he leafed through noting the main article we had left open about a carriers’ rock band and how great they were for both morale as well as the ships reputation when they played ships-parties ashore. He soon came up with the “original” idea that since we had a rock band aboard we, too, needed to support the band that practiced and played at sea in the Helo-hanger. Upon inquiry he found out we really needed a drum kit and volunteered to supply this for us. We had our sponsor. All was going along as planned.

When we hit port in Olongapo in the Philippines we headed out to the music store. I had been dating one of the clerks who, despite a Nursing Masters in medicine, continued to work for minimum wage behind the counter of this little store. We shopped the stores contents until we decided upon a black-pearlized kit with a good sized bass-drum, 2 tom-toms and 3 cymbals besides the snare and high-hat. We all prepared to wrestle this load back to the ship as I made a date for later that afternoon. “I’ll be off at 5:00,” Maria said.

I was to find out later that a large percentage of the Filipino population was educated with advanced degrees although I was also told that a MA was equivalent to a BA in the states. I am not certain about that evaluation but she was very intelligent and worldly aware although, like most of the Filipinos that I met, she considered the Philippine Islands, all together, as the 8th continent. No amount of argument or any display of maps could change her mind about this.

After packing the kit onboard and setting it up for practice I headed for town leaving a happy drummer getting familiar with his new toys. Maria was almost done wrapping up and awaiting her replacement for the evening shift. “Would you like an ice cream?” She asked. Upon my reply to the affirmative she sent me next-door with instructions to buy the flavor labeled Sampaguita. The scent was heavenly so I choose the same flavor. The heady aroma greeted my nose as I unwrapped the paper covering. It exploded in my mouth as a delightful flavor and scent that was completely new to me and, yet, somehow familiar. Maria told me this was the National Flower of the Phillipines and was related to the Jasmine flower. The heavenly taste melted slowly as I enjoyed every drop. We sat facing each other when I heard a series of little pops. Thinking it was fireworks I turned and started for the door. “Stop!” shouted Maria. I turned back toward her and saw she was crouching behind the glass display case and trying to get as far into the corner as possible. My brow furrowed as I wondered why she appeared so frightened. Right then 3 men ran across the parking lot across the street firing handguns over their shoulders. They ran out of sight but were immediately followed by members of the street police that guarded the entrance to every bar and most businesses. One of them paused and took careful sighting down the barrel of the rifle he carried. His fellow officers ran past him ignoring the fact that one of their members was firing live ammo past heir running backs. He fired twice and launched into a run without looking for the results from his rifle fire. Suddenly it was quiet for two beats of my heart then, as though nothing had happened, music blared and people began walking down the sidewalk on their way to whatever errand they had been on when they were temporarily distracted. I stood up surprised to find myself behind the counter with Maria and somehow stretched over her in what I assume was a protective position although I didn’t recall doing this on purpose. I helped her to her feet. “Huks!” She said and looked disgusted. I was later to find out these were revolutionary communist rebels that had been holed-up in the mountains since World War II brought this conflict to the Philippines. They were refreshed every so often with native villagers that resented having civilization forced upon them or the odd politically active city folk who simply didn’t like the current government. As Maria’s relief showed up immediately after this incident we proceeded to dinner & dancing until it was time to part. After a long goodbye I put her in a taxi and headed back to the ship. We were due to head back to sea the following day so I wouldn’t see Maria for an unknown amount of time.

At sea we practiced daily and, during this at-sea period added a band member in Tony. Let me pause and tell you about Tony: Tony was musically gifted in that he seemed to know every group, all members, what group(s) they had been in previously and where members went if the band had broken up. Tony could almost always identify any song on the first note. Rumor was Tony had worked for Bill Graham before joining the Navy and had worked with several groups including the Band, Jefferson Airplane and the Grateful Dead. He had worked at Woodstock and, when fences and gates were being broken down by crowd pressure, jumped up above the entrance and removed the poster from its place over the gate. I still have this poster as well as others Tony left thumb tacked to our apartment wall. All of these belonged to Tony so I’ve held on to them awaiting an opportunity to return them… like that’s going to happen.

Tony had a bigger passion for music than anyone I had known previously, including my Uncle Johnny who influenced me, professionally, probably more than any other person excepting, perhaps, Tony. He had no musical background or training but certainly deserved, as much as anyone I ever known, to be on stage where he could share this love for music with an audience. After buying the new drum kit for our regular drummer we had some extra percussion instruments, namely: Timbales. Timbales consist of 2-tom-toms, a wood block and a cowbell. Tony decided he wanted to learn this instrument. We all thought this was a great idea and we all pitched in to help Tony learn this instrument. The addition gave us a great sound with a full compliment of rhythm instruments including a drummer, a congas player and, now, timbales added to the fullness of the sound. As we played songs by various groups, including groups like Black Sabbath, Santana and Chicago, all of whom used different instruments than we had in our group. We found the added percussion filled in to the point that a horn section, keyboards or an additional guitarist were not missed at all.

We rehearsed with Tony over the next few weeks until he was fairly good at throwing accents and embellishments into our music where it was needed. He had a good ear for the feeling of the tunes and seemed to know when to follow a jam and when to follow the number exactly as rehearsed. Finally, as we cruised off Viet Nam, it was time for a barbeque on the fantail where there was room for the 55-gallon drum cookers and a few tables to hold other offerings. We had been asked to play music for the party and all of the equipment was moved from the helicopter-hanger to the aft-end of the helicopter-deck. A crystal-clear blue sky reflected the turquoise ocean. A clean smell of salt-water scented the warm slightly-humid air. As we were about a mile off-shore with the kaleidoscope of jungle greens in the background, the fresh scent of tropical flora drifted in the breeze with an occasional treat of tropical flowers or the fresh smell of jungle mulch. As the water was like glass there was no need to tie the amps and speakers down this day. After tuning-up and a few individual solo’s (ostensibly still tuning-up) we prepared to launch into Santana’s Evil Ways which started with the drums, congas and timbales performing a short drum-roll together and launching into the musicality after the 4 beats that made up one short bar. The roll sounded a bit empty which became clearer as Bill started his first lead. It became obvious something was missing. Bill and I turned as one towards Tony.

Tony stood stock still staring at the small audience absolutely frozen in place.

His mouth hung open and his hands were perched 6-inches over the drum-heads. “Tony!” Bill said, “Tony!” Bill kept playing rhythm guitar and I followed along with the required bass-lines until I noticed Tony legs were beginning to shake. What started out as a small tremor was getting more obvious as I stepped toward him, still playing. Suddenly I threw my bass over my shoulder, counting on the strap to secure it to my back, and lurched out towards Tony as his right leg collapsed and he toppled towards the floor. Bill and I caught Tony between us as the music came to an abrupt stop. Bill, with guitar still hanging in front of him held with his left hand still wrapped around the neck, held Tony up on the left side with his right hand while I used both arms to hold his right side while we steered him into the hanger bay where a couple of chairs stood waiting. As Tony sank into one of the chairs his eyes were no longer able to see any of the crowd milling about one deck below us. A few shouts for music drifted into our ears but we temporarily ignored their pleas.

I tapped Tony’s shoulder a couple of times but he was completely unresponsive sitting immobile staring ahead, drum sticks still clenched tightly in his hands. I stooped in front of him and looked into his glazed eyes. I reached up and gently shook his shoulder. “Tony!! Tony!! Are you ok?” I asked. Tony’s eyes focused on my face as his face twisted into a grimace and he bent forward, elbows on knees and his face hidden by his hands. After a moment his shoulders began to pulse as he sobbed, tearless, into his hands.

“I… I… I don’t know what happened… I couldn’t do it… I couldn’t move… I didn’t know what to do… I… I’m so sorry… I just…” His words tapered off into silence. He sat sobbing into his hands slowly gaining control of himself.

The rear hatch to the hanger opened and Mr. Weaver entered. “Everthang okay?” He asked in his distinct Oklahoma accent.

Bill rose to his feet. “We better get started or we’ll have a crowd here in a few minutes. That’s the last thing we need.” He glanced at Tony as he said the last. Tony appeared to be recovering so we left his side launching back into Evil Ways before we reached the microphones and still out of sight to those below. A cheer went up and we performed the number as rehearsed without the benefit of Tony’s contribution. When we finished the song I glanced back to where Tony had sat. He was no longer in attendance. We finished our set and took a few minutes break. As the other guys went for the food I went to find Tony where he sat alone in his birthing department staring into the distance.

He looked at me as I approached. “I don’t know what happened, Lar. I was already to go but when I looked out at everyone’s face I just froze. I couldn’t move… I wanted to I just couldn’t.”

“It’s ok, Tony. I know how you feel. Every time I step on stage I’m on automatic in some strange state of shock where I can still perform and hold conversations but feel completely outside my body the entire time. If I hadn’t been doing this for so long I might wind up exactly the same.” I slapped his shoulder, “You’ll get over it. Give it time.”

Tony smiled a shy smile, “I just don’t know what happened.” His frown returned, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s ok, Tony. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“No,” Tony replied, “I think I’ll stay right here for a while.” He paused and searched my face, “Do you really think I can get over this?” Hope was in his eyes.

“Of course. It just depends upon how much you want it. You’ll be okay.” I was confident his love of the music was enough to eventually get him over this temporary setback. “I’m off to get some of that food… are you sure you don’t want to come along… can I bring you anything?” He shook his head to the negative and I headed back to the fantail for sustenance.

Tony eventually became our informal manager in a market (on board a USS warship) that didn’t require any management. It kept our good friend close and enabled him to continue his involvement with the band. Unfortunately, in our time together in the Navy, Tony was unable to overcome his stage fright and a new timbale player was found. Coincidently his name was Tony.

We proceeded to play many gigs both in port and at sea but I always wished for my good friend Tony’s more active participation.

For Tony… I still wish that.

1969 - Unrep At Sea

As far as I know there are three ways to get from ship-to-ship: 1) Swim, 2) Helicopter, 3) Hi-line. Of the three #2 is my favorite.

1969 - Unrep at sea

“Its getting to the point where I’m no fun anymore…I… am… sorry.” We sang tight harmonies in our own impersonation of Crosby, Stills and Nash’s Suite: Judy Blue Eyes.

It was just after 2AM and we had just been awakened from a sound sleep to help with Unrep, also known as Underway Replenishment. Heaving myself out of my rack I dressed and proceeded to my station on the main deck. As I was still a lowly Seaman I would not be in CIC for this job, but would be with the rest of the operations Seamen on the deck hauling rope, hawser and fuel-line from the Oiler to us, a small Fram II Destroyer. We probably had an hour to wait until we went to work so, until then, we were required to stay awake and be ready, upon command, to do the job we all knew was coming. As 3 of us were members of the ships rock band or friends with whom we harmonized on a regular basis we sat in the dark and practiced the songs that required multiple voices. Songs performed by Simon & Garfunkle, The Zombies, The Four Tops and The Four Seasons were on the top of the list.

