Several years ago, I remember hearing a quote from the actor / humorist Alan Alda that went something like this, “I vastly prefer reading nonfiction over fiction because fiction always seems so fictitious.” I unsuccessfully attempted to locate Alda’s Twainian quote for the purposes of this writing (my paraphrasing will unfortunately have to do). I do believe this sentiment captures perfectly a strong bias I have espoused for as long as I can remember. Impatiently enduring coming attractions previews at movie theaters in recent years, I am always utterly stunned and bewildered by the fantastical tales of space aliens, transformers, superheroes, and the like that seem to explode off the screen in a loud cacophony of supernatural, often computer-generated, fabrication. I suppose, our often hum-drum lives demand, and in fact yearn, for the type of escapism that these films provide, a welcome respite from everyday life. I have always felt that great real stories / plausible stories, which exist in abundance, are vastly superior to the banal ridiculousness of fantastical, over the top, often gratuitously violent, make-believe. As a kid I remember reading the Lord of The Rings series (never saw any of the movies) and although I will readily admit that I did enjoy the books, the reading was farcical in a tedious way far too often; I usually found myself reverting back to nonfiction and historical fiction which seems to hold my attention much better. I do realize that I am representative of a small minority in the year 2020 and quite frankly, I find this quite disappointing. The inspiration for this writing comes from two semi-recent events. They are, quite honestly, two of the best stories I have ever heard, and though they are very different, they are also connected by the sheer audacity of the respective occurrences. No cyborgs or levitating super- humans are necessary as both stories stand on the merit of everyday possibility. Sort of…
Dave, Dave, Dave, Dave, and Dave were simply five very regular twenty-something guys (all graduates of Palos Verdes High School) out on the town for their First Annual Five Dave’s reunion dinner in mid-January of 1987. I suppose I could stop there as this is pretty good already, but the story gets fabulously better from here. The five friends apparently started at the home of one of the Dave’s in the truly beautiful environs of the Palos Verdes Peninsula, an absolute oasis and sanctuary from the hustle and bustle of urban Los Angeles, just a stone’s throw from the I-405 Freeway and a veritable sea of cars and people. As a college student, I traveled near, and occasionally through the area, as I periodically journeyed from college in Santa Barbara and home in San Diego. The unofficial ringleader of the group was Dave Mulligan (24), who had recently lost his father at age 55 from a tragic, sudden heart attack. Dave M had always been a little, shall we say, unpredictable. The sudden and unexpected death of his father, who had been a comedy writer for shows such as “Rowan and Martins Laugh in” and “M*A*S*H”, seems to have accelerated this tendency.
After dinner, the Five Dave’s ultimately made it to Hennessey’s Tavern, a popular bar in Redondo Beach. They were nattily attired for the occasion, replete with penny loafers and ties. Remember this was 1987 and they were wealthy kids from Southern California, this was the style for wealthy L.A. kids at that time. After an evening of drinking, Mulligan comes up with the idea of sneaking into Marineland in Palos Verdes to “pet the whales,” something they had apparently done on previous occasions while high school students. This strikes a bit of chord with me as I once snuck into the original SeaWorld in San Diego while a high school student. Our plan was to simply get in without paying, pretty pedestrian in relation to what the evening would hold for Dave Mulligan and friends. First a brief history lesson on Marineland…
Marineland or Hanna Barbera’s Marineland Park as it was known for much of the 1970’s and early 1980’s opened in 1954, which was amazingly one year BEFORE Disneyland and ten years BEFORE SeaWorld. It was designed by the same guy that master-minded Los Angeles International Airport (LAX). In its day, Marineland was a place like no other and included an exhibit in which guests could swim with fish and docile sharks. And, it had a killer whale show that predated SeaWorld’s iconic events. These days one would simply attach a device around their head and experience it through the “joys” of “virtual reality.” Call me old fashioned, but the reality-reality version sounds much better to me; it was, unsurprisingly, an enormously popular destination. SeaWorld would ultimately purchase Marineland in late 1986 and then abruptly shut down the facility in 1987 shortly after The Five Dave Encounter, though there is no apparent correlation. Interestingly, the property would remain abandoned for 20 years. Have I piqued your interest yet?
Back to
the early morning hours of January 14, 1987… After hiking down the cliffs
surrounding the park and scaling a fence at the southern end of the park at
approximately 2:00 a.m., the Five Dave’s find their way to the killer whale
tank and amphitheater with the intention of simply “petting the whales” as they
had discussed at Hennessey’s. And then things got really crazy… Not content to
simply be at the tank, Mulligan decides to climb down the ladder that leads to
the platform used by the professional performers / whale trainers for the
public shows. As if on cue, its two aquatic inhabitants breach the platform,
seemingly happy about the appearance of visitors.
Fairly important to remind the reader that this tank is the home Orky and Corky. In spite of the cute, cuddly names, and apparent friendly behavior, they are highly intelligent, apex predators, easily comparable to African lions in regard to their place on the marine life food chain. In short, they know no predators, and in fact, most everything to them is potential prey. They have been known to even occasionally take on Great White Sharks and dispatch them with relative ease. Hunting in groups, these magnificent mammals have been called “the wolves of the sea.” Fully grown adult males can be 25ft long and weigh close to six tons or twelve thousand pounds!!! Orcas are the fastest of all marine mammals and have been clocked at speeds near 35 MPH! Head-butting and a powerful slap from a dorsal fin are often used hunting techniques utilized to immobilize prey before feeding… Finally, equipped with strong, sharp, interlocking teeth (four inches long and one inch wide) and powerful jaws designed to hold their prey in place, orcas are the incredibly efficient, alpha killing machines of the world’s oceans. And though there are no known human fatalities from orcas in the wild, there have been a number of fatalities attributed to captive killer whales in recent years. Wild animals do unpredictable things in even the best of settings.
I’m guessing that none of the Dave’s knew any of these details as to the habits of the oversized puppies with which they were about to commune. At this point, on the platform, three of the Five Dave’s get cold feet. Dave Mulligan soon makes a decision that not one in a million sane people would make. He decides to jump on the back of one of the orcas in the hopes that it would take off and give him a ride. Despite the fact that there are so many things that could have, and probably should have gone wrong, the whale takes off with Dave Mulligan, fully clothed (tie and loafers), hanging on to the upper dorsal fin. Inexplicably, Dave Berg, who is initially incredulous as to the events unfolding before his eyes, decides to employ the same strategy and soon both men are alternately surfing upon and swimming with the killer whales. The term “Don’t Try This At Home” was created for something exactly like this. Eventually, while having the time of their lives, they start to get quite noisy and they attract the attention of two security guards. Finally, with at least one gun drawn, they are pulled from the water, arrested and detained overnight in jail at the Lomita Sheriffs Office before being released the next day after being charged with MISDEMEANOR trespassing and a $350 fine. Running with the bulls in Pamplona is for sissies in comparison to this wacky rite of passage.
Some
interesting footnotes to the events of January 14, 1987… As mentioned, Marineland
which had been purchased by SeaWorld in 1986, inexplicably closed its doors
about a month after the break-in. The local community was devastated as it had
become a neighborhood favorite. Orky and Corky after the closure, would be
clandestinely transported to SeaWorld San Diego in the middle of the night.
Corky was renamed Shamu and Orky later died. As for Dave Mulligan, six months
after his arrest, Mulligan left the country with little more than the shirt on
his back and $600 cash to travel for a year. His adventures are chronicled in
his book Mulligan’s Wake which covers the wild year after his father’s
death.
Swimming
and surfing on killer whales is most certainly an event that most likely cannot
be topped or perhaps even matched. Well, lets give it a try. On March
15th, 2015 something happened that to my knowledge, had never
happened before, has not happened since, and is unlikely to ever happen again
(just a hunch) though that might be a bit of a stretch. Never say never.
Consider the many times you have boarded a
plane in your life. If I had to guess, I would say it has most certainly been
hundreds of times for myself. According to statistics that date back to 2017,
the estimated number of annual commercial flights worldwide would approach 37
million and this would equate to more than 100,000 flights of a day. Staggering
numbers… I would suggest that air travel has become a fairly commonplace occurrence
for many people. I can tell you somewhat confidently that most of my flight
experiences have been uneventful for the most part. I have been on flights that
have had minor medical emergencies, strong turbulence, aborted landings, drunk
passengers, loudly snoring passengers, minor mechanical issues which have
delayed flights, and I have even witnessed the removal of passengers for issues
that seemed pretty trivial to me at the time. And, I also must add the sense of
disbelief I experience each and every time a large, extremely heavy object
manages to become airborne and move through the sky. So, although air flight is
at this point a fairly unremarkable thing, for me at least, it still retains a base
remarkableness which will most likely never fade.
On March
15, 2015 all of the things which we thought we knew about the realties of
mundane air travel suddenly and abruptly changed. You see, British Airway
passengers and crew, on a scheduled 7-hour flight from London’s Heathrow
Airport to Dubai international Airport in the United Arab Emirates, were unsuspecting
as to the anonymous passenger than lurked among them. This was certainly not
any normal passenger. This was an extraordinary passenger that unknowingly
possessed the ability to change the course of the flight in midair with a
simple yet extraordinary trip to the lavatory. This person created the stench
heard round the world, as it became international news as its foulness implored
the plane’s crew to reach a decision that only mechanical problems and medical
emergencies had inspired previously. They aborted the flight and headed back to
Heathrow with the urgency of a true “smell emergency.”
What we
know… Luckily (not for him) a local British politician happened to be on board
and from him we learn several important facts. The pilot made a carefully
worded announcement that they were in fact returning to Heathrow. He was
careful, according to Abhishek Sachdev to make it clear to the passengers that
there was no mechanical issue. Moreover, he made it clear for all (I doubt they
needed any clarification at this point), that the issue was “liquid fecal
excrement.” According to Sachdev these are exact words the pilot chose. Let
that really sink in. Another fantastic part of the story is that British Airways
later “apologized for any inconvenience this may have caused’ as the flight
returned to London and was rescheduled for the following day (15 hours later). I
realize the term Toxic Shock Syndrome is already taken, yet, this for me, was
the ultimate TSS for these passengers and crew. Can you even begin to imagine how
ghastly this smell must have been that a closed lavatory door proved to be no
barrier and that it permeated the cabin to a degree that it elevated far beyond
the scope of a terrible inconvenience. It became a possible health issue as
articulated to the BBC by a British Airway spokesperson known only as “Sarah.” “When you’re up at
that altitude the cabin has to be pressurized so the problem is that anything
like that is actually a health and safety problem because only 50 percent of
the air is being recycled and cleaned.” Good to know! Actually, I would
rather not know this, truth be told.
What we don’t know… To this day, we still
do not know the identity of the Pooper Like No Other. We also do not know
whether it was a man or woman (though I can pretty confidently surmise that is
was a man). People on the flight would obviously know the “who” but seemingly
the name identity remains a closely kept secret. Perhaps scientists are
studying this person with the hopes of developing a “nonnuclear nuclear”
weapon. I can virtually guarantee that a name change, hair dye, and dark
glasses are strong possibilities for this person. Be that as it may, none of
this changes the fact that this unnamed person singlehandedly changed the
course of a flight in midair by the “power” of an organically produced odor
that is at the least generically familiar to each and every one of us. Nothing
more, nothing less…That is an amazing “accomplishment” that stands alone in the
history of commercial aviation as far as I know.
These two true stories are for me, really
good examples of the truly amazing which often times gets lost in the rabid
fascination with the fantastical and the improbable. For me, riding a killer
whale with no training or knowledge as to the behavior and habits of these
spectacular apex marine predators and the story behind the ability of an
everyday person to have an amazing infamous place in commercial aviation
history is the stuff of legend. Legends that actually happen are the kinds of
legends that resonate with me. You can have your Star Wars, Spiderman,
Avengers, Fast and Furious, and the like, give me The Dave Mulligan Five and
the anonymous Pooper to assuage and nourish the yearnings of my imagination and
the escapism that we all need from time to time.
After a recent gym workout, I ran into my friend Larry in the
locker room and while exchanging pleasantries, we touched upon a topic we had
discussed before, Vietnam. Incredibly, Larry had been part of a fourteen-man
team that routinely engaged in hand to hand, life and death confrontations with
the Viet Cong. Mind blowing in that Larry is one of the nicest, friendliest
guys I have ever met, and I would easily and quickly say that his
distinguishing features are a ready, hearty laugh, and an easy smile…
My Dad has been updating his autobiography of late and I have
been helping him with some editing work. One of his stories recounts the
near-death experience that he and my Mom experienced while driving home to
Southern California from a trip to Arizona. He had fallen asleep at the wheel.
After a truly terrifying forty seconds or so that included TWO 360-degree spins
across all lanes of I-10, they ultimately came to rest at the bottom of a
gently sloped 30’ embarkment adjacent to the freeway. Both were completely
unscathed, and their car suffered only minor damage. Interestingly my wife
Karen had a similar experience in Oregon on I-205 that was equally terrifying
and yet she too drove off with no injuries and amazingly, absolutely no damage
to the car. Both my parents and my wife attribute their good fortune to divine intervention.