As we waited and watched the Oiler drew in closer until we were steaming side-by-side at around 12 knots, a mere 30-40 yards apart. As the ships closed the bow-wakes from both vessels created rough seas in between the ships that, along with the undersea swells, caused us to heel over further than normal so that huge waves threatened constantly to swamp the main deck. The Chief Boats had instructed us that once we were pulling, if we were swamped, we were to hang on tightly to the rope in our hands, “It’ll keep you safe,” he said.

Eventually we heard a shout from the 01 level “Shotline!” We each found cover behind a fitting or bulkhead. In seconds a loud “Bang!” was heard coming from the Oiler as she fired the line toward us. “WAP! Brang!” The bulkhead about 10 feet away sang out with the impact of the Turks-head that was fastened to a relatively thin rope as it smacked into the wall with the force of a shotgun, which is exactly what was used to propel the Shotline from the Oiler to us. Ladd grabbed the line and ran it toward the 01 level. He was met at the bottom of the ladder where the line was run to the fitting that sat at the immediate top of the ladder, and then through a series of sheaves and passed back down to the crew on the main deck – us. We passed the rope hand-to-hand until it reached the last sailor who attempted to coil the rope in a relatively organized pile to avoid tangles, loose ends or looping coils that may tend to grab the random equipment or sailor’s foot. About the time the bitter end reached the end-of-the-line the next rope appeared, passing quickly toward us. This was a bigger line that would be, again, tied to a bigger line that would be tied to a bigger line that was tied off to form a suspension bridge under which, the fuel line would be hung and drawn from the Oiler to our little DD. As the second line passed through my fingers a huge wave broke on the deck and covered us all with frigid salt water pulling at my body and knocking me off my feet. As I hit the deck I let go of the rope and grabbed at anything going by which I could feel dragging under my hands but failed to successfully grasp. Feeling myself being carried down the deck toward the stern where a rough wake and twin screws awaited tearing through the water in its desperate attempt to continue to push us forward at 12 knots, I grasped at anything until I felt the deck safety-rail-line under my fingers. I grabbed and held on as though my life depended upon it… which it did. I had been a part of enough “Man Overboard” drills to know that we usually ran over the dummy and took the better part of an hour to make a successful pick-up. This was the last thing I wanted to go through. As the water receded back into the ocean my body stopped spinning about and trying to stay on the crest of the wild wave and began to orient itself heads-up and feet-down… and down… and down. Now wondering exactly where I was I shook the water from my eyes and looked up… to the main deck. I found myself dangling from the OUTSIDE of the ship, hanging with my feet only a few feet above the waves that approached and receded with the rocking of the boat as well as the up-and-down plunging of the ship into oncoming waves. Quickly scrambling over the line, I felt the solid deck under my feet. I took a few deep breaths and headed back to my station, halfway up the deck.

As I regained my place the line attached to the hawser, which would tie the two ships together, passed through my hands. I began hauling on the rope with everyone else. “Hold!” the message rang down from the 01 level. We hung on trying to keep the line as steady as possible while the line was secured. We immediately began hauling on another heavy rope connected to the fuel-probe which ran quickly down the incline from the much larger Oiler, to us. The fuel-probe was inserted, and locked down, on the intake fitting. At “Release!” we knew our job was done for now and we, variously, relaxed, retired to their work area for a temporary break or, like Bill and me, went up to the signal-bridge to watch the high-line transfer of food and a couple of people. Bill and I, each, borrowed a pair of binoculars from 1st class Mapps, inside the signal-shack, and proceeded to an area where we could see the action in the brightening dawn. A line, just like the fueling line, had been shot to the ASROC deck, secured to the fittings and the transfer of pallets of food was smoothly running from Oiler to DD. After the last of the supplies had been loaded aboard it was time to transfer a couple of people. One officer and one chief stood awaiting the arrival of the Hi-Line transfer-cage. The officer had been released from his enlistment and the chief had been transferred to a new duty station. I’ll call the officer Mr. Smith. In both cases, the Oiler would be in port well before us as we were only a week into our 45-day stint on Yankee Station in the North China Seas. The Oiler was headed back to Japan.

Mr. Smith held back offering first-place to the chief who stepped forward and sat down in the cage, securely strapping himself into the seat. The fasteners were checked and the word was passed – the chief rose 5’ into the air, hovering motionless over the deck. As the ship listed to starboard the rope tightened and the cage rose another 5’ and the crew assigned to manually pull on the rope that would pull the chief to the Oiler started hauling away, the height of the line allowing gravity to help them start this process. One crew was pulling on the transfer-line while a second group was responsible for keeping the line taut so the cage, with the chief on-board, would not dip into the cold, cold ocean’s vast reservoir of saltwater. Within a few minutes the chief transferred with no problem. The chair was hauled back to us and the Mr. Smith prepared to go. He strapped himself in and the fittings were checked as before. The signal was given and he suddenly shot into the air as the ship listed to one side at the same time the line was pulled taut. He was holding on to the side of the cage so tightly we noticed his hands were snow-white and his teeth were clenched against the scream that, we were sure, struggled to issue from his mouth. From this height he virtually began sliding down the line as gravity assisted the crew who was hauling on the transfer-rope. He zoomed down past the ASROC deck headed down the line at high speed directly towards the water. As the cage became even with the main deck, around 10 or fewer feet from the surface of the water, the ship began to rock in the opposite direction and Mr. Smith’s ride rose a few feet until he was, again, approximately level with the deck from which he had recently left. He looked relieved but continued to hold tightly to the frame of the cage. About halfway through across the expanse between the two ships a tangle developed in the line and the line stopped. The crew responsible for keeping the transfer-line taut worked at keeping Mr. Smith steady but, despite their efforts the high-line-chair bobbed up and down traveling a good 10-20 feet from the bottom of the dip to the highest point. After 2 or 3 trips up and down this, now stationary, roller coaster, Mr. Smith wasn’t looking any too good. As we peered at him through the borrowed binoculars he was looking a distinct green with a somewhat deflated looking countenance until he headed downward, then his face became very animated, eyes growing to their widest position, feet braced against the bottom, hands braced against the frame and clenching tightly. His head turned sideways, teeth clenched showed through the edge of the grimace plastered across his face as he prepared to plunge into the cold water and… just before the cage again shot skyward.

Just as Mr. Smith reached the apex of his upward journey a shout rang out “Fixed!” The ship picked this instant to begin its roll to starboard and, as the now loose line began to play through still loose hands, the cage made a violent jump on the line and dropped like a shot towards the water. Again Mr. Smith looked shocked but, by now, was getting used to the sensation of climbing and dropping quickly and barely braced himself, leaning back in the chair but fingers only loosely on the frame while his legs irresistibly prepared to take the shock of a quick turn-around. A look of surprise and shock crossed his face as he plunged into the water which quickly rose to cover his lower legs and continued to sink until salt-water covered his lap. It was obvious he was straining against the straps that held him securely on-board his little transfer-vessel. The cage began to tip forward as the water rose to his chest and as the ocean pulled at the cage… after all, we were still moving forward at 12 knots. He held his head up high straining against the safety straps. Just as it appeared he was about to become a human fishing net he shot upwards, water spraying and pouring off his clothes and the equipment. He was in full voice as he attempted to give direction to the crew he had just left behind. And, in fact, he had left them behind in more ways then one as the crew hauling on the rope, the crew that somehow got the line tangled and the crew that just gave him a dunking was the same crew he had commanded as department officer just a couple of hours ago. The instruction he was shouting was almost completely in words of four letters. I’m sure the fact that he wasn’t liked, in fact barely tolerated by the entire crew, had nothing to do with his salty trip into the brine and back. Mr. Smith was hauled to the correct height and his trip continued without incident. Just before he arrived aboard the Oiler we glanced over at the chief who had already successfully made his transfer and appeared to be doubled-over with laughter. The chief was talking animatedly with a group of two other chiefs, all of whom were obviously having a good time. I had a serious feeling that this was not the first time any of these gentlemen had witnessed a dunking and, since the chief had not exactly gotten along with Mr. Smith anymore than anyone else… we suspected his ESP had forewarned him this might happen.

I also suspect he was more than delighted to be a witness.

1981 - I Shall Overcome

Some things scare you because they are unexpected...a surprise. Some things scare you because they are simply unknown. Either can be overcome with a cool head and determination...the cool head is often the hard part.

1981 - “I Shall Overcome”

I found a copy of my high school Drivers Ed report card the other day. It told me a lot about myself and an attitude I wasn’t sure I eventually cultivated or if it was an attitude that was innate. It was evidence that my habit of tackling self-imposed shortcomings and overcoming the problem had been around for quite awhile. Nurture or nature…does it really matter? In this case the card reported I needed considerable practice backing up and my use of a standard-shift was deplorable. Seeing this I realized this was evidence that this attitude of overcoming difficulty pre-dated the new found confidence I found while in the USN. To this day I only own standard-shift cars – I love the whole clutching/shifting thing – love those curvy mountain roads – and I almost always pull backwards into my parking spaces. I had no idea until I saw this document that I had EVER had problems with either of these maneuvers. And I thought this entire “can-do” attitude came from the NAV – maybe not.

After the Navy and I departed ways I was resolved to take my limited musical background and become a professional. After growing tired of trying to live, once again, under mom’s roof with mom’s rules – which were great for her but not for a 22 year-old partier – I left Iowa City for Dad’s house in Southern Illinois. The story there was about the same and, after about 5-weeks, I was again on the road for northern Illinois and some of the other stories I’ve repeated previously. During those 5-weeks I decided to take music lessons and learn to become a better bass-player. During my second lesson my teacher told me I’d “never be a decent bass-player” as my “hands are too small.” This, of course, pissed me off. After all, I had already been a musician for some years and had enough live experience to know I was already better than many others in the same position. This just made me work harder sometimes practicing 6 or more hour’s a-day. (And if you’re familiar with the bass you know how absolutely boring this must have been.) I spent the next few years consciously proving that teacher wrong by becoming a relatively successful musician although I’m aware that the accuracy of his analysis ultimately may have been one of the reasons for a career that was somewhat less than aimed for, but this same analysis was one of the reasons for any success I did have.