All of this got me thinking about a handful of harrowing
personal experiences that I have compartmentalized in the nether regions of my
brain. It isn’t so much that they haunt me in any way as they clearly do not
(perhaps they should!). It is more a stone-cold realization that life is
surreptitious, timing is everything, and that ultimately “man plans while God
laughs.” Having said that, I find myself pausing as I truly believe that we
have complete freewill as humans. We are not robots whose every move and every
action are controlled by God. While I do believe that God ultimately is in
control, I do not believe that God is controlling. Discussion for another day,
yet I will simply say the complexities of life and the ways of God are far
beyond my ability to generalize or summarize despite my brief attempt to do so…
I simply feel there are times in all of our lives when we experience the
inexplicable. Sometimes that “inexplicable” is more a case of something that
didn’t happen rather than a case of something that did. Or possibly, something
that did happen, yet it happened in a way that wasn’t exactly as it could have
happened. Make sense? Probably not, and this is fine, as I believe that I am
cognitively wrestling with the unknowable.
The time is early 1989 and I am living in San Diego after
having graduated from college in Santa Barbara. Though I didn’t realize it at
the time, I was on the cusp of some big changes in my life. I was 25 years old
and one of the biggest priorities in my life at that time was distance running
and I had attained a level of competence that I would now describe as “upper
level mediocrity.” I was hoping to turn that into “upper level excellence” but
at that point (and beyond) it was never more than a work in progress. Part of
my daily routine included awakening at an ungodly hour and heading out to train
/ run before work. I look back on those days and am really amazed by the
discipline it took to get this done (60-70-mile weeks were pretty routine).
January 31st was simply another day for an early morning run; I put
on my reflective vest, doubled knotted my running shoes, and headed down from
the third floor of my apartment building in Cardiff-By-The-Sea (a small seaside
town in northern San Diego County), exiting by way of the east facing doorway,
just as I had done many times before. I do not recall the exact time, though I
believe it must have been sometime between 5:00am-5:15am. Being that it was so
stinking early, and that predawn commuter traffic was not nearly as big of an
issue in 1989 San Diego as it is in 2019 San Diego, I rarely saw anyone as I
started my runs; this morning was different. I exited the double doors and
noticed an occupied older model pickup truck parked directly in front of me in
a parking spot twenty feet or so from the sidewalk on the opposite side of the
narrow road that wound through the complex. I didn’t think much of it other
than the fact that it was a bit odd as I usually saw no one around the apartments
at that early hour. I do remember that the two passengers of the pickup looked
up at me, and though I could not see them especially well in the darkness (they
had backed in, headlights lit, with a weak light illuminating the cab) it was a
look that didn’t seem quite normal. I paused for a second and considered asking
them if they needed something, but it was a little chilly and I had a fairly
long run planned. I knew I needed to get on it if I wanted to get to work on
time.
Orange Glen High School students Anthony Pilato and Isaac
Hill were in fact waiting for someone with the worst of intentions on their
respective minds. Their glance was a glance of hardheartedness and
opportunistic malice though I obviously didn’t detect any nuance at the time.
And, I wasn’t their intended target, though I’m pretty sure my appearance was
an unwelcome surprise.
Not giving it a second thought, I started my run in the cool,
damp, coastal air (perfect running weather). Though I cannot remember how far I
ran that morning, I do remember that it was long and difficult, and that I was
happy to have reached the crest of the hill that wound down the aforementioned
road which ultimately led to the eastern entrance of the complex. As I got
closer, I could see there was a large police presence there and that the
officers had placed yellow police tape all around the area I had intended to
enter. I was told by an officer that it was a crime scene, for now I could not
enter the building. I was hot and wet with sweat but cooling off quickly; I
needed to get into my apartment, take a shower, dress, grab a bite and head to
work. So, I decided to take the long way around the building and see if there
was any chance that I could gain entry through the west side entrance. I
figured it was worth a try, perhaps I could get out of the cold if nothing
else. At this point, I had made no connection between the mysterious strangers
I had encountered at the start of my run; I had no idea what had happened. That
all changed when I did manage to enter via the west side of the building. I
soon saw blood and large amounts of it on the carpet leading to the elevator
that was much closer to the east side of the building. I couldn’t get
particularly close and I didn’t really desire to do so. I do remember seeing several
policemen in the building, and I cannot recall how I ultimately made it up to
my apartment, I just remember that I did.
It turns out that Robert (Wayne) Pearce (40) lived in the
same building, on the same floor as myself, though he and I had never met. He
was in the midst of an extremely acrimonious separation from his estranged wife
Roberta Pearce (41). She was living in Valley Center in northeast San Diego in
the home she had formerly shared with her husband of fourteen and a half years.
He had left her for a younger woman and was now living in Cardiff and working
on a construction job in Vista at the time. Roberta was a teacher’s aide at
Orange Glen High School. She seems to have gone into a downward spiral as a
result of the impending divorce. While living in their Valley Center home she
had taken in a young female student and had also allowed her home to become a
hangout for her housemate’s friends which included Pilato and Hill. Apparently,
a scheme was concocted which included the promise of a large payment and two
cars if the teenagers would agree to kill her soon to be ex-husband. Her
motivation included an attempt to reap the windfall of a $200,000 life
insurance policy that would allow Roberta to hold on to the Valley Center home
which she stood to lose at the conclusion of the divorce. Part of her story
includes drug use and sex with at least one of the teenagers who spent time at
the home.
As I briefly saw the two sitting in a stolen older model pickup
truck, little did I realize that they were armed with knives and a small
hatchet which they would ultimately use to slash and stab their victim nearly
50 times before fleeing the scene and ultimately heading back to the Valley
Center home. A badly wounded Robert Pearce would somehow stagger into the
building, take an elevator to his apartment (with a knife still embedded in his
back and his stomach sliced open). At this point one of his two roommates (which
included his new girlfriend) called for help. Pearce died approximately 90
minutes later despite the fact that he was life flighted to a nearby hospital; he
had suffered horrific wounds and there was nothing that could be done.
In the aftermath of the brutal slaying both Pilato and Hill
admitted their role in the murder and implicated their former teacher.
Conversely, Roberta Pearce maintained her innocence throughout and while
admitting to drug use and sexual encounters in her home with the students, she
rejected the notion that a plot was formulated with Pilato, Hill, and the
female student who was living in her home. The case went to trial and Roberta
was found guilty of murder with special circumstances that could have led to
her execution in the gas chamber. Ultimately, she was sentenced to life in
prison without the possibility of parole. Pilato and Hill were sentenced to be
held by the California Youth Authority until their respective 25th
birthdays.
Soon after this sad and tragic event I would find myself
living in Ventura, California starting a new life in the world of financial
consulting with Merrill Lynch. As a matter of reference, I started at Merrill
Lynch in late August of 1989 and the final sentencing in the murder trial came in
March of 1990. In a pre-Internet world stories such as this tended to stay
pretty local. Hard to imagine, but it really was a very different world in
terms of the ability to follow stories from afar… I did not think about it much
after the move, although I do recall hearing of the final outcome from family
and friends who knew of my eerie connection to the murder. I was mostly
preoccupied with my new life and job in Oxnard California. Several years later
I would find myself in the middle of another truly odd set of circumstances
that loosely connected me to what would culminate in the deadliest mass murder
in the history of Ventura County at that time.
Alan Winterbourne chose the Merrill Lynch offices on
Esplanade Drive in Oxnard (just south of Ventura) as one of many places he went
to seek employment over a seven-year period of time dating back to 1986.
Sporting unkempt, shoulder length, mound-like hair, a long, thin, scraggly
beard, and attire more suited to an engineer (his former profession) that
included a clip-on tie, Winterbourne made numerous visits to our office seeking
employment. He was always nice and very polite, and I remember speaking with
him briefly, yet superficially on several occasions. Despite his rather
disheveled look, I do remember that he seemed to possess a kindly look about
his eyes. Our office manager and good friend Richard Kraft laughed about the
whole thing as did many of the rest of us as he was certainly the antithesis of
the type that Merrill Lynch was seeking. We jokingly called him “Jesus” and I
remember that his frequent appearances at the office became a bit of a welcome
distraction from the humdrum of a typical day in the life of a “stockbroker” as
we were called in those days. Most of the time, Richard completely brushed him
off as he was hoping to discourage his efforts.
By December of 1993 I had been with Merrill Lynch for just
over four years and I had seen lots of fellow brokers come and go. My good
friend Thomas Kennedy was part of the younger gang in the office who were tight-knit
and a bit bewildered by the strange world of retail stock brokerage. I will
never forget the morning of December 3rd, 1993 when TK (his nickname
in the office) asked me if I remembered hearing a bunch of sirens the previous
day? I told him that I had and that it did seem like quite a commotion. He
looked at me with a look of complete and utter disbelief and shock, informing
me that Alan Winterbourne AKA “Jesus” had gone berserk and killed several
people including a police officer in a fit of rage ostensibly over his
inability to find work. I didn’t believe him at first, yet I knew TK well, and
I knew he wasn’t the type to joke about something like this. I believe we both
seemed to realize simultaneously that it could have just as easily been our
office that he chose to vent his frustration.
It seems that Winterbourne awoke on the morning of December 2nd,
1993 and something simply snapped though most likely, it had been simmering for
a long time. Interestingly, his odd
appearance made his quest for work essentially impossible, yet he chose instead
to lash out violently at anyone and everything remotely associated with his
failure to find work. His first stop was The Star Free Press where he dropped
off an envelope containing documents related to his long unemployment. He
politely asked the opinion page editor to look them over and that he would call
him later. And, a great clue as to the genesis of his odd behavior leading up
to the mayhem of December 2nd was contained in this envelope. Within
the envelope contained a transcript of his appeal to an administrative law
judge related to his “resignation” from Northrop Corporation in 1986. The date
on that transcript was December 3rd, 1986 (one day shy of seven
years). Winterbourne had filed for unemployment six months later but was denied
as he left voluntarily. Looking back on it, this was certainly the flash point
of his path to frustration and a year by year intensification of his inner
rage.
At this point it seems the dam had now burst, and
Winterbourne was a man on a mission of vitriol and mayhem truly beyond
comprehension. His next stop was the local offices of the California Employment
Development Department and he was armed to the teeth with a pistol, shotgun,
and ample ammunition as he entered the modest building. Witnesses say he
targeted EDD workers. When he was done three lay dead and four more were
wounded. Just as suddenly as he began, he stopped. Police were already arriving
on the scene, and Winterbourne exchanged fire with them as he ran to his car
which he had parked across the street. His next intended stop was the Ventura
unemployment office. Tragically, in an exchange of fire with local police who
were somewhat cautious in their pursuit / approach as there were civilians in harm’s
way, Winterbourne, firing a scoped .300 hunting rifle managed to direct a shot
at an unmarked police vehicle, instantly killing a decorated Oxnard detective.
Apparently, Winterbourne had some expertise with guns and perhaps he had even
been planning for this day for quite a while. No one will ever know for sure.
Winterbourne had no previous police record. By this time, Winterbourne had six
police cars in pursuit as he turned into the parking lot of the unemployment
office. Brandishing yet another high-powered weapon Winterbourne brazenly
emerged from his vehicle and was killed instantly by a barrage of bullets, he
was 33.
This became a huge story around the community and in our
small office in the aftermath of the shooting. Many of us had spoken with
Winterbourne and we all had in one way or another, laughed and joked at his
strangeness. And finally, we all realized that our office could have just as
easily been his target as we were a symbol of everything that he wasn’t, and
the tacit message was pretty clear in that he was essentially disqualified
immediately. Not fair, but that was simply the way things were in the financial
services business of the early 1990’s and I really do not believe it has
changed much since.
Once again, just like
with the murder in Cardiff, after a few weeks and months, I never thought about
it much, yet I never forgot his name. Once again the vicissitudes of life took
over and I would ultimately find myself in the Portland, Oregon area working
for the family Christmas tree business after having moved to Oregon in 2002
after many systemic changes within the stock brokerage industry that I had
enjoyed, yet often endured for thirteen years. By this time, I was married and
had three young children. The move and change of profession were very
difficult. I felt like a bit of a failure and yet I always had my lifelong
companion of competitive athletics that I used to “exorcise” the demons and I
truly believe that healthy diversion had helped to keep me sane in a world that
is, at times, quite challenging. By this time, I had traded in my pair of
running shoes for a pair of tennis shoes and I had become pretty committed to
that sport. My body was fairly beat up from all of the years of high intensity
distance running. Mainly, I had a nasty stress fracture in my right shin
courtesy of a love of overindulgence. Tennis, which I had played for much of my
life provided a decent substitute. And, then, out of nowhere I had one of those
encounters that changed my life in many ways and ultimately led to my third and
final brush with the unspeakable.