Perhaps this attitude was why I persisted in taking German classes in high school despite the fact I kept failing horribly at it. Flunked German I my soph-year (great enunciation, good at getting the desired point across, terrible syntax and an absolute failure to memorize the “conversations) so I retook it as a junior. Passed with a D. Took German II as a senior. Flunked that one, too. If there had been another year I would have taken it again – I loved the class! I just couldn’t pass the class.

Later in life this attitude has continued to serve me well. My greatest example of this is my former fear of public speaking. This became painfully apparent around 1989 when I attended a symposium and discussion about “Space Station Freedom” at San Diego’s Aerospace Museum. Space Station Freedom eventually became Skylab but in ’87 the unit was still a well developed twinkle in the eye of NASA. Near the end of the open discussion the panel began discussing the kinds of replenishment that should be considered during flights into orbit. There was passionate discussion regarding guitars, tapes and books. This discussion pre-dated CDs & the I-Pod. A short discussion determined LP records would not be advisable as the “penny would just float off the tone arm.” This remark was made ½ a-second before the speaker realized there might also be a problem with the entire tone-arm. Duhh. As the discussion continued the shuttle bay was completely filled with “games and toys” which I noticed had forced a couple of big pre-determined items out of the bay or reduced their size. Realizing these containers were filled with water and air I wanted to say something that, evidently, no one else had noticed: they REALLY needed this stuff. Knowing I would be nervous I began to rehearse 2 sentences in my mind. Over and over I practiced, although not raising my hand to volunteer my comment. Finally the event was about to wrap up and the moderator mentioned they would take “only a couple more questions or comments.” Simply to be true to myself I raised my hand hoping upon hope that I would NOT be called upon. No such luck. The moderator immediately pointed at me and asked me to stand and speak clearly.

I stood. I opened my mouth, the lower jaw of which was beginning to shake with nervousness as was my right leg. I steadied my leg. Repeating my two lines in my head I opened my mouth and said “I-I-I-I-I b-b-b-b-b-b-b-guh-guh-guh-guh-bub-bub-bub-bub-bub-wah-wah-wah-wah-wah.” Then I turned bright red and fell back into my seat, devastated. Even knowing there would be a problem, even with several minutes of rehearsal, I was still unable to deliver. This was an extremely low point in my days. I looked like an idiot! An utter fool! How could I have been so naïve? I wrestled with this opinion of myself for the next few months until…

I was asked to become one of the members of the first implementation group for our companies TQM (Total Quality Manufacturing) project. I was honored to be asked but even more honored when I attended the initial kick-off and found myself in the company of 13 additional members…all upper management – V.P.s & Directors…while I was a lowly member of middle management – the Divisional Materials Manager. Everyone else in the room was 2-3 levels above me. Initially I was sure I was in the wrong room but the VP Operations assured me I was n the right place. Following the meeting I inquired as to why I was chosen over many other managers, most of whom had been with the company much longer. It seems my re-organization of the Materials Planning, Procurement and control had improved and noticed but the thing that convinced management I was a good candidate was an incident wherein I re-organized the physical layout of the shipping/receiving department. Although given an 8-hour day to complete this I was done in 3-hours which the Ops manager considered impossible until I explained how I planned the movement of the furniture and held a short rehearsal just before the crew left the previous afternoon. That got his attention but it was the ultimate saving of $82K+ annually in these 2 small departments that convinced him, and eventually, the CEO and CFO that I was a good candidate. Both of these gentlemen were co-members and, I must say, inside those meeting room wall we really were all equal.

One of the tasks we were assigned was breaking the implementation process into 14 discrete functions, or steps, as they were called. One of these steps was “Education.” As we discussed the various functions and execution of same we determined each step would be chaired by a team-member and backed up by another member so we all had a primary and secondary responsibility besides steering the whole process as a group. When we began discussing the Education Step I quickly realized that this person, whomever it ultimately turned out to be, would be the lead-teacher for this new discipline and would be teaching classes that were delivered over a 10-week series of classes and workshops to all of management and influential employees as well as a 1-hour introductory session that every employee – from the janitor to the department manager would attend. The responsible person would be responsible for writing the classes, adapted from the Philip B. Crosby Quality College curriculum, training any additional instructors and presenting the majority of the classes to upper, middle and lower management. This person would be responsible for setting up classroom facilities and scheduling classes as well as coordinating these classes with other events that were ongoing as a part of the implementation cycle. Immediately seeing these requirements, and knowing my absolute fear of public speaking and, again, to be true to myself I raised my hand hoping someone else…anyone else…would be called upon. As I looked around the room I saw only one hand raised – mine. I was stuck – it was time to overcome my public speaking fear.

As I began the process of planning and preparation, of writing and re-writing lessons and locating required resources I enrolled in Southwester Colleges class for Public Speaking. Attending the class I was terrified throughout most of it, determined to overcome my lack of confidence in my public persona despite my surety that my fear was insurmountable. I spoke in front of the class frequently, as required, but hated every second and always sat down after completing a presentation absolutely convinced I looked like a total idiot. Two weeks before completion of the class I was convinced I was going to have to bow out of the responsibility for which I had volunteered as I prepared for my final speech in front of the class. We were to speak about an incident in our life, it was to be exactly 3-minutes long and it would be videotaped. I read and rehearsed my 3-minutes over and over in my head to help reinforce the rehearsals I had held in front of the bathroom mirror all week. I had absolutely no confidence in my ability to get through the evening.

When I was called upon I rose and walked to the front of the room. In my head I was resisting with every fiber of my being but eventually I stood there and began as rehearsed. I began telling my story about my meeting with a bear in Canada (see: 1966 – The Bear). At one point I “lost” my word. I had a perfect word chosen and rehearsed all week but lost the word I wanted to use! In my head I was a chicken-with-it’s-head-cut-off. In my head I ran in circles and shouted “Oh-no! Oh-no! Oh-no! I look like an idiot! Whoo-who-whoo-who-who!” Gibberish ran around in my head as I frantically searched for the missing word or something equivalent! Eventually I gave up, finding a word that was not perfect but almost acceptable and I finished my talk completely deflated and convinced I would never be able to talk in front of people. This weakness had plagued me much of my professional life as I was easily bush-wacked at meetings and failed miserably to defend my decisions when challenged. As mush as I wanted to overcome this it wasn’t looking good…then they showed the videotape!

I saw my self at the front of the room speaking calmly, relating the story with more animation than I expected because, although I rehearsed enthusiasm I had failed to convince myself while I was doing the presentation, yet…There I stood calmly relating my story. At one point I paused as though waiting for my comments to sink in. I calmly surveyed the room and the faces of my classmates then I proceeded to complete the talk coming in 2 seconds over.

I was blown away!! All the panic, all the noise in my head. All of the screaming and self-flagellation I had done during my “moment” was completely unseen! I looked perfectly calm! Perfectly confident! I smiled at the class and proceeded to finish with every bit of self-control I had hoped for in vain…now there it was !! Wow! I actually looked good! No one had any idea of my desperation. No one had been able to hear the blood pounding in my ears. No one could see the deflation of spirit or the complete depression that was trying to force itself upon me! Alright!

Within a very few weeks I began teaching classes. During my first session my palms, that sweat profusely when I’m nervous, were soaked with flop-sweat. Twice during the lesson they actually slipped off the podium as I attempted to control my fear. Upon completion of the class I asked the CFO to stay behind as Bob and I had bonded pretty good as we worked together on this project. “How did I do, Bob? I was shaking like a leaf. Was it too apparent?”

“Couldn’t even tell you were nervous.,” he replied. “It looked like you had been doing this your whole life. We you really nervous?” I confirmed my state-of-mind when Bob said, “None of us could tell, Lar. You looked like you knew your subject inside and outside and just before we finished John had mentioned to me how confident you actually looked! I think we’re going to enjoy these sessions.”

My nervousness was gone.

My fear of public speaking rarely raises it’s head anymore and when it does I’m well aware that I can probably fake confidence long enough to get through whatever situation I have found myself. Also…I now absolutely LOVE teaching and would do it for free if I could make a living from it.

I’m still learning how to overcome my shortcomings and, of course, struggle regularly with issues that still remain in the back of my psyche but there is nothing like the feeling of successfully succeeding at something which you are absolutely convinced you could never pull off.

YES!! I LOVE a good challenge!!!

1965 - Ups And Downs

I pride myself in being able to learn from listening to the experiences of others or to pick up new science and technology advances from various periodicals. Sometimes I just seem to insist on learning by doing. This little adventure starts with my summer retreat with many boyhood friends on a 4-day outing to a Church-Camp in central Wisconson.

1965 – Ups and Downs

I looked down. The ground was far below and I was clinging to the side of a sheer rock cliff having free-climbed ¾ of the way up the mountain face boarding the east side of Devils’ Lake, Wisconsin. We had climbed higher than the tree line and the view from here was lovely. The lake was a beautiful shade of deep blue with the sky reflected in its surface. Reflected clouds moved in silent unison with the sky above. The trees were bright green under the early afternoon sun except where clouds darkened the green to a deep olive-color. I glanced up to see Robin a few feet above me scooting sideways along a rocky knife-edge-shelf that led to another hand-hold that would give us access to a crack in the wall, up which we could climb. I looked back down wondering if I pushed off hard enough could I make the treetop of the tall spruce 30 feet below. I certainly looked close enough to reach but I remembered when we climbed past the tree was a good 15-20 feet from the wall of the cliff. I don’t think I had the strength to cover that much area but it would be my only out if I made a mistake at this point. Further down was the large boulder field that extended maybe 50 feet up the wall and extended a good 100 feet out. It was a rocky hill of debris resulting from hundreds of years of falling rock. Most of the rocks and boulders were small, only a few inches across but there was no shortage of large boulders that were several feet across. I hoped nothing big decided to go for a tumble today. At that moment a spray of dust and small stones rained down on my naked head. I hugged the wall and hoped there was nothing big enough to knock me off my perch. A rock the size of my fist flew by my head, missing by a mere foot and the light dusting of dust and stones stopped. I Yelled “Hey! Watch it!” in Robin’s direction, although he had gotten a similar dusting from some unseen citizen standing at the top of the rise. They obviously had taken the path up to the top. A longer path that took much less time and wasn’t nearly as dangerous – or as much fun.