After the move, I quickly found the local 24-Hour Fitness and
slowly but surely began to meet a few people. I noticed that there was a loyal
group of runners that would meet early (same time I was there as I exercised
before work) and run from the gym. As I watched them, I would often smile as I
remembered that life and quite frankly, I missed it. I had also joined a local
tennis club and I was starting to become a fixture at a club in the town of
Gresham. Running was yesterday and tennis was today (and tomorrow), as I was
now on the north side of forty. One day after the gym had shut down its old rundown
location and opened a brand-new location, Thomas Joseph, The Pied Piper of
running at the club befriended me and asked if I would like to join him on a
run sometime. I told him my story and that I was now officially retired from
running. Thomas persisted like only he could, and before I knew it, I was
launched into a second career as an endurance athlete. I became so enamored
with the whole experience with multiple new friends, hours of hard training
with incredibly able and competitive people, and a final resume that has
included five additional marathons, multiple half marathons and 10K’s, twenty
or so triathlons, and seven Hood to Coast team runs. I had rediscovered “upper
level mediocrity” well into my late forties. I even retired from tennis
completely so I could focus on getting better. It was great and I am eternally
grateful for all of it.
One of the accomplishments for which I am most proud, is
running a marathon fast enough so that I could qualify for the Boston Marathon.
As a way of defending my claim of “upper level mediocrity” it is probably
important that I state the fact that only 12% of all marathon finishers run
fast enough to qualify for Boston. If the figure is extrapolated to all
runners, then the figure plunges to less than 1%. It just so happens that
myself and a number of runners from our group managed to qualify for the
infamous 2013 Boston Marathon.
The Tsarnaev brothers had sinister intentions for the running
of the 2013 Boston Marathon and once again I found myself in a situation, which
if not for a few fortuitous twists and turns, could have turned out much
differently for me (and our group). The following excerpt from my Boston
Marathon 2013 piece (written soon after the race) does a decent job of
capturing the series of events that allowed me to experience a sad and tragic
event as a mere bystander rather than a potential victim. I will say however,
that all Americans were in a sense, victims on that day.
“I finished my private 26.2-mile ordeal feeling somewhat
bittersweet; I enjoyed the run in many ways and even managed to “smell the
roses” knowing that it would be the last one for me. Until mile 23 or so, story
for another day…
I crossed the finish
line and was immediately processed through a series of post-race traditional
courtesies. For anyone who has run a marathon, they know the strange mix of
euphoria, fatigue, gratitude, and relief that is swirling through your system
at this point. I have experienced it many times and though it is very familiar,
it is also quite unique. After receiving my Finisher’s Medal, a metallic wrap,
a host of fluids, several bananas, and a few other items that escape me now, I
made my way to one of the countless yellow buses lining the finisher chute that
held my personal items. After changing shirts, I made a decision that most
likely saved me from being in the infamous “wrong place, at the wrong time.”
Again, one would need to be a marathoner to truly understand this… I actually
SAT ON THE GROUND AND CHANGED MY SHOES AND SOCKS. Sitting prone on the ground
is a dicey proposition after 26.2. I did it, and it was a SLOW undertaking,
thankfully…
My next move was
equally fortuitous. I wandered over to the metal railing and proposed to scale
the roughly four-foot fence in order to get to the Starbucks more quickly;
luckily for me, no way, no how… The legs just wouldn’t cooperate; I later
learned that Rochelle had tried a similar technique. As a result, I followed
the rest of the throng up Boylston and the “official exit point”. Those extra
minutes proved to be quite valuable for both of us.
As I’m making my way
toward the Starbucks, I meet a couple who tell me that they are headed to
Starbucks as well; almost immediately we hear the first explosion and see a
plume of smoke followed by the second explosion (more distant). The woman cries
out that it is an explosion at Starbucks and that their kids are there. At this
point pandemonium breaks out (sort of lost track of a concept of time at this
point) and I have a few distinct thoughts that I recall. My initial reaction
was surprise at the relative quietness of the explosions; then I was struck by
the strange mix of screaming, crying, and frantic people intermixed with others
who seemed completely unconcerned. At this point, I saw no one who was actually
injured so I really had no idea what was really happening. As mentioned, I’m
not really sure how long I stood there trying to wrap my brain around the
surrealistic scene. I remember that I needed to get to Jen and Jason, and I had
no idea if the others had managed to make it to meet them. I knew she was
fairly close, and I truly sensed that she was fine; I also knew that Jason
would be with her. Finally, I call Jen to mention that I am heading her way and
I remember going numb when she mentioned there had been fatalities and that
Jason had witnessed some severed body parts. I vaguely remember hearing that
everyone was fine and that she was coming to find me on a street off of
Boylston. Finally, the call was lost as we later learned that cell service had
been restricted in the area as a precaution against any type of remote
detonation. As I waited, I met four female Harvard students who congratulated
me on the run and it was obvious they had no idea what had happened; I told
them all that I knew, took note of their shock, and then I spotted Jen.
In the aftermath, I
learn that Jason and Jen had been extremely fortunate and had played a leading
role in helping to get stunned people out of the Starbucks. Terry and Rochelle
had taken Jen’s advice and walked down Newbury rather than Boylston in route to
Starbucks- amazingly lucky. And, that Jamie and Brittani were with Jason and
Jen and were both close enough to the Finish Line blast to see blood on the
sidewalk.
All and all we were
extremely fortunate and nevertheless quite shaken, none more so than Jason who
not only helped customers exit the Starbucks, he also came to the aid of a
visibly bewildered father and his young children just outside the Starbucks
entrance.
My heartfelt
emotions go out to the deceased as well as the many injured. We were afforded
the opportunity to see mankind at its best and at its very worse. The race
volunteers, policemen, and average citizens are by far the biggest story of
April 15, 2013; all that I saw reacted to a horrific act in an extraordinary
fashion.”
I have occasionally pondered the “what ifs” of all of these
situations. What if I had come down to start my run when Pilato and Hill were
in the middle of their savage attack? What if Winterbourne had chosen the
Merrill Lynch office as one of the stops on his path of revenge? What if I had
managed to scale that fence at the conclusion of the marathon? Or, if I had
even run my normal time? None of these are questions I can answer
unfortunately. I’ve never wasted a lot of time even trying, for better or worse.
Nevertheless, over my years, I have learned a few things
about the randomness of life; I have come to believe that God truly is in
control and that we should live our lives the best that we can. Terrible things
happen to great people sometimes in much the same perplexing way that bad
people often thrive for long periods of time. I know exactly what some readers
are thinking. “Why would a loving God allow terrible things to happen?”
Unfortunately, I do not have an answer that works for every person. Perhaps it
truly only works for me. Quite simply, human beings have freewill and that
means that over the course of our lives we will experience the full range of
human behavior. History teaches us that mankind has the (often used) capacity
to behave terribly. And yet, sometimes, the very worst of calamities often lead
to displays of the very best of human behavior. It is all very perplexing and
it is all quite opaque to the intellect. I do know that we should all truly
value and cherish the moments we have with family and friends. While this is
perhaps the most prosaic cliché I could choose to close this writing, I still
feel the need to state it as much for myself as for others that might need a
jolting, tactile reminder.
“I returned and
saw under the sun that— The race is not to the swift, Nor the battle to the strong, Nor bread to
the wise, Nor riches to men of understanding, Nor favor to men of skill; But
time and chance happen to them all.”
Ecclesiastes 9:11
“The best thing you can do for death is to ride
away from it.”
After having recently completed a writing project that obligated
me to look back on my high school and college years, I recalled an incident
that will always cause me to smile and reflect upon the periodic folly of life.
Fact is stranger than fiction, and this story is certainly a reminder of that
unassailable truth.
I graduated from high school in 1981 and I graduated from
college in 1987. I worked for a small athletic footwear business called In-Stride
in Solana Beach California off and on during the course of my high school years
and early junior college years as well as for a two year period of time after I
had graduated from the University of California at Santa Barbara (either I was
extremely loyal or a bit of an underachiever, take your pick as there is
probably a little bit of truth in either conclusion). It was a great high
school job as I was an avid distance runner who also spent a lot of time
playing tennis and basketball as well. I had access to the best footwear for
greatly discounted prices and even occasionally got to try new models for free.
It was great, and as an added bonus I got to work with several really good
friends over the years.
Immediately after high school, I, like several of my friends,
floundered around a bit in my pursuit of the next “great thing” in my life.
Since I really had no idea as to my calling, I enrolled in “Junior College”, worked
a little at In-Stride, and pursued my various athletic hobbies. It was a good
life, but the small world around me was changing rapidly. Many of my friends
had gone on to four-year universities and were experiencing new and exciting
things. Two of my three sisters had gotten married and were starting something
that for me seemed so far away. Little did I realize how much my life would
change in a few short years… For now, my time at In-Stride represented a
relatively unchallenging diversion on the path to something bigger and better;
yet ephemeral and undefined…
One of my friends in the store was a couple years younger and
somehow, someway, I became a bit of a mentor to him. Like me, Jess was a
distance runner with aspirations to compete at a fairly high level. We trained
together from time to time and became pretty good friends. We dealt with all
kinds of people as anyone who has spent any time in retail can readily attest.
Most were really nice yet there was always the random oddity that could run the
gamut of human idiosyncrasies; I could usually spot them from a mile away. We
referred to them as “difficult customers” (OK— that is the PC version of what
we really called them) and it was a near certainty that post-ordeal we would
always manage to get a good laugh at the other’s expense. Guys 101…
Nothing could have prepared either of us for the appearance
of a woman who was quite frankly the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.
Before I delve too deeply into her story, it is important to remember that this
area (Solana Beach, Del Mar, Rancho Santa Fe, Fairbanks Ranch) was (and still
is) an exceedingly wealthy area with an amazing climate for most of the year.
We were quite used to seeing attractive women, dressed provocatively, driving
really nice cars. Often, they had young children and a husband who was not
uncommonly “several” years older. Over the years, I had helped Dick Enberg (legendary
sports broadcaster), Gary Puckett (Union Gap band), and Craig Nettles (Major
League baseball player) to name a few. All had “significant others” who were
much younger than themselves. This woman, however, always came in alone or with
her son who must have been ten or so. There was something uncommonly different
about her notwithstanding her preternatural beauty. She was never particularly
friendly nor was she particularly unfriendly. It was a strange merging of the
two that almost bordered on shyness, yet she was clearly in charge of the
situation (even getting shoes for herself or her son). Jess and I worked
together a lot and on busy days we usually had one other person to help. I
ended up helping her 99% of the time as Jess flat out confessed that he was
intimidated by her beauty. I know that sounds really odd, and odder still, Jess
was an amazingly glib guy who had could converse with most anyone. I must say,
I understand what he felt. I coined the term “The Goddess” for her and we all
knew what it meant when someone uttered “Goddess Alert.” Even though I ended up
helping her many times I cannot say that any kind of familiarity or rapport was
ever developed. It was like helping an Angel who never got the memo about how
to deal with the mere mortals.
Everything about her physically was perfect. She was athletic
while managing to be not be too muscular. She was tan is a way that was
perfectly natural and made it seem as though it (her color) was nothing that
she consciously worked on. She was curvy yet you could tell that everything
about her was completely natural. She wore make-up, but you could tell that she
would have been stunning had she chosen to wear none. It was quite simply like
being in the presence of someone who was simply Beauty Personified. I remember
wondering to myself as to the details of her story knowing that is was
something that would most likely always remain a mystery.
At this time, I was living at home at 1515 West Lane in Del
Mar, a couple miles from In-Stride. I was really close with my parents and it
was a pretty common thing for us to eat out together or attend a social
function with one of their many friends in the area. I recall one random Friday
or Saturday evening in the summer of 1983 (I believe) they had mentioned to me
that they were going to a party at the home of a really wealthy couple who
lived close by (for the purposes of this story I am keeping the name and
identity anonymous). I will admit that I really didn’t like these people much
as I always found them to be pretentious and quite self-absorbed. I declined,
yet my parents really wanted me to go and mentioned that the food would most
likely be quite good. They knew my hot button and that did the trick.
We arrived and yes, for the record, the food was very good. It was the usual collection of exceedingly wealthy people living dreamily perfect lives. As we all know, that is never the case beyond superficial appearances, yet it could have been a scene that would have fit in nicely in a modern-day version of The Great Gatsby. Not really my scene yet again the food was good, and I always enjoyed spending a little time with my parents. And then, out of nowhere, it happened. In walks “The Goddess” on the arm of a guy who must have been 95-100 years old. He was quite frankly the oldest looking person I have ever seen in person. Look up “old” in the dictionary and there is a picture of this guy; I was completely and utterly stunned. You could have knocked me over with a feather I’m sure. I can remember watching her and noticing that she seemed happy and content to be there. No embarrassment, no trepidation, no self-conscious air as to the oddity of her situation. I mentioned the situation to my Dad, and he managed to get the “rest of the story” as Paul Harvey would say. It turns out, this guy was the largest shareholder in a well-known Fortune 500 company and was worth hundreds of millions and perhaps billions of dollars!