I reached the ledge upon which Robin had shuffled to the crack, or his next pathway up, but decided to find my own way when what appeared to be a clear path offered itself to my eyes and hands. I pulled with my hands and pushed with the one foot that still had an outcropping upon which to push. Stuffing my right hand entirely into a crack in the wall I stretched out with my foot to an outcropping that was a bare inch further than I could reach…if I could just…I felt my foot slip & I reached out for another purchase with my left hand not finding anything immediately. As my right hand took on more and more of the weight of my body I realized my balled fist, securely stuck in the crack was the only firm hold I had upon the wall. I was tempted to open the fist to grab an obvious handhold just beyond my current handhold that, until swinging free, I was unable to reach. Unable to find anything close to that spot to put feet or my other hand I quickly discarded that idea. My arm began to ache with the full weight of my body hanging from it. I heard Robin shout something to me but in my distracted state I only had one thought on my mind so I heard only sound, which didn’t register as words. Stretching with my left foot I pushed against a rock that jutted out of the wall-face, causing me to swing away from the foothold but which I was counting on to secure my place when I swung back. I felt skin abrade from the back of my hand where it contacted something sharp in the crevasse into which it was so securely held. The abrasion hurt but was, in fact, comforting as the pain informed me I was securely held until I could find purchase. My swing back brought my foot easily within the range of the outcropping but was I was unable to put any weight on it before my momentum swung me back. At the last second, I pushed off with my toes to increase my swing. My wedged hand slipped. It was only a hair-width but it was enough to scare the hell out of me as my life, or the plummet that would end it, passed before my eyes. When I swung back my foot reached out and secured my place. My left hand found a secure spot and my other leg found a steady spot. I stopped my swing and held on to the face of the wall like I was trying to be absorbed by its solidity. I was flat against the wall, breathing fairly heavy from the fright and feeling as though I was on solid support. I uncurled my right fist and it came loose from the crack it had held so dear. I had lost a couple of inches of skin but it was a shallow wound that would soon heal with no evidence it had ever been so abused.

I shuffled back over to the ledge Robin had so successfully navigated and headed back upwards. With only about 15 feet to go it was a relatively short climb to the top. As I wrestled my arms over the top ledge Robin pulled on my belt loops in an effort to help. It did. I lay exhausted on my back staring at the lovely clouds listening to Rob excitedly relate all of the bad things that went through his mind when he saw me dangling. As I lay recovering from my climb a group of campers walked casually by – having taken the path up (wimps!) which leisurely wound back and forth around the back-side of the mountain. It was long and uphill all the way so, for some unremembered reason, Robin & I decided the path would be take too much time and energy…like climbing the face didn’t take any energy. The amount of time we took for the climb was approximately the same amount of time to deal with switchbacks and u-turns as one climbed the “recommended” trail so we felt our trip was justified.

Ah, the insanity of youth.

We took the easy way down via the well-worn path. It was a casual walk, that meandered back and forth offering beautiful views which we could enjoy with a great deal more leisure.

The Devils’ Lake community included, of course, a lake. It was relatively small and shallow with the shoreline keeping shallow for several hundred feet into the lake. 10’ Lifeguard Towers were set along the shoreline just offshore in about 3’ of water. Robin and I, taking pride in our diving ability practiced diving off these towers into the 3’ of water. Robin scrubbed skin off his nose during his first dive and I did the same thing to my chest, but we were both able to perfect the “shallow-dive” mom had shown me years before. Mom was not a good swimmer and was deathly afraid of deep water but, still, as a youngster had learned the basics of diving and swimming. She was the brunt of many a joke as her diving style appeared to be a “bounce” off the surface.

As a little girl she, too, had attended a church camp where there was a lake. Unfortunately a thick layer of mud bottomed her lake. She had somehow become tangled in weeds and mud at one point panicking her to the point she was thereafter deathly afraid of shallow lakes. It was this event that caused her to learn to “bounce” off the surface. This was in no way a “belly flop” but an extremely shallow dive that indeed did submerge our bodies maybe a couple of feet underwater but arching our backs it almost immediately popped us back to the surface.

The previous year I had an experience similar to moms’ and, although it didn’t increase my fear of water, it did warn me to be a bit safer when playing in this medium. I had gone on vacation with my best boyhood friend, Bobby. Our freshman year his family had moved to Long Lake, Wisconsin where they had purchased a small resort complete with cabins, boathouses and swimming and boating docks. The lake itself was around 20 miles long with our little cove being only around half-a-mile across. Bobby and I had taken to swimming this mile every morning before breakfast. The third day, as we got within 100’ or so from the dock on our return trip and still full of energy Bobby and I began diving deep and swimming as much as possible of the last hundred feet or so underwater. As the bottom got shallower I was able to swim in and out of the lake-weed growing up from the bottom. It was during one of these dives that my feet somehow became tangled in these lake-weeds as I struck for the surface. I was, of course, heading for the surface because my held breath was near the end of its capacity and my body was beginning to ask for fresh air. My hands broke the surface but my feet had somehow become entangled in the weed. My tangled feet held my head some 6” or so underwater. My hands thrashed at the surface trying to move enough water-mass to force my legs loose. Simultaneously my feet tried unsuccessfully to kick loose from the tight hold of the lake-weed. No such luck.

My lungs ached terribly and, as I was already low on air, I could feel my limbs weaken within a few seconds, a function of low oxygen and sustained energetic effort. I could see the surface bare inches above me as I looked up. My lungs hurt horribly. I took a breath. It felt so good to stop holding my breath. The water flowing into my lungs was a consideration somewhere in my head but in many ways only a distraction as the importance of relief from the pain eventually overcame every other consideration for survival and any concern I had about breathing water. As my struggles lessened, the surface became less turbulent and when I dropped my arms the dappled surface quickly turned crystal clear as my struggles stopped completely and I began to relax. The sun sparkling across the surface of the water was lovely. As I observed my actions from inside my head my vision began to narrow with black closing in from the edges. As my field of vision narrowed the still-lit part brightened and I got the sensation of rushing toward the light. I noticed, as the light grew brighter my head began to hurt like one long, extended throb as from a pulsating headache. I saw no relatives, no wise voices, no flashing of my past, and no warnings about the future. Just calm. Everlasting, quiet, and a feeling of acceptance I offered myself into the Hands of Fate. As I passed out my feet and legs relaxed. I drifted loose from my entanglement and traveled the few inches up where Bobby spotted me floating face-up on the surface.

Bobby dove off the dock and reached me in only a few strokes, as I wasn’t far from the dock. Neither had, at that point, attended any lifesaving courses so he did what came naturally: Grabbing my head by the hair he held my body up then, quickly submerging, and standing on the bottom only 6 ½ feet below, tossed me over his head toward the dock. He repeated this twice until I was in shallow enough water that he could stand on the bottom and hold me in place. He lifted me a few inches out of the water and smacked me hard on the back…and again! I coughed and my eyes fluttered open. I had an enormous headache! Bobby held onto me as we wadded to the dock and I hefted myself up. I lay on my back trying to get my breath but soon turned on my side when I couldn’t seem to get a full lung of air. Turning on my side I began to cough water…more water than I thought I could hold…onto the dock.

We lay there side by side talking about the experience until I had regained my strength. Bobby seemed to still be worried but I was pretty much recovered – what the hell – I survived didn’t I? So what’s the big deal? Of course at this point in my life I clearly understand the big deal but then my attitude was…whoopdee-do. By the time we finished breakfast the incident was forgotten and I believe unspoken until now. I’m not sure we ever told an adult about this incident, as we didn’t want to wind up restricted from our morning swim. We continued these early AM swims until the day I left for home. But as for this day, we jumped up…

…And headed to the house for breakfast.

1969 - The Yards/Damage Control

Upkeep and repair is a routine part of Navy life. It is usually a dirty, bothersome but necessary job. Sometimes for reasons both in my control and sometimes for reasons out of my control, it's not so routine.


1969 – The Yards/Damage Control School

“We’re not stopping, guys. I’m pretty sure we’re going to hit the pier.” As I said the last words an announcement came over the ship’s announcement system: “Rig for collision. Rig for collision.”

Stacked About the main deck were shells and “cans” of gunpowder. On the ASROC Deck were stacked missiles for the ASROC launcher. We were headed into the Seal Beach Ammo Pier to offload all of our ammunition and explosives in preparation to go into dry-dock the following morning. I was on the bridge standing behind the helmsman and watching our approach to the pier upon which we were to begin the offloading…next to which we should have moved slowly up to and our bumpers would gently kiss the wooden boarders of the pier as we tied up and prepared to spend the day carrying ammunition, by hand, to the stocking pallets which the Seal Beach Command would secure and store. Rumor on board was that 1 or 2 of those missiles could have been nukes…great!

I heard Mr. Weaver over the sound-powered communications system which linked the bridge with all major departments in the ship and all lookouts, “Larry sayz were goin’ ta hit the pier.” His Oklahoma accent was stronger when he was comfortable and this docking should have been the most casual thing we did all day. We were, in fact, so casual that I, an RD3, was on the bridge for the first time during entry into port and the CIC Watch Officer was manning the sound-powered telephone, both positions normally manned by one of the lowest-ranked seamen. After all, CIC had nothing to do but watch as all operations were inside our radar range. After some background commotion Mr. Weaver replied to me, “Really?”

“Yeah,” I replied, “we were flank back on the port screw and flank forward on the right just trying to get’er to twist. Now we’re back flank and the helm is full to port. Nothing is happening – no response. ” The ship, when properly handled, should have twisted around in place and moved gently toward the pier. As it was we were moving quickly forward with no indication the ship was responding at all to the helm. In this case quickly was around 2-3 knots. As we spoke, awaiting the slow-motion collision, I heard a loud SLAM! from aft the starboard wing. I ignored the noise as all of my attention was focused on the oncoming pier.

Just before we made contact the Captain took command of the ship back from the Ensign that had been commanding the approach. He did this with a quick “Aw, shit! Captain has the Conn!” He knew it would be best during the investigation if he had command rather than the log showing a rookie was in charge while the Captain was present. Everyone on the bridge that wasn’t holding on to a solid structural part of the bridge felt drawn inexorably to their knees as the mass of the rapidly slowing/stopping ship transferred part of it’s energy to the crew. A loud grinding noise began to squeal as we came to a stop in a space of around 20 feet. A personal investigation later revealed that full 10-feet of the pier had been removed/bent/deformed by the impact chewing heavy wooden support beams, steel structural beams and thick concrete. Another 10-foot had been similarly abused and chewed out of the nose of the ship. The crew members that had been manning the area near the chain locker and the main deck barely escaped damage by heeding the warning I had given to Mr. Weaver and the collision warning.

The loud slam I had heard was RD3 Bob breaking through lines that tied the outer hatch to CIC and the hatch slamming open as Bob made his way overboard. Not long before Bob’s ship, and our sister ship, The USS Evans, had been cut-in-half at the flex joint by the Melbourne, an Australian carrier, while at-sea on maneuvers during early morning hours. His time spent bobbing around in the water awaiting rescue was an event he didn’t want any part of and was determined if any ship he was on was in an accident, he would not be on board. Bob had related that when he was in the water he was surrounded by other sailors in the same predicament but was aware that in the deep darkness, if the searchlight missed him by 1-foot he would probably be left floating alone in what felt like the middle of the ocean which, for all practical purposes, he was. As he tried to escape our ship on its way through the pier, he was caught by 2 of the deck-crew who held him on the ship as he hung off the outside of the deck railings.

After retrieving and calming Bob we completed the tie-up and proceeded to unload the ammo as planned. Within a few hours we were underway for the final leg of the trip to Long Beach and “The Yards” where we would spend the next few months in dry-dock. The first project was the replacement of the nose of the ship which was manufactured complete in the yards and moved into place with a huge crane which held it in place for the 2-days while welders secured it in place.

A month later, as the Document Control Petty Officer, I made an official change to the charts indicating that, when the tide is coming in, the current in Seal Beach runs quickly through the channel and forward, under the pier, north and out. We had been caught in what could be called a ship-sized rip-tide.

Two weeks after we were safely ensconced in dry dock I was giving the task of climbing the main mast in order to do routine maintenance on the radar antenna. As I was one of the few sailors in my division that was willing to climb the mast I often got this task to perform. The climb up this 2-foot thick spar, although a little scary, was worth the climb for the view. From a vantage point far above most of the shipyard allowed me to easily see the entire port of Long Beach as well as significant parts of LA. I settled on the yardarm in preparation to scoot out a couple of feet to make my way around back of the antenna and antenna-motor to loosen a fitting and insert the grease gun when…”HEY, SAILOR!! GET THAT SAFETY BELT ON!!”

We were required to wear a thick leather belt that was secured to my waist like a too-big belt. Attached were big brass rings on opposite sides of the waist. To these were attached long ropes with hardware attached intended to secure the wearer to whatever handy structural point to which they could be attached. I yelled back, “THIS THING ALMOST TRIPPED ME UP HERE ONCE!! IT JUST GETS IN THE WAY!!”

“I DON’T CARE!! GET THAT BELT SECURED!!” I grumbled as I hooked the lines to a small diameter pipe that ran along the side of the yardarm and began scooting out the couple of feet it would require to get around to the rear of the antenna. I glanced down. My safety-watch, a seaman who’s only job was to watch my progress and keep me safe was being chewed out by our Chief Petty Officer who was giving him “what-for” with full voice. I assumed the conversation had hit on the subject of my safety-belt at least once…possibly more…probably a lot more. I ignored them and scooted forward reaching out for the support on the rear of the motor unit that drove the antenna. Unseen to me, grease had oozed from the fitting on the rear of this unit and made the fitting I usually used for support extremely slippery. As my hand grasped the unseen fitting I placed my weight on my outside leg and pulled myself forward putting the majority of my weight on the one foot assuming security by the fitting which I had to grasp. I put weight on the foot and transferred my momentum to swing myself to the rear of the motor. This was normally done in one smooth motion. As I grasped and transferred my weight the unexpectedly greasy fitting slid from my grasp and I found myself overbalanced on the one foot with no other purchase available. My hands reached out for anything available but were met with empty air. I felt myself pitch forward and noticed somewhere inside my head that the sky was incredibly blue and clear. The next view I remember was the bottom of the dry-dock – the concrete floor of which was around 120 or so feet below. I came to a hard stop dangling like a spider at the end of a web. I was only a foot or so from the mast but stopped facing away from that structure. I froze. I was afraid to move a finger until my slow spin brought the mast into view upon which I franticly reached out with both arms and gripped the structure with all my strength. The whole incident: slip, fall, dangle and grasping probably took less than 3-seconds but every moment seemed endless. When my foot touched the ladder during the wrapping of my arms and legs around the mast, I thrust it through the rung and pulled myself into a more secure feeling position on the ladder. For a few seconds I held on like I’d found a new lover. As I was only a few feet from the platform upon which the antenna & mechanics were located I quickly scrambled onto the platform and lay flat on my stomach gripping the edges of the platform with what can only be termed a “death-grip.” I took a couple of very deep breaths. Looking over the edge I saw the two sailors still in conversation about my safety belt. Shaking off the fear that controlled my limbs I grabbed one of the rags that had been brought aloft to clean any dirty or greasy fittings. Knowing that a report of the incident would be investigated, and I would undoubtedly be found responsible as deserved, I said nothing. Pulling myself to my knees I reached around the motor housing and wiped off the fitting upon which I had counted for support and balance. I would never forget to wipe-down that fitting in the future trips aloft.

I proceeded to complete the job and climb down the ladder to the waiting safety-watch. A short conversation confirmed that neither he nor our superior had noticed my fall. He got rather excited when I related my story and dispite being of a lower rank, proceeded to chew me out noting that he, too, would be in trouble if something bad had happened. He was preaching to the choir.

For some reason neither of us mentioned what this “something bad” could have been.

A year later I was enrolled in a Damage Control School in preparation for my advancement to 2nd Class or E-5. This was a 2-week class including a week of firefighting and disaster preparedness while the second week consisted of learning to weld and cut with a torch as well as learn how to make and use plugs and shore-up bulkheads.

Fire-fighting was very educational as it taught the basic requirements of a fire (heat, oxygen, fuel) in the classroom and, in practice, how to fight almost any fire, except electrical, with salt-water. We learned the value of smothering the oxygen and removing the heat by using a fine mist of water. That week we also experienced what it was like to walk around in a room full…FULL…of tear-gas. We did this both with and without gas masks. Whew! It was an exciting week!

Damage Control School was scheduled for the next week where we spent a day learning the principles behind and how to use a cutting torch and a welding rig. The following day we learned about different kinds of holes and how to plug them. The methods were a bit different, of course, if the damage was above or below the waterline. The next couple of days were spent studying and creating braces and structural supports that would serve to keep water out or maintain the structural integrity of the vessel. Friday was graduation.

Friday morning we arrived to find our 2-deck practice area ready for the exam. Our task would be to, acting as a team, repair damage, shore up damaged bulkheads and escape from our compartment into the flooded compartment directly above us. The first couple of hours we repaired the damage as previously instructed and formed specialized teams to handle the individual problems as they occurred. Finally it was time for the final graduation exercise – the escape through a flooded compartment. We were unsure of the amount of water but that was expected as in a real emergency we would only know the room was flooded, not necessarily how deeply.

We lined up with the tallest and strongest sailors at the front of the line. When the order was given the hatch was un-dogged and we prepared to enter the flooded compartment. I bent over at the waist placing my head firmly against the buttocks of the sailor directly in front of me. Everyone was in a long line leading up the ladder to the hatch where the lead-sailors awaited “the word.” We were all similarly posed in preparation for our great escape.

Upon command the men on the ladder pushed upward against the weight of the water in the flooded compartment above. As soon as a crack appeared water began to pour down and, with the help of a compartment-sized bubble, the hatch burst open and what appeared to be a solid column of water shot towards the deck. The water began to slowly fill the compartment as I shuffled forward, my head firmly placed against the butt of the sailor directly ahead of me and my hands were hanging onto his belt. The sailor behind me shuffled along poised in a similar position. As I reached the ladder and stepped into the column of water I found it was actually somewhat clear inside as the column was broken by the presence of the bodies above me. I put my foot on the first rung and felt myself flung upwards with the pressure of several sailors pushing and the sailor, now above me, pulling. As I reached the top of the ladder the belt I was holding onto was ripped from my hands and I felt hands under my armpits. The first two men out were standing one on either side of the hatch. In unison they were ducking down to grab an upcoming sailor by the armpits and flinging him across the room. I flew to their left and turned to see them flinging the next sailor in line to the right. I scrambled out of the way as the next sailor flew in my general direction. In no time at all the last sailor had arrived and the hatch was forced shut and dogged to: 1) create a buoyant “void” to assist in the buoyancy of the entire vessel and 2) so, after this exercise, we could visually see exactly how much water had flooded the lower compartment. The amount of water that had gotten through was impressive but much less than I had expected.

Early afternoon we were released back to our barracks to change and proceed back to our individual ships or shore-commands. We were wet, we were happy and we were ready for whatever the future may bring.

1961 - Lessons In Physics

Curiosity killed the cat...a bit of foolish overconfidence could have had something to do with it, too.

1961 – Discovering Some of the Laws of Nature

Yep! Did it again!

2-days ago my inquisitive mind got the better of me. Seeing the discarded bottle of Tide sitting on top of the garbage can, right next to the 3-foot high ceramic backyard fountain, I thought, “I wonder if a couple of drops of soap would help clean this scum?” I had been contemplating exchanging the water in the fountain for something fresher but that would mean a slimy-mess to clean before adding new water. Perhaps a couple of drops of soap would help. I had emptied the last of the soap into the new bottle so there couldn’t be more than a few drops left. I grabbed the “empty” bottle and unscrewed the cap.

Ever heard the saying that more people are accidentally shot with “empty” guns than any other kind? Well, this was an “empty” bottle of soap which when turned down delivered a huge dollop of nice blue soap. I’m afraid a four-letter word escaped before I could prevent it. Let’s pretend it was “damn.”

Immediately suds began to fill the fountain like some runaway Laundromat washing machine in a slapstick comedy. They began to spill over the side and I knew there was no way I was going to clean this up before my lovely wife returned home from spending her weekly allotment of thousands-and-thousands of dollars…at Wal-Mart.

I was immediately reminded of the “experiment” I tried at the age of 11 while alone at home. This felt surprisingly like that experience although the “experiments” were not exactly the same. I had been digging around in the kitchen drawers when I came upon mom’s meat thermometer. It was long and filled with red-spirit which was plain to see. The temperature went all the way up to around 600-degrees – wow!

I first measured the temperature of the water in the sink. It got pretty hot but nowhere near the top of the thermometer. I put a pan of water on to boil. As it began bubbling and spitting water over the edge of the little pan, filled way-to-full for boiling water, I stuck the thermometer in but was immediately splashed by hot water. Grabbing a hot pad I moved the water to the sink and inserted the thermometer. Hmmm…212-degrees. Still not very high…I turned back towards the stove to turn off the burner when I wondered, “Just how hot is that fire?” I tentatively inserted the thermometer into the fire. BAM!! The top of the thermometer exploded in a dramatic spewing of hot red-spirit.

Did you know thermometer-spirit is indelible? It is…yep.