I do remember that I never saw her again, but I did occasionally wonder as to the final outcome of her “arrangement.” Clearly, its culmination was imminent as I can’t imagine that “his time” wasn’t nearly up. Also, I must admit that I envision her every time I hear the song Lying Eyes by the Eagles and I particularly ponder the line, “every form of refuge has its price.” This is not to say the song in any way depicts the real-life story of “The Goodness” and “The Cadaver,” as I have no idea, yet it is fun to imagine the strange ways of the world and the not so uncommon absurdity of the human condition. I was still young and fairly naïve. From that point forward I believe I became a little less so.
City girls just seem to find out early
How to open doors with just a smile
A rich old man
And she won’t have to worry
She’ll dress up all in lace and go in style
Late at night a big old house gets lonely
I guess every form of
refuge has its price
And it breaks her heart to think her love is only
Given to a man with hands as cold as ice
So she tells him she must go out for the evening
To comfort an old friend who’s feelin’ down
But he knows where she’s goin’ as she’s leavin’
She is headed for the cheatin’ side of town
You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes
And your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you’d realize
There ain’t no way to hide your lyin’ eyes
On the other side of town a boy is waiting
With fiery eyes and dreams no one could steal
She drives on through the night anticipating
‘Cause he makes her feel the way she used to feel
She rushes to his arms, they fall together
She whispers that it’s only for awhile
She swears that soon she’ll be comin’ back forever
She pulls away and leaves him with a smile
You can’t hide your lyin’ eyes
And your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you’d realize
There ain’t now way to hide your lyin’ eyes
She gets up and pours herself a strong one
And stares out at the stars up in the sky
Another night, it’s gonna be a long one
She draws the shade and hangs her head to cry
She wonders how it ever got this crazy
She thinks about a boy she knew in school
Did she get tired or did she just get lazy?
She’s so far gone she feels just like a fool
My oh my, you sure know how to arrange things
You set it up so well, so carefully
Ain’t it funny how your new life didn’t change things?
You’re still the same old girl you used to be
You can’t hide your
lyin’ eyes
And your smile is a thin disguise
I thought by now you’d realize
There ain’t no way to hide your lyin’ eyes
There ain’t no way to hide your lyin’ eyes
Honey, you can’t hide your lyin’ eyes
In our
lifetime we are blessed if we mange to meet a few people that truly stand out
and remind us of why we have been so fortunate to live in this once hopeful,
and yet always great country. I would suggest that one’s personal history plays
a large role as we all evolve over time. In fact, I believe it would be
impossible to appreciate my connection with the particular men I plan to
introduce, were it not for a good examination of the rather winding road that
led me to them. Being in the right place at the right time with regard to special
kinship has a serendipitous quality about it that perhaps, none of us get to
fully understand as simple human players on the complex stage of life. Possibly,
it is true about the teacher appearing only when the student is ready.
I feel as
though I have been more privileged than most, to have gained a pretty good
understanding of the American journey from recalcitrant English colony to
preeminent superpower in the span of several hundred years. Ever since I can remember, I have always been
interested in history. I simply possessed a curiosity that led me to want to
know more about the past, especially the great armed conflicts and the
unresolved questions associated with those seminal events. Moreover, I have
always believed that your passions pick you rather than the idea of you picking
and choosing what you feel most fervent about. As a result of this innate
interest, I chose to in fact major in History when the time came after a very
undistinguished academic showing in high school (graduated in 1981). Junior
college, as it was known in those days, was much better fortunately, though
certainly nothing that would suggest much more than muddling through. Luckily,
I did well enough to stumble into the next step at a four-year university not
far from my childhood home in San Diego, CA.
I ended
up graduating from the University of California at Santa Barbara in the summer
of 1987 with a degree in History with an emphasis on the American West. I will
always remember “Senior Thesis” and my original paper concerning the eminent
historian Fredrick Jackson Turner’s interpretation of the American Indian. I
poured my heart and soul into this as it was an interesting, personally chosen subject.
I also had budding aspirations to possibly become a college professor and most
importantly, it was my chance to do something well and stand out. Looking back
on my life, I believe that I have enjoyed standing out, though I will say that
it has often been an emotionally wrenching zero-sum game. Sometimes in life, we
are simply part of the herd and that has been difficult for me more often than
I care to recall or admit. I remember the day came for our small group to read
our respective essays and I was shocked by the lack of quality and creativity exhibited
by my fellow classmates. I do remember being extremely nervous when my turn
came; I started to read, and the room got very quiet. That made me more nervous
of course, yet I soldiered on and at the end, the students in the room looked
like they had seen a ghost. I got an A+ on the project and my professor for the
class, Wilber R. Jacobs, told me that it was good enough to be published. This
was the formal beginning of my “maybe I’ll get a PHD” phase that petered out
much quicker than I would have liked for reasons I have never completely
understood.
After a half-hearted and unsuccessful attempt
at applying to graduate schools, I ultimately found myself back home in San
Diego working for the same guy I had worked for in high school. Kernie
Kohlmeyer had just opened his second athletic footwear store to go along with
his mail order business and he needed someone to run the retail side of the
operation. At that point I envisioned myself as a person who knew a lot about
history, had decent writing skills, and was still a pretty darn good athlete,
who kept himself really fit by competing in distance running, tennis, and
basketball. Ultimately, I really had no idea what I wanted to do. At least I
was able to get athletic gear at great prices! Basically, I was pretty good at
having fun, was most comfortable competing in some type of athletic endeavor
and was not particularly adept at charting out a career path that would lead to
the type of life I had in mind. Throughout it all I was tormented by an inner
doubt reminding me that I wasn’t where I needed to be.
I always
tell my three kids that my 20’s were the most difficult period of my life. I
felt as though I had a lot to offer, yet deep down, in a part of my brain that
I wouldn’t even admit to myself, I felt kind of lost and aimless. Couple this
with the fact that I was “technically” engaged to a woman (from Japan), who I
had met and lived with in Santa Barbara. She was now living with me in San
Diego. She ostensibly left to visit her parents in Okinawa and never came back;
it was not an especially easy time. Suffice it so say, I’d take 50 all day long
if given a choice to do it all over again. It was at this point however, that I
had three great epiphanies that would greatly influence the formation of the
person I am today.
In order
to while away the hours while working in the main store during the not so busy weekday
hours, I would fumble around on the Panasonic AM radio that was designed to
provide a little background music for the store’s “ambience.” I stumbled onto
Rush Limbaugh and was completely transformed from a liberal leaning, naïve,
post-college student / kid to a conservative leaning, free market economy
championing, young man who began to look at the world in a very different way.
The transformation was slow and in fact it took me several years to truly revamp.
Nevertheless, the seeds were planted, and they would germinate down the road.
Going back to my formative years, I had always seen the Americans in the drama
that played out in the American westward moving frontier, as somewhat
despicable people who essentially stole the land from the Indian people who
were there when the first Europeans arrived on this continent. The Civil War
and post-frontier period redeemed my thoughts substantially, yet I certainly
did not truly understand, nor did I fully appreciate the role that the American
experiment would ultimately play in the dire challenges of the twentieth
century.
The
second seminal moment occurred when I became a little disenchanted with what I
was doing and contemplated leaving. It wasn’t that I didn’t enjoy it, I did. It
was more of a realization (thanks to my Dad mostly) that I needed to be in more
of an “equity interest situation.” I was able to negotiate a small interest in
the operation and share monetarily in some of the increased business that I
knew we could create. I remember doing a few simple things on Saturdays (our
biggest day by far) such putting a sign on my car (parked on a corner near the
store) that said “Big Sale”, and taking the time to move inventory out of the
store and placing it on tables as opposed to leaving it in the store where no
one could see it unless they came into the store. I learned this one from my Dad
as well, along with the idea of stacking inventory high to give everyone the
impression that they needed one too!!! With the help of some great “kids” who
also got to share in the proceeds of the increased business we were able to generate,
sales rocketed. I learned that you must promote, merchandise, and create
incentive. The employees all wanted to work on Saturdays because they could
make more money and the customers were pulled into the store by the simple fact
that we promoted a sale and deals. It was a fun atmosphere for all. The
experience helped me build a little confidence in my ability to succeed in a
business situation.
The final
rung in the ladder was a natural progression I suppose. My brother-in-law at
the time, Bob, was just starting a new career with Merrill Lynch and he was
doing rather well. He knew I had gone to school in Santa Barbara and it just so
happened that Merrill Lynch was looking for new trainee “stockbrokers” for
their Santa Barbara office (remember I had gone to UCSB). On his
recommendation, he thought he could get me an interview. I remember thinking at
the time that I had been a History Major, that I knew next to nothing about
stocks and bonds, didn’t own a tie, and that if hired, I would be leaving
behind family and good friends in San Diego. I didn’t feel I would have much of
a chance, yet I knew I had to try. I like to think that the collective
influences of Rush Limbaugh, my Dad, and a little success as a “retailer” led
me to believe that maybe I could do this. This was the summer of 1989 and I had
graduated from college in 1987. A lot had happened in those two short years and
I was certainly a different person in many ways; in many other ways I was the
exact same guy. I have always thought that we should change over time and in
fact at age 56, I’m confident that I will become a slightly different iteration
of myself ten years down the line. If we are a sum of our collective
experiences throughout life how could that not be the case? I’m also a little
perplexed and distrustful of people who grow older and don’t change, at least a
little.
I
remember walking into A.J. Staple’s office, and I knew right away that I had entered
an alternate universe. A.J.’s office was a conglomeration of awards,
accommodations, and the undeniable feel of trustworthiness and success (I had
to include something that captures how I would feel about it now sans the
profanity, remember people change and evolve over time). https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ityRn2IA24A. I don’t remember exactly what we
talked about, I just remember that the interview went extremely well in terms
of rapport and the flow of our conversation. I do also remember that A.J. was
extremely nice and that he was completely at ease in his ability to converse
with me though I suspected he could do this with virtually anybody. And, as I
learned later, he was the single best extemporaneous speaker I have ever met. I
left feeling I had put on the performance of my life and that there was a good
chance that they would hire me. He did inform me that I would have three months
to study for and pass the Series 7 (required test for one hoping to be a
registered financial consultant), and that it was a one-shot deal. He also told
me that I would, if hired, be working out of the satellite office in Oxnard
(south of Santa Barbara).
An
important aspect to realize was that Merrill Lynch, Pierce, Fenner, and Smith
(MLPFS) was the most prestigious brokerage firm on the Street at that time.
Needless to say, I was pretty much awestruck by the whole experience. It seemed
funny that someone with no money, could be in a position to tell people with
money, how to make money; let that sink in. The following Monday I received a
call from A.J. telling me that I had gotten the job and that I would be
starting on August 21st. It really didn’t take me long to accept the
offer and now all that was left was to create a wardrobe, learn to tie a tie,
quit my existing job, find a new apartment, and get my stuff moved in a roughly
two week period of time. I remember that my Mother made the drive with me up to
Oxnard to help me find a decent apartment and that my sister Allison helped me
to construct a wardrobe (including some generous donations from her husband)
and learn to tie a tie. The rest is kind of a blur; somehow, some way, we got
it done and I made the relatively short move from San Diego to Oxnard and was
ready to start my new life despite the fact that I didn’t know the difference
between a stock and a bond.
At this
point, fortune smiled on me again as I learned that I would be studying with
two other new hires. Peter Wroblicky and Bradley Lipman couldn’t have been more
different. Brad was a Finance Major who had probably wanted to be a financial
consultant from the time he was two I would guess, while Pete was the kind of
guy who majored in Something 101. I’m not sure Pete had any idea what he really
wanted to do at that time. I do know that he was an incredibly likable guy who
made the whole process far better for me. We immediately became fast friends
and are close friends to this day. He is a doctor now which is amazing based on
the “relaxed” manner he approached stock-brokering. I say this lovingly, as
again, he made the process so much better for me in that he reminded me time
and time again that there are more important things in life than making money
in the seedy world of financial advising. At that point in time I didn’t
realize any of this on a level that I would appreciate fully, I only knew that
I needed to learn a lot about something that I knew virtually nothing about and
that I had to do it in a relatively short period of time. That task, I soon
learned, would prove rather challenging.
Pete,
Brad, and I shared the conference room as our official study area. Our job was
to arrive looking like a stockbroker and then proceed to study all day for a
difficult test that we would take in ninety days. Pete had arrived a few weeks
before us so he would be taking the test first. Brad and I having started on
the same day, had the full ninety days to prepare. For a person like myself,
who was once described by a friend at UCSB as the guy who was studying “frogs
and Indians”, I would have been more comfortable with thirty months as opposed
to three months. Be that as it may, I set about the task of absorbing myself
into this foreign world and giving it a go. It is universally considered to be
a challenging test and I did learn recently that the pass rate is about 65%.
What made my situation a little different was that I had no background
whatsoever. For me it was truly a bit like learning a foreign language.