I looked up to see various sizes of bright-red spots all over the wall…the refrigerator, the toaster, the few pans hanging on the wall and the stove were similarly decorated. Come-to-think-of-it I probably had a few red-spots on me, too. Looking up I saw a smattering of little red spots all over the ceiling. I cringed and looked away – towards the floor - and the old yellowed linoleum, now freshly decorated with a multitude of little red spots. I got a rag and some cleaner out. They didn’t wipe-off…in fact they didn’t even smear. They looked pretty permanent and mom was due home any minute. There was going to be no getting out of this. That was a good lesson in physics and the power of expanding steam now reminds me of a story which I believe was told years ago by a classmate, Gary Burns, about a back-yard camp-out he had with Jeff Endicott. They, too, had a lesson to learn about the power of steam.

As the story went, after a couple of hours of running through the neighborhood late at night during a backyard camp-out they were worn out from playing and wanted a snack. Jeff snuck into the kitchen and quietly looking through the canned food found a can of pork n’ beans. He proceeded back to the campfire and put the can near the fire. Then he and Gary kicked their shoes off and retired to the tent. They sat inside with a flashlight talking and joking when…BAM!!

Something had exploded right outside the tent! They rolled out in a rush and as soon as their heads broke cover they could see little spots of fire embers spread out for about 10 feet around the fire. Avoiding the glowing spots they jumped out of the tent and immediately began a different kind of jumping in a desperate attempt to get the boiling-hot beans unstuck from the bottoms of their feet where they stuck with unbelievable tenacity. Eventually finding themselves outside the ring of damage they dropped to the ground and scrapped the hot beans from their feet. They sat about 6’ apart and as the urgency of the burning feet faded they noticed that right there halfway between them was what used to be a can of pork n’ beans. It was opened up along the seam and had one lonely bean stuck to the inside otherwise appearing as clean as the day it was manufactured.

They learned about the power of steam that night. I should have listened.

These aren’t the only times I had to learn about the forces of nature like steam…and gravity. This was a lesson I had to learn at least twice. I learned it once from the top of a tall tree in our backyard and again diving between two objects that were farther apart than they looked.

Our tree was a fairly thin but strong tree in which we had built our “tree-houses”, rarely more than a board hammered into place, and where we could survey most of our part of our little village. I had climbed to the very top where the only part of the tree that was higher were little branches that wouldn’t hold me…or would they? I was now higher than our 2-story house which I figure was about 30-40 feet off the ground. As I never had much fear of heights I was willing to attempt to increase my elevation to see the school-yard down the block. Suddenly a branch gave way, not the first time something like this had happened, but this time when I grabbed for a branch to restore my balance and it, too, broke off cleanly. I fell backwards and began plummeting towards the ground. I grabbed at passing branches and twigs as I bounced from limb to limb, sometimes getting a good grip only to have the momentum rip it from my hands and toss me on a new trajectory with new twigs and branches. After plummeting what seemed like a few feet I managed to grab a branch upon which I had fallen full-force full-body. Wrapping my arms and legs around the fairly substantial limb I bounced up and down for a few seconds before I looked towards the ground. I had fallen farther than anticipated. Holding on to the limb with my hands I dropped down so I was hanging on freely. Letting go I dropped the remaining couple of feet to the ground. I had caught the last limb before hitting the hard, hard surface. No problem.

My real lesson on the force of gravity came when I attempted to jump from the chicken-coop in the neighbors’ back-yard and into his cherry-tree. The distance didn’t appear to be too far so I couched in preparation for the jump, ignoring the pile of discarded and broken canning jars immediately below me. The pile of broken glass was over 2-feet high and spread out over a few square feet. I launched myself into the air aiming for the closest and most substantial branch. Missing completely I smacked into a higher branch and fell towards the ground. Landing lightly on my feet I dropped into a slight crouch to take the impact which set me up perfectly for the depressed branch to whip back up and slightly to the left where I stood still recovering from the jump. Pushing me off-balance I fell towards the pile of glass. Seeing the on-coming shards and points I rolled my body to the right towards the edge of the pile. Using my left hand and arm as a lever I thrust it into the edge of the pile and pushed my body away from the shards of blued glass. I grimaced as I landed on my back expecting multiple points of glass to thrust themselves through my clothing and into my back. Nothing! No pain! Alright! I jumped to my feet and felt something warm running down my hand. Lifting my left arm to look I was squirted in the eye with warm spurting blood coming from a wound in my wrist. I ran through the hedge that separated the two houses and headed into the kitchen…and mom.

Despite initial excitement and panic which lasted about 5 seconds mom grabbed a dish towel and held it tightly to my wrist. It immediately filled with red blood and began dripping on the floor. Grabbing a second towel she threw the first into the sink and wrapped the second around my wrist telling me to hold it tightly. “No! Tight! Try to make your arm numb. Don’t let ANY blood through!” She ran to the telephone and called the Winthrop Harbor Police Department. They showed up within a very few minutes and I was carried by the officer into his patrol car.

I remember the trip very well from my vantage lying on the back seat as we sped towards the Zion hospital, siren screaming and weaving in and out of traffic. I started to sit up for a better view of our ride but immediately got dizzy and fell back onto my back. Eventually we arrived at the hospital and I guess they took care of me because I’m still here and I have a nice scar on my wrist from the event but I have no memory at all of the hospital.

I’d like to say I’ve learned my lessons and my problems with the laws of physics had cured my reckless streak but they, evidently, didn’t completely take.

If they had…I might not have a fountain to clean.

1974 - A Weekend With A Junkie

I'm usually not one to shy away from an expeience but sometimes being on the outside looking in is a much more comfortabe place to be. This was one of those times.

1974 - A Weekend With A Junkie

“Johnny! Johnny!” she called again and again. We had been standing at this door for three minutes pounding on the door and getting absolutely no response. “Johnny! Johnny!”

“Come on,” I said, “He’s obviously not here.”

“No, just hang on. He’s here.” She began pounding again. “Johnny! Johnny!”

Amazingly enough, after a good 5-minutes of this incessant pounding I heard a noise form the other side of the door. The curtain covering the door-window moved aside and a face appeared. He was blurry-eyed and unshaven with unmanaged hair askew and clothes wrinkled like they had been worn through multiple nights. When he saw Roseanne a glimmer of recognition crossed his face, still swollen from sleep, and his eyes finally appeared…at half-mast. The door rattled and, after a few seconds figuring out the how his dead-bolt worked the door slowly opened about 3-inches and stopped hard, coming to the end of the security chain. I heard a loud “Whoa!” and heard a hard impact with the floor. The chain holding the door from opening fully had evidently surprised the occupant who, upon losing his grip on the doorknob, fell heavily backwards onto the floor. He climbed back to his feet and unlatched the chain. The door opened to a dark, smelly mess that was my second introduction to a junkie lifestyle. It was in sharp contrast to Roseanne’s house. After all, Roseanne’s place was neat and clean. Her windows were open to the outside and curtains were pulled aside to let in the daylight. That was in complete opposition to what I now experienced. Inside this place it appeared to be midnight.

It was 3:30 on a clear spring Sunday afternoon.

Roseanne and I had met at a Blue Oyster Cult charity concert the previous evening. I had gotten my ticket by bringing a can of Spaghetti-O’s as a donation that would be distributed to the homeless. The band was at the top of their game and were cookin’ their collective butts off onstage. “Don’t Fear The Reaper” was followed by what the band called proof that “The Guitar Will Destroy The World” wherein everybody on stage except 1-drummer and the bass-player were playing in either unison and harmony with a driving beat that made me want to get off my seat and dance. I asked the girl next to me if she was interested.

She was petite and quietly pretty. Like me she was a “hippie type” and, consequently, didn’t wear a lot of makeup. This was not unusual in this rock n’ roll crowd at the San Diego Convention Center in December of 1973. We were both about the same age, which for me was 23. She had long straight dish-water-blonde hair and lovely blue eyes. She was thin with small, pert breasts that moved freely under her top. The smell of Herbal Essence shampoo was in her hair and there was just a touch of a baby-oil scent that I recognized as a female body spray. She was around 5’2”, which made her about 3 inches shorter than me. My arm fit naturally around her waist as we headed for the floor. When we were danced out I accompanied her back to the bleachers where we were sitting. My arm wrapped around her waist and she held on to me in kind. As we sat and talked it became obvious there was some attraction between the two of us. When I left for my van she was under my arm hugging her body closely to mine as a shield from the breeze. Although I thought it was a typical pleasant San Diego evening she seemed a bit chilled. She drew closer. There was no objection on my part.

We retired to her place where we sat in comfortable conversation until one moment led to another and around midnight what would pass for romance on this night began its sensual dance. As we prepared to retire to the secret bedroom (really – secret – through a hidden door and carved right out of the hillside that made the second floor apartment, upstairs, a street-level abode) she paused in her preparations to inform me before we started anything she needed a little “taste” to feel better. I was well acquainted with the drug culture having lived on the inside edge of this sub-culture for the last couple of years. I was well associated by now and understood she wanted a second hit of something which I assumed she would be snorting up her nose…I was wrong. As we sat at the kitchen table and talked she prepared her “taste” which, after a few oblivious minutes I noticed was not going to be consumed using a mirror and straw but a bent-teaspoon, an eye-dropper which had a needle attached and a little bit of water. My attention was drawn to the needle as she held a Zippo lighter underneath the spoon and cooked her brew of what I was now pretty sure was heroin…something she casually confirmed as she drew the mixture into the makeshift syringe. At this point I announced I would have to go. I was becoming increasingly uncomfortable as this scenario unfolded as my exposure to powered drugs was, evidently, somewhat more limited then hers. Needles had always, and still continue to, make me nervous. She objected with a “Hey, baby. This’ll just take a minute. It’s no big deal.” I informed her that to me it was, indeed, a big deal and not anything I wanted to witness or with which I wanted, in any way, to deal with.

“But I really need this, baby, to get better,” she said. To which I replied, “Are you sick?” “No, baby but I need this to feel just a little more normal. It’d be a lot more fun if you tried it. Come on…just once. You’ll really love it.” This last was what I was so apprehensive about. I didn’t want to love something so captivating. “No, I don’t think so. I’m going to have to leave.” I stood. She suggested, “I guess I could just snort it if that would make you more comfortable.” To which I replied, “That would be better. At least I’m used to that.” “Do you want any?” she asked as she stuck the faux-syringe into her nose and inhaled. I remember thinking ‘Oh no. She not doing what I think she is? I think she’s injecting her nose.’ I pushed the thought back, “No, thank-you. I’m fine.” She nuzzled my neck and drew me towards the bedroom. I told myself, “…she snorted it, she snorted it, she snorted it…” Making the greatest effort to convince myself I did not see what I was fairly certain I had actually seen. We retired to the back room.