I quickly
learned that Brad had decided that he could essentially pass the test without
studying and that his main ambition at this point was to distract and annoy
anyone within earshot, endowed with a personality that embodied fingernails on
a chalkboard. He quickly became a detested person around the office whose
escapades are a story for another day. Suffice it to say, having him around, in
close quarters made my task quite a bit more difficult. Pete, on the other hand,
had a modicum of understanding as to the topics we were studying, so he
realized that he would need to study a little (with an emphasis on the word
“little”). He also came to realize that it took a 70% score to pass the test
and his goal was of course 71% (a little margin for error!). Then, as well as
after he ultimately passed the test, Pete was the master of procrastination and
one of his favorite procrastination techniques involved reading The Los Angeles
Times. He did this so often that I jokingly once said that Pete worked closely
with Times Mirror Corporation (owner of the newspaper at that time) and that he
did not have time for retail clients. Got a big laugh every time, even from
Pete… I ended up studying on evenings and weekends to make up for the time I
wasted with Brad and enjoyed with Pete as sequestered “roommates.” We all ended
up passing the test and yes, I do believe Pete squeaked by with a 71%! After a
two-week stint in New Jersey to complete our training we were ready to begin as
full-fledged, official, financial consultants.
I soon
learned how difficult the task would be for all of us. Calling strangers on the
phone (remember back in those days there was no Caller ID or cell phones) and
enticing them to invest their hard-earned money with you was akin to convincing
someone to take an outdoor ice bath in winter. Luckily, the newbies were all
being paid a modest salary for a period of time. We soon learned that the best
way to get a client was to have one walk in the door looking for help
unsolicited. These were usually small-time situations such as someone looking
to sell a few shares of stock or get some free advice. Nevertheless, very
occasionally it led to really good clients with substantial assets. Everyone in
the office had the opportunity to be “Broker of The Day” which also included
being the first one in, the last one out, making the coffee, and skipping
lunch. Established people in the office rarely felt the need to go this route.
The other great way to get clients was to be around when someone got fired or
left the firm for a greener pasture opportunity, signing bonus included
(successful brokers were always being recruited by other firms). At this point
an elaborate dance would ensue as the departing broker would then need to
convince his customers to move with him while the original firm’s brokers would
try to retain these clients. Dog eat dog on full display…
So, this
was the way we all basically survived while knowing that the clock was ticking
and that we were expected to show progress toward creating commissions that
would at least show that we were heading in a direction whereby we would no
longer need the salary. The only problem with this formula was that we rarely
got good accounts when a fellow broker left or was fired, and as mentioned it
was exceeding rare to have someone with sizable assets simply walk in the door.
We were openly expected to “cold call” and implicitly expected to open accounts
with any and all family members / friends who had brokerage accounts with other
firms. It was difficult, it was miserable, and it was stressful, yet I was too
young to know the difference, so I persevered in what I thought could
ultimately be a glamourous, prestigious career. Looking around the office,
despite the trappings of success all around me, I came to slowly realize that
the stockbrokerage profession seemed to create a lot of ne’er-do-wells who were
in a constant state of anxiety as to their place in the pecking order of MLPFS.
Some were resigned to it, others lived in a world of denial in which the
coveted multi-million-dollar client was always just within reach. Still others
sort of blew around like a tumbleweed hoping to survive, and a small minority
seemed to revel in the primordial pond of survival by any means… Surviving by
any means necessary often meant “participating” in Merrill Lynch sponsored
“products” that made the most money for Merrill Lynch irrespective of need on a
client by client basis. The hierarchy became pretty apparent quite early in my
tenure with Merrill Lynch- Mother Merrill / Broker / Customer/, despite
continual attempts to spin the public perception to an inverse pecking order.
In other words, you essentially had to go along to get along.
Pete,
Brad, and I transformed a bit as we attempted to navigate our way through this
morass of conflicting sentiments and perceptions. Ultimately, it shook out in
the following manner. Brad was the kind of guy who thought he knew it all and
paraded around the office with an abundance of rather arrogant bluster. He did
not know his place on the totem pole, and he proceeded to alienate himself from
any and all potential good will. Potential clients did not respond to him well
either as he never remembered the important rule about how much you care versus
how much you know. He did pretty well with the family connection thing as his
parents were well off, so he managed to survive by the skin of his teeth. Pete,
on the other hand, just seemed to be going through the motions, knowing pretty
definitively that this newfound world really wasn’t for him. Pete, being a
genuine guy with an easy smile and a carefree manner, was liked by most
everyone, and as a result, everyone was rooting for him. For me, I felt this
was my lot and that I might as well give it my best effort. I was very
respectful of the people around me and did all that I could to make friends and
gain a little insight from their experiences. I was still attempting to feel
out a very foreign world, yet I did find myself to be surprisingly intrigued by
the world of finance and it’s relation to current events as well as the
historical aspects of financial markets and the way that humans reacted (often
incorrectly) to the emotions attached to the conglomeration of financially
significant events that are occurring daily. In other words, I could see
History in Finance and importantly, Finance in History.
It just
so happened that Pete managed to fall into the kind of lucky / timely situation
that all of us dreamed about. While taking his turn as the “Duty Broker” Robert
L. Essick happened to wander in looking to transfer his account to Merrill
Lynch. A huge stroke of luck for a guy just starting out in the business… Mr.
Essick ended up transferring several sizable accounts over to Pete which
included tens of thousands of dollars for immediate investment. Pete had
managed to convince Bob (the name he preferred) to transfer his account, but
for a variety of reasons, including his disenchantment with the business and a
feeling that he didn’t really know what to recommend, Pete hesitated. Looking
back on it, I believe that Pete could see the writing on the wall and that he
knew his time was limited on both a personal as well as corporate level.
Remember, the clock is always ticking in this business. Interestingly, Pete
most likely could have done a great deal of commission business with Bob and in
turn, looked like a hero. That wasn’t the way Pete was wired and I feel that
both then and now, he would rather remain true to himself. One of the huge
reasons why I consider him a dear friend…
Pete knew that his time was short. He also
knew that the one decent client that he had would soon fall into the hands of
one of the senior, established brokers in the office. He suggested that we do a
preemptive transfer of the account from him to me. The account was the
“property” of Merrill Lynch and we had no right to move an account from one
consultant to another in the formal legalities of the company. As I mentioned,
Pete and I were well liked, and we managed to convince one of the established
administrative assistants to make the transfer. I will always remember Tess
fondly as she was breaking a rule for me in a world where breaking the rules
was not looked upon kindly. As expected, Pete was soon fired, more relieved
than disappointed. It was a fortuitous moment for me in more ways than one as
Bob became one of my best clients and most importantly, he became one of the
most influential people in my life, though I am pretty sure he would scoff at
the idea of such a notion.
Robert
Lee Essick was for me at that time a pretty intimidating figure. My job as I
saw it was to get to know him and his family and then make financial
recommendations to him based on his objectives and risk tolerance. I knew that
he had plenty of money. I also knew that I was in the business of helping him
protect what he had and hopefully earn more. I could certainly tell that Bob
didn’t have a whole lot of interest in this stuff and that with him words meant
precious little. It was almost as though he had done well in spite of himself,
and I could tell that he was a man that had lived a life that had some shadows
and crevices that few had been invited to explore. After a few initial meetings
he was still very much a mystery to me, and I thought that at best he tolerated
me, and at worst he didn’t like me very much.
Bob was
tall, perhaps 6’4”, with a full head of white hair brushed back that made him
seem even taller. He had sharp blue eyes, rough hands that had been used as a
farmer, and a circumspection about him that was difficult to interpret. And, he
had a bit of a scowl that didn’t seem to be directed at me in particular, but
more so at the human race in general. A later understanding of all that he had
been through helped me to understand the countenance. I did love the way I
could make him smile, if only momentarily. I slowly came to believe that he did
like me, yet I could also tell that he didn’t want me to be too certain about
that fact. I began to learn a little more about him as we spent some time
together as he always seemed to have more money to invest. I learned that he
had worked for Newhall Land and Farming and that he had an avocado ranch of
sorts in Ojai (a quaint little city just east of Ventura). I also learned that
he had six kids and that he and his wife Marilyn had been married since the
40’s. One of my favorite things about Bob… Despite his wealth and apparent
accomplishments, he drove to see me in an old beat up Ford pickup. Not an ounce
of pretense resided in this good and humble man who was the creation of a time
that is incomprehensible to me in light of the times that we live now… I don’t
believe Bob ever frequented a “safe space.”
It was
probably 1992 or so and I needed to see Bob about some kind of investing matter;
I told him that I would come to his place this time. I remember that it was a
beautiful summer day in Ojai and that Bob was struggling with a knee that
seemed to be giving him more and more trouble. In fact, he had taken to wearing
a big bulky knee brace to help him get around. I also remember that Bob’s place
was a beautiful ranch that required his attentions to the point that I believe
it was more of a passion than a chore. Marilyn was the perfect host and you
could tell that their marriage had been a long and loving union. By this time
Bob and I were getting to know each other a little better and I started to ask
him about his past and his experiences during World War II. I figured that he
had probably served but I really had no idea as to the scope of his
experiences. He dismissed my inquiry with statements such as “It was a long
time ago”, “I don’t think you’d find it very interesting”, and “I really didn’t
do much.” I am paraphrasing here as I do not remember exactly what he said, I
only remember that he downplayed his “small role” and I also believe that he
didn’t feel that I nor anyone for that matter, who hadn’t gone through it,
could begin to understand the gravity of it. Out of respect for me, he didn’t
want to put it that way, yet I do believe that this was what he was thinking.
I pressed
on as I had a sense that there was something profound to learn. Being a History
Major I had a pretty good idea of the time and event sequences of the war and I
started to get a little more specific in my questioning as a means to show him
that I knew the seminal events and the major players. Once he saw that my
interest was genuine, he began to open up and tell me a little about his
experiences. I learned that he was a PC Boat Commander and that he had been in
the Pacific. I also remember recalling that he was born in 1919 and that he would
have been in his early twenties when America entered the war in late 1941 (after
Pearl Harbor). The fact that he was a commander of anything at that young age
seemed to be an accomplishment in and of itself. The only thing I can really
remember from that initial Ojai conversation was that he downplayed his
accomplishments and was somewhat disinclined to give any great detail. Finally,
he did tell me that he had written a letter to his grandmother in 1950 that
told the story of an experience he had had in Okinawa shortly after the war had
ended, right after the bombings in Hiroshima and Nagasaki. He told me that he
would share it with me if I was interested. I enthusiastically, and with great
appreciation, accepted his offer.
True to
his word, Bob delivered a copy of the letter to me at my office the following
day. I devoured it immediately and was amazed by what I read (incidentally I do
have text of the letter, but I am reluctant to share it in this space without
the approval of Bob’s family). The War created heroes of all kinds and I
believe that Bob’s heroism was highly unique in that it occurred after the war
had officially ended and spoke of calamity that had nothing to do with combat
per se.
I knew
Bob near the end of his life and most assuredly he was a man that engendered a
certain amount of respect as you could see from his outward trappings that he
was a man of many accomplishments. He had attained the American Dream in many
ways as he had enjoyed a long loving marriage that had produced six children
and several grandchildren. He had returned to California after the war and had
completed a successful career that had led to financial success and comfort,
and he had parlayed that success into a ranch that seemed to provide him with a
purpose and hobby in his post-retirement years. I was reading the story of a
26-year-old kid who found himself in extraordinary circumstances at the
completion of an extraordinary World War that would be impossible to fathom for
anyone that did not live through it. Until I was given a copy of the letter to
read, my basic understanding was that he was a participant and that he had been
in the Pacific and that he really hadn’t accomplished much that was noteworthy.
You would have had to known Bob to know that that was truly the way he viewed his
wartime experience. Just an average guy, doing what he was told, as best as he
could…
Bob had
been in the Aleutians initially and the letter has no specific details as to
what he experienced there. I only know that he was a PC Boat 782’s Commanding
Officer and that his twenty-three months there were not especially dangerous. I
feel fairly certain that “danger” was a somewhat relative concept at that place
and in those times, but again, I have no specifics from Bob in our
conversations or the letter. The letter goes on to state that Bob was assigned
to a new PC Boat that was in Okinawa and that his designated task would be the
sinking of Japanese submarines. By the time Bob arrived in Okinawa, after some
additional training in the US, the war had ended. That did not mean that there
wasn’t still plenty of additional work to do. And, while being happy that the
war was over, the new assignment was unchanged as Okinawa would become a
staging area for a lot of post war activity. To Bob’s immediate chagrin and disappointment,
he soon learns that PC 1128 is a vessel in terrible shape with a crew that has
seen hard combat and is manned by a somewhat dysfunctional bunch in relation to
his former PC Boat crew.
Bob and
his fellow officers set upon the task of getting “the rusty old tub” in better
condition and turning the crew into a disciplined bunch which he soon finds is
actually an easier task than he had initially envisioned. He later describes
them in the letter as “a fine bunch of young Americans” and that they “cooperated
remarkably well.” The ultimate goal was to sail through the Golden Gate Bridge
and home, at some point in the not too distant future. Instead, fate intervened;
Bob and his crew found themselves in the proverbial wrong place at the wrong
time in the form of two monster typhoons that hit Buckner Bay off the coast of
Okinawa on September 15, 1945 and October 8, 1945.
As it
turns out September 15th was merely a warmup for what PC 1128 and
many other vessels of various sizes and shapes would face on October 8th.
As Bob writes in the letter to his grandmother… “With my meager vocabulary I
can’t adequately describe a typhoon. I think it is one of those things that has
to be actually experienced to really understand.” Again, and I cannot emphasize
this enough, this is a 26-year-old kid commanding a shoddy ship in the middle
of some of the worst typhoons on record at that time. He is responsible for the
lives of his crew and he now finds himself in a life and death struggle after
the completion of one of the biggest life and death struggles the world has
ever known. It must have been absolutely surreal. As a matter of fact, Typhoon Louise,
before departing Okinawa on October 9th, 1945, was responsible for
the outright sinking of 12 ships / craft, severe damage sustained by an
additional 32, and the grounding of 222 others. In terms of a human toll, 36
were killed, 47 were missing, and other 100 injured (some seriously). http://darbysrangers.tripod.com/Okinawa/id23.htm
Bob and
his crew had barely survived the initial typhoon and his letter is absolutely
riveting in its description of being tossed around Buckner Bay like a cork
bobbing in a turbulent pool of mayhem while dragging a 1000 pound anchor,
trying to avoid reefs and other ships, absorbing blow after blow from the turbulent surf and high waves, all the while
fighting off stinging salt water to the eyes, and praying to God incessantly
for the torment to end. Several ships were lost, and many were damaged. Shortly after this, Bob and his crew
participated in the escort of ships taking some of the first troops to Japan, while
his ship continued to perform terribly, as it was in dire need of a complete
overhaul that the typhoon of September 15th had exacerbated greatly.
Bob talks of mustering the courage to approach his superiors with a laundry
list of repairs for his “floating junk heap”. He was promised some short-term
repair work and some long-term repair work in Guam as soon as another PC Boat
arrived. The mechanics on hand managed to start the process by disassembling
the engine when word came that another typhoon was on the way which they were
told was expected to pass well south of Okinawa. The engine was hastily
reassembled just in case the weather reports were incorrect (as quite often
they were). The date was October 7th, the same day that Bob learned
that his new daughter Beverly had been born on September 20th.
As a
result of the devastating Typhoon of September 15th, the Navy had
come up with a new protocol with respect to subsequent typhoons. Larger ships
were now required to head out to sea and smaller ships such as PC Boats were
ordered to seek shelter closer to shore as best they could. This would be
difficult under the best of circumstances, yet Bob and his crew were
handicapped with a vessel that was badly compromised and importantly, was
equipped with an anchor that was far too small for its needs (the other had
been lost in the previous storm). Instead of veering to the south Typhoon
Louise headed straight for Okinawa and the ordeal began anew for PC 1128 early
on the morning of October 8th. In his letter Bob describes a desperate
situation in which he realizes that they will start to drag the anchor at any
time and that the vessel is essentially incapable of battling the elements
which are getting worse by the hour. Visibility is virtually zero, the gusts
were coming in at 175 miles an hour with a constant force of well over 100
miles per hour. By noon, Bob orders everyone to don life jackets while he
declined to do so as he didn’t want to overly worry his men; luckily, he did put
one on a little later as conditions steadily worsened. They could hear cries
for help all around them and there was nothing that could be done other than to
try and stay afloat and ride it out. Eventually, around 3:00 in afternoon, the
ship was starting to list in the winds and surf when the inevitable occurred
and one of the faulty engines failed and the other began to struggle mightily.
At this
point the unthinkable happened as the boat hit a reef, capsized, and threw all
of the crew that were topside into the violent, raging ocean. At this point Bob writes of seeing the keel of
his boat and all he can think of is to swim away as to not be crushed by the
boat. This was unnecessary as the winds had changed and he was being blown /
swept further out to sea. He sees panicked, screaming crewmen all around him
and immediately blames himself for the disaster and writes of becoming sick and
nauseated by guilt to the point of vomiting. This seems to settle his nerves
and resolve, and he sets about the task of survival. Unfortunately, the ordeal
had only just begun, and the next 24 hours would be a test of endurance and
human fortitude that would test the limits of one’s will to survive. Bob could
make out many of his shipmates and he could see that some were in agony and a
few were screaming. After an initial shock and confusion, I am convinced a
basic will to remain alive kicks in. Bob writes of he and eight of his fellow
crewmates finding the remnants of a damaged life raft that unfortunately soon
disintegrates. The high surf made any kind of conversation difficult and
saltwater spray was making it difficult to not only speak but to breathe. I can
scarcely imagine what it must have been like. As the captain of the ship Bob
did his best to keep up the spirts of the small group.
As I’m
reading Bob’s letter, I remember thinking to myself what a hopeless situation
this must have felt like to those mostly young men who found themselves in such
a dire predicament. Unknown, to Bob at the time, his radioman had managed to
get out a distress signal moments before the ship capsized which also means
that this particular navy man probably died as a result of his selfless
thinking. Luckily, the water was relatively warm, and the mangled life raft
precariously enabled the nine men to stay together. Although they could not see
each other, they could feel one another as the late afternoon turned into a
very dark night. Incredibly, Bob sustained a serious wound at about 3AM from
something in the water that he thought might have been a barracuda; I know that
my first thought would have been a shark. The bite was serious enough that it
was necessary to apply pressure to the back of his knee in the hope of stemming
the blood flow. Remarkably, Bob never mentioned anything to the remaining eight
as he didn’t want to inspire any kind of panic among them.
As the
dawn came on the waves were still “mountainous.” The coming of the light also
revealed that one of the nine had disappeared during the night. His body was
never found. Bob could tell that several of the younger members of the group
were really struggling to maintain the emotional will to survive. He knew that
the clock was ticking for all of them and that they would need to get the
attention of any ship they could spot. They had seen a few in the distance
during the evening, yet none were close enough to summon to their aid,
especially in the dark of night. Luckily, it did appear that ships were in the
area looking for survivors, but the conditions were terrible, and they were now
out in the middle of the sea as they had drifted further away from the bay
during the night.
At this
point, the letter got very difficult for me. They were at the point when, as
Bob articulates, after sixteen hours of struggle, with only the slimmest hope
for survival, it became an easy, almost peaceful decision to give up and drown.
Bob mentions his wife Marilyn and his new unseen daughter Beverly as a reason
for him to continue the fight. At 11:00AM a 17-year-old boy died as his comrades
encouraged him to continue the fight. He died slowly right before their eyes.
He ultimately went unconscious and then presumably drowned. I have a son who
will soon turn 19 and the horror of losing a child in this way is simply
heartbreaking. These are the kinds of things that happen in war. And this is
the reason a creep like Colin Kaepernick is so difficult for me to stomach.
Yes, these men and boys died to protect our freedoms, yet any person who can’t
see the respect and admiration they are owed is a person who does not know
their history. I knew my history then, yet my time with Bob brought me to a
place in my understanding that transcends the abstract concepts that most only
remotely know. A real shame…
Noon came
and by this time all of the men were dealing with eyes that had been ravaged by
saltwater to the point of near blindness and most everyone had swallowed their
fair share as well in the continuing rough seas. Adding to these miseries, they
were beginning to feel the effects of being rubbed raw by their life vests as
they were tossed around by the force of the waves. At about this time a second 17-year-old
died. He had gone delirious and was asking for a knife so that he could kill
himself. Bob speaks of the other survivors doing all that they could, yet it
was at this point it became a real struggle to keep oneself alive after so many
hours of the harsh ordeal. This may be a bit of a stretch on my part, but I feel
that Bob, later in life, thought of these two young kids often. Smiles did not
come easily for Bob and yet he was full of life in so many ways. I simply
believe that the experience simply robbed Bob of a part of his joy though I
never heard him articulate it as such.
At about
4PM roughly 24 hours after the ship had capsized, the remaining six see a ship
that appears to be heading straight for them. Realizing that this might be their
last chance, Bob decides to have several of the men swim away from the raft,
some heading right, some swimming left. They are spotted and rescued but not
without one final heartbreak. One of the remaining six dies as he is being
lifted aboard the rescue ship! Can you imagine the shape they must have been in
to have the elixir of rescue have no effect on this dying man? Nine struggled
together and only five survived. I never asked Bob if he still spoke to any of
those men and I really regret the omission on my part. Something tells me that
they did, and it was not necessarily a joyous occasion. https://uboat.net/forums/read.php?22,66946,66946
Life
changed for me as I married and had three children while continuing my career
as a financial consultant. I ended up moving from Merrill Lynch in 1994 and
continued on with Prudential Securities until 2000. At this point, I made a big
change and had a short stay with LPL Financial. Through it all, Bob stayed with
me and we continued to fashion a genuine friendship. I knew his story and he
knew mine. Our meetings were rarely about financial things despite the fact
that we pretended that they were. When I ultimately left California in August
of 2002 after unsuccessfully struggling to survive a swiftly changing industry,
Bob was the first guy that I called to inform that I was leaving the business and
moving to Oregon to join the family Christmas tree business. I remember him
telling me that he completely understood, and I also remember that we both got
a little emotional as I think we both realized that we probably would not see
each other again. Bob was 83 at the time and though his health was by no means
poor, it was also obvious that he was in the last inning or two. I remember
telling him that his family was in great shape financially and that we would be
in touch, and that I would always be there to help if needed. At this point, I
had handled his investments for 13 years. What I really meant to say, “I’ll
never forget you, and thank you for sharing so much of yourself with me.” Bob
passed away on October 19th, 2004.
I first
met Tom Oki at the beginning of my stint with Prudential Securities in roughly
1994. It had become my routine to work until the market close at 1pm and then
head to the local Oxnard 24 Hour Fitness where I would get in an hour or so
workout before heading back to the office to work a few more hours. I was very
disciplined about doing my daily workout and as I saw many of the same people
day after day, I made friends there quickly. One of the contingents included a
group of mostly octogenarians who were part of the “Silver Sneakers” program. I
noticed that one of the gentlemen (an older Japanese man) would bring his wife
Suzie but he would always do his own routine rather than join in with the group
who often did a guided routine while sitting on or leaning on a chair.
Interestingly,
the group included a couple of WWII veterans who happened to be fighter pilots.
I remember one guy in particular (John) with a full head of red hair who was
one of the nicest people I have ever met. I once asked him why he was always so
happy. He told me that he could have, and probably should have been killed any
number of times during the war, and that by the grace of God he had survived.
As a result of his experiences, he truly saw every day as a gift. He had a
smile that never seemed to leave his face. He and Tom would talk from time to
time and seemed to be friends; I do believe that I met Tom through Happy Go
Lucky John. I also remember that Tom and I started out pretty slowly as friends
at first. It wasn’t that he wasn’t friendly, it was more a result of feeling
each other out a little as our age gap was pretty substantial and our life
experiences were quite different for obvious reasons. I do remember asking him
one day if he had been in an internment camp during the war. I knew that he had
grown up in Southern CA, and that certainly made sense to me that he would have
been. He told me that he had, and I asked him if it had been Manzanar https://www.nps.gov/manz/index.htm , as again, just like with Bob, I
knew enough to lower his guard a bit, and he then felt comfortable telling me
more. It turns out that he had been interned at Heart Mountain in Wyoming.http://www.heartmountain.org/
At that
time, I had not heard of Heart Mountain while I had in fact visited Manzanar on
several occasions. I did know a little bit about the spartan life that many of
these WWII era Japanese Americans had endured. My position had always been that
while it was an unfortunate footnote to our WWII experience, I could somewhat
understand it in light of all of the infiltration and spying that had occurred
in Hawaii prior to the bombing of Pearl Harbor (something that not many people
know). In other words, “desperate times call for desperate measures.” As far as
I could tell the internees were not treated harshly and they were free to leave
at the conclusion of the war. As I got to know Tom better, I began to learn
some of the details of the situation in general as well as the very specific
and unusual details particular to Tom.
The thing
that struck me about Tom from the beginning was how proud he was to be an
American while never losing touch with the things about him that were quite
Japanese. We would talk about sports, politics, and food mostly, yet our
conversations always seemed to find their way back to the times right before
the war, during the war, and immediately after the war. A lot of this was predicated
by my urgings, as I was really interested in knowing more. I found out that Tom and his family, like
most Japanese Americans of that time, had basically lost everything as they
were forced to sell most of their possessions (including their homes, businesses,
and farms) for pennies on the dollar. Tom and his family were farmers of some
type and they were doing reasonably well despite the difficult decade of the
1930’s. I know that they were somewhere in the Los Angeles area, but I cannot
remember the exact city. I do recall that it was quite rural, yet much of Los
Angeles county was rural at that time. Another strong memory from our
discussions was the cold of Wyoming in the winter months. I remember him
telling me that it was the coldest weather he has ever experienced and that he
hated cold weather to this day as a result of the experience. I also recollect
him telling me that the conditions were “not too bad” and that the biggest foe
was the boredom of a confined yet relatively free existence within the camp.