We arose the next day, Sunday, at the crack of noon and spent the afternoon lazing around and visiting a couple of her friends. It was that afternoon when I met her friend Johnny. After we entered we sat for a few minutes being sociable until Johnny made some remark to which I didn’t particularly pay any attention. It was evidently some kind of code because after a short obvious comment from Roseanne telling Johnny I was not in on the secret Johnny told her he “had something in the back room he wanted to show her.” They retreated into a back bedroom which from my position appeared to be completely full of clothes, blankets, crusty dinnerware and assorted debris which, I observed, made it somewhat difficult for them to seclude themselves from my sight but with a little effort they high-stepped over the mess, on around the corner and disappeared. I could here them whispering but could not make out any words. In a few minutes they reappeared both with eyes at half-mast & moving slowly. We socialized a few more minutes during which I remarked upon the suit that was hanging from a hook on the bathroom door. Johnny replied his mother had gotten it cleaned and pressed so he could go to court the next morning looking his best. Sometime during this conversation Rosanne agreed we would pick him up early in the morning to take him to breakfast & would drop him downtown at the courthouse. I just kinda went along with this idea anxious to agree to almost anything if it would get me out the door.

Later we went out to a fast-food supper and continued to enjoy each other’s company until early evening when I had to go to practice with my current group: Sweet Rush. We finished practice around 11:00 and headed back to her house. There had not been a repeat of the previous night but I was fairly confident she was sneaking away into the bathroom to satisfy her drug needs. As she was obviously trying to shield me from this I tried very hard to ignore this because – well – I was getting…well…let’s just say I was not thinking with the larger head.

The next morning we arose at a reasonable hour, dressed and headed to Johnny’s house where we went through a repeat of the previous afternoons “Johnny!” Pound – pound - pound. “Johnny! Johnny! Johnny!” Johnny eventually opened the door this time managing to not fall although, like the previous day seemed to have to figure out the security-chain all over again. As the door opened I got a good view of Johnny: still unshaven, hair a rat’s nest of disorder, obviously still un-showered and dressed in his suit. From the appearance of the suit he had slept in it most of the night. It was a mass of wrinkles and there were new stains on his “white” shirt immediately below his chin. I’m pretty sure disgusting does not actually cover his appearance but it’ll do. He told us he wanted to make sure he was ready for us when we picked him up so he dressed last night and slept in his chair. Except perhaps for the greasy couch I was pretty sure this was where he normally slept so this wasn’t really extra effort but simply passed as an excuse for looking like hell. We left for breakfast.

I was directed to a little building in the barrio that stood alone on a lot which appeared to be the only structure still standing on the entire demolished block. Walking to the site from my van I noticed a short line, the end of which we joined. No one around me spoke English except Rosanne who, like me, spoke no Spanish. As I shuffled along I picked up a metal tray similar to the trays we had used in the Navy and placed it on the tray shelf so it could be pushed along with everyone else’s. When we came to the steam table I peered through the glass sneeze guard at the selections preparing to order. I moved forward with the line shuffling until I came to the first selection: rice. At the time I was not a big fan of rice so had intended to turn it down so I was somewhat surprised when I found a big lump of the stuff in the middle of the tray. I opened my mouth in protest but was upstaged by a large spoon full of beans. Splat! Right on top of the rice. I stood staring at my tray. Splat! Gray stuff lay on top of the beans/rice. Except for the color it appeared to have been meat at one time. I was feeling uncertain as to the digestive ability of my body to process the meal but was shuffled along with everyone else. I grabbed a cloudy plastic glass, which I filled with tap water from a faucet hanging over the end of the line simply following the actions of those in front of me.

The end of the line led to a second room, which was filled with rough-hewn wooden picnic tables all pushed together in communal long tables and benches. Johnny took a seat directly across from me and Rosanne sat to my immediate left. Taking a spoonful of food I found it tasted much better than it appeared although somewhat bland and the “meat” was stringy and tough. As we only had big spoons in which to eat I was attempting to cut a big chunk of grey matter when I saw Johnny’s head tip forward. As his head dipped down a few inches, his eyes slowly shut. He stopped, head down and peeked out of half-mast peepers. He slowly looked up at me and his face morphed into a grimace I’m sure he thought was a smile. His eyes dropped shut again. His chin dropped. As his head was attached to his chin it dropped, too. I mention this because it seemed as though the weight of Johnny’s head was simply too much for him and his head seemed to sink into his neck until it hit a tipping point and his head flopped forward, chin coming to rest in his beans. I nudged Rosanne. “Johnny!...Johnny!...Johnny!” Eventually Johnny’s eyes opened half-mast and he picked his head up, beans and rice sticking to his chin and his week-old beard. Raising his spoon to his mouth he took what appeared to be a tentative bite. The weight of the spoon was evidently too heavy to lift as it dropped back down followed by his mouth. He dipped his head to bring his mouth down to the spoon and kept right on going. “I’m ok. I’m ok.” He murmured softly as his chin hit the tray of food. After a couple of repeat performances we let him sleep.

After Roseanne and I finished we began to try to arouse Johnny. No response. After several attempts I alerted Roseanne to the time. That morning she had asked if we could go to the airport and pickup a “friend” and time was getting short. After a couple more attempts I told Roseanne if she wanted to pick her friend up we had to leave now and informed her I was leaving with or without her. This whole scenario was just getting to be too much, regardless of the effect on my sex life. She accompanied me to the door and to my car. We left. Halfway to the airport she revealed her “friend” was actually her boyfriend who was flying in from Northern California where he had been a guest of the federal government on an attempted murder and drug charge.

I informed her I would be dropping her off and going my own way.

All of this I tell only to demonstrate how, a year later, when I was heading into a Grateful Dead concert with a fresh bag of popcorn I was greeted by a young man who was obviously an “out-of-it” junkie sitting in a crouch outside the inside entrance to the auditorium. Upon observing the popcorn, asked if he could have a little. “Sure.” I answered pouring a few kernels of popped corn into his cupped hand. After maybe 10 kernels he said to me, “Whoa, man, too much.” As he murmured this to me he fell forward, the weight of the popcorn dragging him flat to the floor. A year before I would have thought he was just being funny but now I know 10 kernels of popcorn really was way too heavy.

This was my weekend living, as close to being a junkie, as I never wanted to be.

I still think my fear of needles really is a good thing…

…a very good thing.

1967 - Another Muddy Field

1967 - Running a Muddy Field

It was a cold and rainy early-spring night. The club meeting of the Dunes Beach Surf Club had been uneventful as I climbed into the family station wagon which was mine for the evening. We had held our meeting in John’s basement instead of at the Dunes Lodge due to the weather. The windshield wipers made a futile effort to keep the window clear but mostly just smeared the dirty rain and mud evenly across the window. I had stayed a bit late to talk with John and Maureen so it was late and the rain had only gotten worse. I had ducked under my collar as I ran to the car but my back was still soaked by the downpour that succeeded in invading my CPO Jacket and shirt. After wiping my glasses on my still-wet sleeve I backed out of John’s driveway and started forward creeping slowly forward hoping for a let-up in the weather and squinting through smeared glasses and windshield. His was a small neighborhood with some paved streets that occasionally intersected with a dirt road which had now, of course, turned into mud. I crept around the corner and picked up speed. I had a 3-block stretch in front of me and there was no traffic so I was confident about my ability to navigate the next few blocks. I slowed at the intersections as visibility was still bad but, seeing no cars approaching, would hit the gas and proceed on without pause. Seeing the mud ahead I asked my self how far I had gone as it didn’t seem I had quite gone the three blocks expected. Although the intersection looked “wrong” and regardless of my uncertainty I proceeded forward accelerating through the intersection. I was sinking fast into the mud when I realized I had severely miscalculated and driven into a freshly plowed and very wet farmer’s field. I hit the gas to power through knowing that pulling a muddy car out of a field in the rain was not something I wanted to do this evening. I figured I had powered myself out of similar predicaments and resolved to do the same this time. The rear end dug in and felt like it was going to stick solid when it lurched and broke loose. I shot forward turning the farmer’s neat furrows into a mass of muddy lines and furrows that now crossed diagonally across the field making one radical turn to avoid the telephone pole laying on it’s side which also marked the edge of his field. Spotting a clear spot to my right I spun the wheel in that direction barely missing the telephone pole and plowing through the opening into the overgrown field that made up the remainder of this block.

I was free from the soft mud in the plowed field but was still stuck in the middle of a muddy field in which I could not stop for continuing fear of getting stuck. The field was not as loose as the farmer’s field but was not really firm as it was still just weeds growing through rich black mud. I was headed west running the length of the field for no reason except it was the direction I was facing when I emerged from the plowed field. Spinning the wheel to the left I slid into a turn and my right rear tire bumped another telephone pole that I spotted at the last second. I was headed back toward the neighborhood which meant my only exit would be someone’s backyard. I spun the wheel again. Emerging from a muddy field into someone’s mowed lawn wasn’t my idea of being a good neighbor so I was headed back north toward the main road. I could see the street through the bushes that densely populated the field but every time I got a glimpse of road I also saw a telephone pole lying in my way. I’d had driven the length and breadth of the field and had found no way out when I glimpsed pavement through a break in the brush. It appeared to be a 10’ patch of un-mowed, but fairly short grass and I could not see a telephone pole. I jerked the wheel toward the pavement hitting the gas determined to power through anything in my way.

I shot through the opening in the brush to find myself on solid pavement spraying mud high and wide behind me. I threw caution to the wind and counted on the sparse traffic to be light enough to let me onto the road when I realized I was not yet on the road. I was, instead moving as fast as I could to assure my release from the muddy field…down someone’s driveway headed straight for their garage. There was no time to change direction which, if I had tried this maneuver, would have simply changed my aspect as the vehicle would continue on in the same direction. The thick mud I could feel on the tires meant I would probably simply begin sliding sideways toward that same garage. In the same split second I realized my location I also noticed 3 other things: 1) There was no car in the garage, 2) it was a drive through garage with both sides open and 3) the door opening from the house to the garage was slowly opening as I sped toward the open garage door. There was no stopping as my speed was too high to even consider a stop in the short distance I had in front of me. I instantly timed the unfolding events in my head: if whoever was emerging through that door moved too fast they would be in my pathway before they saw me. They would be ok if they moved casually but, knowing I was not in control of the speed with which they dispatched whatever errand they were on, I quickly examined the other part of the equation: my own speed. A snap decision told me to hit the gas and get to the garage before the emerging individual had a chance to fully exit the house.