As our friendship grew, I came away with the
impression that Tom and his family, much like Bob and his crew aboard PC 1128,
they had simply found themselves in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is
really the tale of our existence as humans from the dawn of time. What I truly
did not completely understand, and would really only understand much later, was
that Tom and a small group of like-minded young men displayed a kind of courage
that few Americans could have comprehended (then or now).
An
understanding of the term “Gaman” is probably a great place to start. “Enduring
the seemingly unbearable with patience and dignity” was the mindset that most
Japanese naturally employed as they sought to rationalize all that was
happening to them in a post Pearl Harbor America. Roughly 120,000 Americans of
Japanese ancestry were ultimately rounded up and held in ten internment camps
in some of the most isolated parts of the western U.S. They were seen as a
national security risk by most Americans at that time despite the fact that
Americans of German and Italian ancestry were subjected to no such bias. In
fairness, Pearl Harbor had a great deal to do with the draconian distinction.
Interestingly the average Japanese American, at least outwardly, responded with
a “gaman spirit” that called for a perseverance that WELCOMED the opportunity
to prove one’s loyalty. In the “victim” mentality world that we live in today,
such an attitude is quite foreign and inconceivable. It was a far different
time and the first- and second-generation Japanese in America very much
retained a Buddhist way of thought that transcended Western logic.
John
Toland, in his excellent look book The Rising Sun (1970) describes some
of the Japanese complexity that Americans were starting to encounter as we
dealt with them both prior to the war in negotiations, and during the war as
enemy combatants.
“To
Westerners, the Japanese were an incomprehensible contradiction: polite and
barbarous, honest and treacherous, brave and cowardly, industrious and lazy-all
at the same time. To the Japanese these were not anomalies at all but one
united whole, and they could not understand why Westerners did not comprehend
it. To the Japanese, a man without contradictions could not be respected; he
was just a simple person. The more numerous the contradictions in a man, the
deeper he was.”
This
(albeit dated) explanation helps to explain why many of the internees of
military age welcomed a chance to serve in the military despite the fact that
the very freedoms that America represented had been denied them. They were
“enduring the unbearable” through actions that would refute the claims of their
detractors. In many ways, it was a lose / lose proposition. Most Americans
would despise them for their Japanese heritage irrespective of their
willingness to be placed in harm’s way. Nevertheless, acceptance of military
service was the party line that the Japanese American majority had chosen. To
shun this path would mean dishonoring one’s family and ancestors. A heavy
burden… And yet, this was exactly the
path that Tom and 62 other internees from Heart Mountain chose. It would mean
that there would be no one in their corner. These 63 Heart Mountain resisters
(in the other nine camps there were several hundred others) were an island
within a sea of Japanese who felt that the honorable way required that they
respond to a perceived gross unfairness with a gesture that rose above the
injustice of internment and suppression of their sacred rights as American
citizens. They were pressed and cajoled by everyone around them (both friend
and foe alike) in a carrot and stick drama to reconsider their stance. And yet,
in spite of it all, they decided to display a courage that would be true to
their principles. In many ways this was a classically American thing to do, yet
their Japanese heritage must have warred with this highly individualistic
response. “The nail that sticks up tends to get hammered” was something that
all of these young men had probably heard from their parents while growing up.
Tom told
me that they had lost everything. All that they wanted was a reinstatement of
their previous rights and property; then they would have been willing to fight
for their country. Unfortunately, the lost homes, businesses, farms, and
possessions were gone forever in most cases. The state of Wyoming certainly did
not see it their way or entertain their interpretation of events. Judge T.
Blake Kennedy, the United State District Judge for the state of Wyoming began
their trial on June 12th, 1944 in Cheyenne Wyoming. On June 26th
the 63 had been convicted of one count each of draft evasion and they were all
sentenced to three years in a federal prison. For Tom, the time in federal
prison at McNeil Island, four miles west of Tacoma Washington, in the Puget
Sound, was certainly not a terrible experience, yet it was prison nonetheless
and accounts that I have read about it in Free To Die For Their Country by
Eric Muller, certainly paint a picture of prison life with its draconian rules
and restrictions (especially in the beginning of the term). Ironically, it was
a beautiful spot with stunning views of the Puget Sound, and unlike Heart
Mountain, they were not surrounded by barbed wire and guard towers.
It was
only much later that I did some research and looked at some of the details that
I realized that Tom was embroiled in something that went all the way to The
Supreme Court for clarification. On December 18th, 1944, the Court
ruled that it was illegal for The War Relocation Authority to continue to
detain loyal American citizens at the internment camps. As 1945 progressed
toward ultimate victory against Japan, the relocation camps began to shut down
and the dispossessed Japanese Americans began to return to their “homes” and
the challenge of essentially starting over while Tom and the Heart Mountain
resisters remained at McNeil Island and were unable to help in what must have
been a traumatic time for friends and family; ultimately, Tom and his group
would be released on July 14, 1946. Many people have heard of the famous and
courageous 442nd and the Medal of Honor recipient and former Hawaii
Senator Daniel Inouye (1963-2012) who lost an arm during the war. Very few
people have heard of the Japanese American draft resisters. In the Forward to Free
To Die For Their Country, Mr. Inouye had this to say.
“In this
climate of hate, many felt the necessity of stepping forward to volunteer for
service in the military to prove their loyalty to the United States. These men
for the most part carried out their military obligations with much courage and
valor.
However,
in this climate of hate, I believe it took just as much courage and valor and
patriotism to stand up to our government and say, “you are wrong.”
I am glad
that there were some who had the courage to express some of the feelings that
we who volunteered harbored deep in our souls.”
Tom expressed
that many Japanese American people lived in churches around this time as they
had no other place to turn. Their homes and businesses were gone. According to
Tom, everyone worked together in the Japanese American community and slowly
found jobs (usually menial) and eventually cobbled together some semblance of a
sustainable life. I know that Tom ultimately became a commercial fisherman who
traveled all over the world in what was a difficult, physical profession. We
talked about those post-war years at sea a lot and I could tell that Tom had
many fond memories from those days.
Tom never
seemed bitter about the whole experience of being interned and sent to prison.
He stood up for what he thought was right and then let the chips fall where
they may. It was actually a point of great pride with he and the group, and
many of them remained close over the years. Tom wasn’t looking to tell the
story, but I do believe that he was thrilled to have found someone like me who
provided him a chance to relive those days a little to a willing ear. And, a
couple of amazing things happened in the process. First, Tom and I became good friends as we
usually saw each other five days a week at the gym and we even had regular
lunch dates as we both really liked Japanese food (the conversation often
drifted back to the War years). Incidentally he was pretty amazed by how much I
enjoyed the food and I feel that bonded us even further. Also, I came to
realize that Tom was one of the most patriotic people I knew. He loved this country
and he forgave Her for the wartime experience. Unlike many people who become
embittered by the vicissitudes of life, Tom was strengthened by it. America was
his home and he chose to look at all of the good rather than dwelling in a
self-defeating infatuation with the severe challenges of his past. It was an
amazing quality that I came to admire and cherish. Contrast this with the
aforementioned victim-centric society that we now live, and the memory of this
special man burns even brighter. Rudyard Kipling’s great poem “If” could have
been written about Tom Oki.
If you
can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on
you,
If you
can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you
can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being
hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too
wise:
If you
can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your
aim;
If you
can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the
same;
If you
can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch
the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out
tools:
If you
can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose,
and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you
can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are
gone,
And so
hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold
on!’
If you
can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common
touch,
If
neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too
much;
If you
can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is
the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
As
referenced in my discussion of Bob Essick, there would be a time for goodbyes
with Tom Oki also. Who better to understand my situation than Tom for whom
dislocation and change had been swift and dramatic… At the time we moved in
August of 2002 life had become a bit of a struggle for me. I look back on that
time now and I can hardly believe all that has happened. I was living in
Camarillo CA with my first wife and young children. Kendall was 9, Mackenna was
7, and Tanner just shy of 2. The traditional stock brokerage business was
undergoing dramatic systemic change in an environment of “do it yourself
discount brokerage” (I had transitioned to LPL Financial in 2000), 911 was a
recent, tragic, and disruptive event, the Tech Bubble had just burst, and I was
leaving the business and moving to Oregon to become involved in the family
Christmas tree business that my parents had started in 1991 after several years
of hard struggle. I was grateful for the opportunity, yet I was saddened by the
loss of the world that I knew (Finance) and the loss of many friends I had made
over the course of the last 13 years. And, I remember that Tom was always there
when things seemed to be at their worst. One of my strongest memories of the “Moving
Day” back in 2002 (we were driving to Oregon) was the fact that Tom and his
wife Suzie showed up at the house to see us off. I remember that we snapped a
few pictures, and I also remember feeling touched that Tom would show such
kindness and concern. He also went out of his way to interact with the kids
(even brought them little gifts) a bit, as he knew a thing or two about
dislocation and change.
I don’t
remember Tom’s exact age at the time, but I do know that he was within shouting
distance of 90. Be that as it may, he was very sharp mentally. And, in addition
to the daily gym workouts, he also took great pride in the daily walking that
he did. We wrote each other for awhile and I will always recall the prominent
American flag that decorated his stationary. I even visited him at his home in
Oxnard a few times in the subsequent years. His house was immaculate, and the
modest backyard was decorated with bonsai plants and the many vegetables that
he grew. On my last visit there, I recall that he tried to give me a beautiful,
and fairly large bonsai plant that I really admired. I thanked him and told him
I would love to have it, but I wasn’t sure how I would get it on the plane! We
both had a good laugh over that one. They had no children and I think they both
came to see me as their Caucasian son who thought (and perhaps most
importantly, ate) like an Asian.
As the
years went by, we ultimately lost touch with one another though I never heard
any word as to his passing. I think about him often and I have always felt the
desire to tell his story in a way that speaks of his amazing journey with the
respect and admiration it deserves. Bob and Tom never met one another but
something tells me they would have liked each other despite the obvious reasons
for them to remain distrustful of one another. That simply isn’t the way they
viewed the world. Having seen mankind operate at its worst, they chose to focus
on the moments and people who gave testament to the world operating at its
best. I know they are probably looking down on me from Heaven wondering what
all the fuss is about. They both saw themselves as ordinary men who simply did
what they thought was right, to the best of their God given ability. I will
always remember these extraordinary men and I feel incredibly honored to share
them with others as I approach my 57th year. What took me so long?
I don’t know for sure if this is Bob. It came
up in a Google Search under his name and it sure bears a striking resemblance. Finding
a picture of Bob isn’t an easy task as he wasn’t the kind of guy who sought
attention.
Tom (far left) always participated in Heart Mountain reunions or honoring events.
Day of their release from McNeil Island in 1946… Tom is kneeling to the extreme left. They were all given new suits upon release.
Everyone who knows me
well knows that I like to write; for the most part the experience is vividly
clear in my mind… After having experienced an event that was both tragic and
triumphant, I felt the need to memorialize my thoughts and emotions. Time has a
way of blurring the details and I want to remember this event not only for
myself but for others that may ask about 4/15/13 at some point in the future.
By this time everyone
has seen the images and heard the stories. There is not a great deal that I can
add to the general knowledge of the day. What I can do is recount the story
from the perspective of our small group and the many amazing twists of fate
that allowed us to remain safe.
I had traveled to
Boston with a group of great friends for what would be my last marathon. Seven
is a lucky number, so I figured this provided a perfect opportunity to “retire”
from a distance with which I have always had an unmitigated love/hate
relationship. The best part of the journey/saga, I would be there with Jennifer
Seibel, Jason Ruth, Terry and Jamie Massey with whom I have covered many miles
and participated in many events over the last several years. Our group would
swell to seven as Jason’s good friend Rochelle Wilkerson would join our gathering
as would Brittani Annan, who had flown in the night before to provide the group
with some post-race massage work. Although unknown to me, she was a close
friend of Jason, Jen, and the Massey’s. Needless to say, they are both special
friends now.
Not surprisingly, we
all had a terrific time enjoying the pre-race pageantry and charm that is
associated with one of the most prestigious marathons in the world, in a city
that fascinated and captivated each of us. I served as amateur Historian for
the group (hopefully they didn’t mind). It was a truly breathtaking experience
to be in a region / city that represents the birth of our country.
The larger the group,
the more complex the logistical plan… As Monday (race day) drew closer, our
veteran Boston Marathoners Jen and Jason suggested a plan that mirrored the
plan they had chosen in 2012. We knew that Jen and Jason (legitimate three hour
marathoners) would finish well ahead of Terry, Rochelle, and me, so we set a
convergence point for 755 Boylston Street (Starbucks) right near the finish
line. Jamie and Brittani would find parking as close as possible to this point
and make their way to the Starbucks as well. It was a great plan (or at least
we thought). On Saturday, we toured the Finish Line (caps intentional) and Jen
mentioned that it would probably be best to avoid the crowd on Boylston
post-race and make our way to Starbucks via Newbury (the next street over). We
had a post-race plan; all that was required now was a 26.2 mile personal ordeal
and then we could celebrate the moment with 26,000 runners and countless
spectators.
As expected, Jen and
Jason held up their part of the bargain and triumphantly (when you run that
fast, I can’t select a better word) made their way to the now well-known
Starbucks on Boylston to await the rest of us as discussed.
I finished my private
26.2 mile ordeal feeling somewhat bittersweet; I enjoyed the run in many ways
and even managed to “smell the roses” knowing that it would be the last one for
me. Until mile 23 or so, story for another day…
I crossed the finish
line and was immediately processed through a series of post-race traditional
courtesies. For anyone who has run a marathon, they know the strange mix of
euphoria, fatigue, gratitude, and relief that is swirling through your system
at this point. I have experienced it many times and though it is very familiar,
it is also quite unique. After receiving my Finisher’s Medal, a metallic wrap,
a host of fluids, several bananas, and a few other items that escape me now, I
made my way to one of the countless yellow buses lining the finisher chute that
held my personal items. After changing shirts, I made a decision that most
likely saved me from being in the infamous “wrong place, at the wrong time.”
Again, one would need to be a marathoner to truly understand this… I actually
SAT ON THE GROUND AND CHANGED MY SHOES AND SOCKS. Sitting prone on the ground
is a dicey proposition after 26.2. I did it, and it was a SLOW undertaking, thankfully…
My next move was
equally fortuitous. I wandered over to the metal railing and proposed to scale
the roughly four foot fence in order to get to the Starbucks more quickly;
luckily for me, no way, no how… The legs just wouldn’t cooperate; I later
learned that Rochelle had tried a similar technique. As a result I followed the
rest of the throng up Boylston and the “official exit point”. Those extra
minutes proved to be quite valuable for both of us.
As I’m making my way toward the Starbucks, I meet a couple who tell me that they are headed to Starbucks as well; almost immediately we hear the first explosion and see a plume of smoke followed by the second explosion (more distant). The woman cries out that it is an explosion at Starbucks and that their kids are there. At this point pandemonium breaks out (sort of lost track of a concept of time at this point) and I have a few distinct thoughts that I recall. My initial reaction was surprise at the relative quietness of the explosions; then I was struck by the strange mix of screaming, crying, and frantic people intermixed with others who seemed completely unconcerned. At this point, I saw no one who was actually injured so I really had no idea what was actually happening. As mentioned, I’m not really sure how long I stood there trying to wrap my brain around the surrealistic scene. I remember that I needed to get to Jen and Jason and I had no idea if the others had managed to make it to meet them. I knew Jen was fairly close and I truly sensed that she was fine; I also knew that Jason would be with her. Finally, I call Jen to mention that I am heading her way and I remember going numb when she mentioned there had been fatalities and that Jason had witnessed some severed body parts. I vaguely remember hearing that everyone was fine and that she was coming to find me on a street off of Boylston. The call was lost as we later learned that cell service had been restricted in the area as a precaution against any type of remote detonation. As I waited I met four female Harvard students who congratulated me on the run and it was obvious they had no idea what had happened; I told them all that I knew, took note of their shock, and then I spotted Jen.
In the aftermath, I learn that Jason and Jen had been extremely fortunate and had played a leading role in helping to get stunned people out of the Starbucks. Terry and Rochelle had taken Jen’s advice and walked down Newbury rather than Boylston in route to Starbucks— amazingly lucky. And, that Jamie and Brittani were with Jason and Jen and were both close enough to the Finish Line blast to see blood on the sidewalk.
All and all we were
extremely fortunate and nevertheless quite shaken, none more so than Jason who
not only helped customers exit the Starbucks, he also came to the aid of a
visibly bewildered father and his young children just outside the Starbucks
entrance.
My heartfelt emotions go out to the deceased as well as the many injured. We were afforded the opportunity to see mankind at its best and at its very worst. The race volunteers, policemen, and average citizens are by far the biggest story of April 15 2013; all that I saw reacted to a horrific act in an extraordinary fashion.
My final memory of
Boston 2013… Witnessing Rochelle fight back tears as we parted company on the
shuttle bus heading home to Portland and Phoenix respectively… We had managed to have a great time despite
the trauma we had all experienced. Our short time in Boston together provided a
memory that will last a lifetime. Like all epic journeys, they usually include
moments of hardship and moments of joy; this was certainly true for us, and I believe
it all came to a head as our journey ended and the realization of all that had
happened resonated with each of us.
As a person who feels a great love for American History, I have always been drawn to the two seminal events of the last two hundred years, the Civil War and World War II. A lack of understanding with regards to these titanic events leaves one groping in the dark trying to connect the dots as to where we are as a country today. And, I have likewise felt that the two are very much related and connected. The Civil War for all its harsh rhetoric, shocking casualties, and unspeakable gore, ultimately forged a loose collection of states with vastly different ideologies and turned them into a country that managed to survive and ultimately thrive despite the rigors of total war, unresolved racial questions, and a political system that placed relatively disproportionate power in the hands of the governed (a great thing but truly untried). The experiment in democracy survived its first big test not perfectly, but imperfectly. As the great historian Shelby Foote put it, “Before the war it was always the United States “are”, after the war it was the United States “is”… It made us an is.”
The Civil War is far too grand a topic to gloss over in one paragraph. That would not be fair and that would not be right. Then again why should we really care about something that ended over 150 years ago? Some of the answers to this question are simple while others are quite complex. Let’s stick to a couple of simple answers for now. For one, it is very difficult to understand where we are now as a country without an understanding of where we were. In many ways, history is as much a study of the past as it is a window to the realities of the present and the outlook for the future. Using World War II as a nexus, it then becomes easier to understand the huge, yet in many ways’ unwelcome responsibility that world war represented to the average American in say 1940 (on the cusp of war). Several generations prior, America had survived a brutal Civil War and had emerged from it stronger and more unified. This is no small statement because civil wars have the potential to plunge a country into a factional, fractured entity that never truly recovers much less grows stronger and more unified. If this had not have happened the way that it did (unification rather than vengeful retribution), world history could have turned out far differently. The fact that The Civil War didn’t ruin us meant that Europe and the Far East had an “ace in the hole” when it was needed most. It could have ruined us as a country quite easily. Abraham’s Lincoln’s benign vision in large part won the day despite many calls for a far different resolution.
Moreover, America had seen firsthand the horrors of World War I with its horrific trench warfare and alarmingly high battlefield casualty rates over often insignificant ground and perplexing European political expediencies. Those realities were fresh in the minds of an American generation that was in some ways reminiscent of our Millennials of today. The economic good times of the 1920’s proved ephemeral and the stock market crash of 1929 helped usher in what became known as The Great Depression (1929-1939). Engagement in a foreign conflict was certainly not Plan A in the minds of most Americans. December 7th, 1941 and the bombing of Pearl Harbor changed everything, and the rest is shall we say history. America rose to the challenge, and now, incredibly, Japan and Germany are two of our most loyal allies. History often provides incongruent future realities. Imagine telling the “Americans” of the American Revolution that we would be fighting side by side with England someday in the future.
Recently, I viewed Ken Burn’s 2007 creation The War and I must say it really got me thinking about how differently Americans thought about virtually everything. This incredible story of WWII as see through the eyes of four typical American cities should be required viewing for all high school students. The predominantly black and white footage and first-person contemporary interviews portrayed (for the most part) a united nation that endured and persevered through what amounted to an epic, bloody struggle that at times seemed to have no end in sight. The older men and women who remembered the time talked of sacrifice, grief, responsibility, abject fear, hatred, hopelessness, relief, and a whole host of emotions tied to the rigors of total war and human beings caught up in a drama that was the most significant event of their lives. Coming through the crucible of war creates a person who appreciates the often terrible event for the life changing experience that it was, and they come to realize that it has changed them in ways that would be unimaginable to a person uninitiated in the struggle that is (total) war. It is a baptism of sorts that many undertake and only some complete due to the ultimate sacrifice that so many endure for their respective countries. Those black and white photos and footage spoke to me in a way that depicted America at her best. Aligned against those who represented humanity at its very worst despite the undeniable bravery of many caught up in something that did not tolerate dissent…
One of the truly interesting aspects of both the American Civil War and The Second World War has to do with the lingering, though impermanent, effects of a veneration for men of war after the completion of the conflict. After the Civil War, a veteran of this war served as President from 1869 though 1901. Theodore Roosevelt (a Spanish American War veteran) become President when Civil War veteran William McKinley was assassinated late in his first term. Theodore Roosevelt served two terms and was then followed by William Howard Taft who was not a veteran but did serve as Secretary of War (1904-1908). Woodrow Wilson became the first President lacking any military experience since 1869 (Andrew Johnson succeeded Abraham Lincoln after his assassination in April of 1865).
Interestingly Wilson was a true progressive academic. Wilson led America during the First World War (1914-1918); initially Wilson was quite reluctant to build up the military in anticipation of war. Wilson was not a man of war for better or worse. The sinking of the Lusitania caused an abrupt reversal of this reluctance. Dead Americans have a way of swaying pacifist / noninterventionist intentions in the blink of an eye.
Interestingly, World War I and the end of Wilson’s presidency did not see the country turn to a military leader as it did after the Civil War and again after the death of Franklin Roosevelt late in the conflict. Harding, Coolidge, Hoover, F. Roosevelt were all nonmilitary men. Interestingly Harry Truman (Roosevelt’s Vice President) was a World War I combat veteran and was largely responsible to make a decision that was perhaps the most difficult decision of the entire war. Hiroshima and Nagasaki have been debated to the present time, but I can tell you that from the perspective of the people who lived the war, as depicted in Ken Burn’s inspired documentary, it was no decision at all. Japan was losing the war badly and was given every opportunity to surrender. The people of that time knew that an invasion of Japan would mean the loss of hundreds of thousands of American lives. For Harry Truman, a man of war, the decision, though difficult was clear. Truman went on to serve two terms after taking over for Roosevelt in 1945. Truman was followed by General Dwight Eisenhower who much like U.S. Grant, became President immediately after being the preeminent general for the victorious side at the conclusion of a great conflict. Eisenhower was followed by Kennedy, Johnson (Kennedy’s assassination), Nixon, Ford (because of Nixon’s resignation), Carter, Reagan, and Bush Sr. All these men (and yes Johnson and Ford could have asterisks by their names) were military men who participated in the great conflict and were changed by it. Kennedy, Nixon, Ford, and Bush Sr. perhaps profoundly so as they were all combat veterans. As Kennedy so beautifully stated…
“A nation reveals itself not only by the men it produces but also by the men it honors, the men it remembers.”
The people of the post-Civil War era chose to honor people and in fact bestow the highest office in the land on those who had endured its hardships for many years after the conflict. Likewise, for many years after the conclusion of World War II our citizens acted in a similar fashion. With war comes a wisdom that is earned in the most horrific of circumstances… The population, for a time, understands that men of war are the best people to understand the urgency of never revisiting the horrors of war. They also seem to understand that sometimes war is necessary. It is that strange and counterintuitive dichotomy that seems to pervade the American psyche, at least for a time.
After the last Civil War veteran President in 1901 (McKinley assassination), and the last veteran commander in chief in 1913, America experienced a period of civilian leadership from 1913 through 1945. In the case of World War II, the nonmilitary service started with Bill Clinton in 1993 and has continued through Donald Trump. Clinton was in fact the first President who actively rejected military service in Vietnam through a rather murky set of circumstances. The fact that America would choose to elect someone to lead the country who had in fact failed to serve that country when called upon presents a strange contrast when presented with the heroics of his immediate predecessor George W. Bush who was shot down in combat and received the distinguished Flying Cross. I would suggest that this strange transition represents a significant change in America’s collective persona through natural attrition (i.e. death), fading memory of war, or the emergence of a younger generation of voters who have no tie to it whatsoever.
While assuredly it is true that Vietnam was a different kind of war and that Bush’s World War II heroism was possibly not the predominant reason he was elected to the highest office in the land. It (Clinton’s election) does, however, speak of a new disregard for the lessons of war with its inherent triumph, tragedy and most importantly, wisdom. Our definition of the best of the best undergoes a natural and inevitable change. It would seem to me that the bar was lowered with the election of Clinton and that it is inevitable that it will be raised again. The growing pains that we are experiencing now are truly unlike anything that Woodrow Wilson and his subsequent commanders in chief struggled through. History repeats though it is also true that History does not exactly duplicate.
Throughout our history, men of war have been called upon to lead our country. And, it is certainly not true that they do so perfectly and that those without combat service do so in some especially unique, flawed fashion. It does seem clear that the people that we choose as our commanders in chief says a lot more about the electors than the elected. Something tells me that there will be a day in our future when conflict on a grand scale will visit us again and I feel pretty certain that someone who is a man (or woman) of war will be called upon again and that it is highly likely that this may in fact mark the beginning of the kind of trend we have seen in our not so distant past.
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