I shot through the open garage spewing mud everywhere, wheels protesting with a loud *blump* *blump* *blump* coming from the tires as they spun in the mud encased wheel wells. As I passed the now open door I could see past the emerging adult male to the kitchen behind him. He was slightly balding with a little mid-age paunch, in t-shirt and dress pants held up by suspenders. He stood round-shouldered and open-mouthed, on the top step with a small pail of garbage in hand, head on a swivel and staring in disbelief at the sight in front of his eyes. As I spun onto the main road I glanced into my rearview mirror to see the gentleman standing as before, mouth still agape, frozen in place staring at my vanishing taillights. He appeared to be somewhat worse for the wear as he was now covered with the same dark-colored spots I noticed distributed throughout the garage and which appeared to be the same color as the tracks that ran from the field, made a short trip over the bitter end of his lawn, headed through his garage, onto the road and disappeared somewhere under my car.

I imagine after the shock wore off he headed for a shower hopefully only to wash the mud off…but maybe also to change his pants. Me? I was relieved this incident was pretty much over and that no one was hurt.

Heart beating a-mile-a-minute headed for the local do-it-yourself car-wash.

1972 - A Cab Ride

I love to drive so you would think a job driving for a living would be perfect for me. I've driven trucks of varying sizes, RV's, school buses, vans and lots and lots of cars. The most fun to drive was the Checker. The Checker Cab was a vehicle made strictly for the taxi business. They stopped making them in '82. For some reason a driver could "sense" side, front and rear clearance making it easy to navigate tight streets and alleys at a reletively high rate of speed. My car was cab #9.


1972 – A Cab Ride

There are things you learn when you perform any unique job. Most tasks done professionally contain finer points particular to that profession and that profession alone. For example when I was a touring musician I often saw a band take a break looking like their excitement level was so high they couldn’t wait to get back on stage. As soon as the dressing room door closes bodies drop to the ground and band members sprawl on various pieces of furniture bathed in sweat and barely able to lift their arms much less run back and forth across a stage. When someone announces “3-Minutes” the band will drag themselves to their feet and change out of sweat-soaked shirts and re-dress in prep for the next set. Standing inside the dressing room door they look like limp bodies that should be asleep in bed when…”Ok…Here WE GO!!”…and the door bursts open and a crew of energetic wild men emerges to take the stage with a commanding performance full of life and energy. This is an example of pure professionalism and a side of the business to which few are witness.

Most professions, I think, are a bit like this. They are unique in ways that are unknown until taking the task on as your own. For instance driving a taxicab there are several examples of this. You soon learn the darker side of peoples lives cannot be hidden from absolutely everyone because there are always those, like a cab driver, that must assist some people in their secret lives. In 1972 I took a job as a cab driver in North Chicago. Hours were 7:00 PM to 7:00 AM 6-days a-week. Off every Wednesday. I quickly learned the general customer-schedule: Early in the shift, until about 9:00 PM we rode shoppers and restaurant customers home. Around 9:00 PM we took late shopper home and started taking people to bars. This continues in a pattern of pick-up or drop-off in the local night-spots until around 2:30 AM when almost all customers are headed home from the bar…or you assume it is home. From 3:00 AM thru 4:00 AM business is dead and I often found a gas station or restaurant behind which to park and get 40-winks while awaiting a call for pick-up. Around 4:00 AM husbands start going home to wives and wives begin going home to husbands. They are often not shy about advertising this fact. Around 5:00 AM people start for work. It is that hour between 4:00 AM & 5:00 AM that is the most dangerous.

One night while parked behind a gas station I roused myself at around 3:45 AM to find myself located with a police-cruiser parked on each side of me. The occupants were obviously fast asleep. After a minute or so the officer closest to me awoke and started a conversation which we quietly carried on for about 5-minutes when we were both distracted temporarily by a car stopped at the traffic light that was visible from our vantage point although we were mostly out-of-sight to the vehicle in question. The vehicle waited for the light to change as we watched. There was no traffic visible from any direction. Eventually the light changed from red to green and the vehicle started forward. “Watch this.” The officer said, then louder, “Hey, Jack!”

The officer in the vehicle parked on my other side looked up still blurry from sleep, “What?”

“Hey! That guy just ran that red light. I got the last one. This one is yours.” He began laughing as the other cruiser drove away lights blazing and siren screaming. Officer #1 thought this was great fun saying “Can you imagine the look on that guys face when Jack tries to tell him he ran a light?” He obviously thought this was incredibly funny.

Almost immediately I got a call for a pick-up in the typical family-style neighborhood and left for the address on my call-sheet shaking my head at the misfortune of the poor driver who at that minute was trying to explain how he had waited through the entire light with no traffic at almost 4 in the morning. I passed him in an animated conversation about a block from our hidey-hole. The officer looked frustrated and the gentleman looked more than a bit upset. I continued on to my next call.

Sitting outside the house I tooted the horn a couple of times absolutely hating to be the one making this much God-awful noise this hour of the morning. I waited. Every few minutes I gave another little beep with no response and after about 15 minutes called my dispatcher and told him I was going to get out of the car and knock on the door.

“Don’t you ever get out of the car in that neighborhood! Learn to pay attention to what I tell you and we won’t have a repeat of your last stupid loss.” He referred to an incident the previous week when I, despite warnings, picked up a flag-down call by a young-20’s type wearing a silver jacket. We had all been warned the prior week not to pick-up anyone in a silver jacket matching his description as he had been taking cab drivers to a vacant lot address and demanding their money. I didn’t listen and I didn’t think or if I did I thought “Oh, not me.” I was wrong.

After arriving at the designated address I felt something against my temple and my passenger said something unintelligible. I was still unconcerned when I turned my head to ask him to repeat his request. I found myself looking down the barrel of a pistol. I later learned his modus operandi included a 22 handgun. I can say without any doubt at all: when a 22 is 2 inches from your eye it looks like an elephant gun. He repeated, “I said gimme all your money.”

“Yessir,” I replied, “Can I write you a check?”

“Don’t be funny. Just gimme the cash and I’m gone.” I handed the cigar box and all of its contents over the seat where it was grabbed from my hand. The door slammed and he disappeared into the night. I had no idea where he had gone but I hit the gas and drove as fast as the vehicle would go for about a block afraid a bullet would be coming through the back window. I stopped after I had calmed a bit by pulling over to the side of the road to deal with the uncontrollable shaking. My failure to buy-into the nuances of our profession was being ignored at a potentially high cost. I vowed not to make that mistake again. Besides I really liked that cigar box.

I was thinking of this situation as the dispatcher repeated “You stay in that taxi!” His voice growled at me as usual with its demanding and grumpy attitude which I usually resented. This time I was thinking about how, even though I resented his tone of voice, he was actually looking out for me. Of course I was not really considering that when I lose my money so does the company…undoubtedly his actual concern. My false sense of support reassured me that I needed to listen to his advice. “Give it a few more minutes. If no one shows up I’ve got another call for you,” He growled. I sat.

After another 5 minutes I called in, “No response. Whatcha’ got for me?” I dispatcher replied with a new call which I recorded on my call sheet and prepared to hit the road. As I was doing this a competing company’s cab pulled up behind me. As I prepared to leave I told myself, “How bad could this neighborhood be? This new guy is probably responding to the same call I got.” I got out of the car and walked back to the other taxi. “Hey, how ya doin’?” I asked. “If your here for a call,” I repeated the address and apartment number, “I’ve already been here for almost 20 minutes and I’m getting no response. I’m outa here. Just thought I’d let ‘cha know.”

“I’ll wait anyway.” He replied. I left to complete my shift with no further incidence finishing up at 7:00 AM and heading to the bar next door for a couple of beers before bed. The bar was located at the far end of Genesse Street and just a few blocks from my current “home.” My boss, his shift also over, sat at the bar nursing a beer. The usual regulars were still there where they had been all night: a pool-shark who had no “customers” and a couple of hookers in the same circumstance just finishing up their nights and getting ready for their own beddy-byes. I played a friendly game of pool with the shark for no money. I lost. As usual. We had known each other for a couple of months and knew each other as regulars and fellow night-hawks so business was closed for the night and we were just playing for fun, a tradition we had established over the last couple of weeks when we were introduced by my boss, a regular of many years. “Yellow Cab had some excitement last night,” the boss said. “We heard it on the police dispatch.” We monitored all emergency frequencies as well as our own assigned frequency. “No details but there were several cop cars responding.” I left for my rooming house a few blocks away to get some shut-eye, the comments about Yellow Cab completely out-of-mind..

I arose, as usual, around 2:30 PM, I dressed and headed out for breakfast in the little coffee house down the block. I was living in a typical rooming house with an integrated stove/sink/refrigerator unit in the room and a bathroom down the hall. There was a flashing neon sign immediately outside my window that advertised the Genesse Theatre which was the business ensconced in the ground floor. The little café was mostly empty in mid-afternoon as I entered the door and took my usual place at the counter. There was a couple at a table eating a late lunch and 5 people broken into 2-little groups drinking Cokes as a mid-afternoon shopping break. “Hi, Larry!” Angela said as I sat down. “The usual?” With a limited menu and my current love of burgers I had the same thing daily.

“Yep.”

“It was so sad to hear about that cab-driver last night. Do you work for Yellow Cab?” She knew I drove a taxi but we hadn’t discussed details.

“No,” I replied, “I haven’t heard anything about it. What happened?”

“Well somebody got killed last night. I guess someone’s boyfriend didn’t realize she had called a cab and when the driver knocked on the door the guy thought it was her husband. He shot a hole in the door and killed the cab driver. Here, read the article.” She pushed a well read newspaper over to me.

There on the lower section of the front page was the story. As I read a chill ran over me. “Can I have this?” I asked.

“Sure, Hon.”

Returning to my room after breakfast I grabbed my call sheet which I was to turn in at the end of the week. The address in the newspaper was the exact address outside of which I had been waiting the night before. As I read and re-read the story. I felt a decision building inside me which, by the end of the re-read had been made. I called the company number. “I’m going to have to quit.” I told the dispatcher, “Have a check ready for me on payday. I can’t do this anymore.”

This ended my cab-driving career – a 2-month chapter in my life during which I had many encounters and experiences I enjoyed. I simply wasn’t ready to put my life on the line for a few bucks. Luckily I ran into Rory, a favorite old high-school classmate, later that same day and he recommended I apply at Downey State Hospital where I wound up working for the next 9-months. It was a job that was challenging, emotional, rewarding and, at times, exciting…

…but it was hardly ever life-threatening.