I digress for some family time...

I'm taking a break from the narrative as today is my Father's birthday. He would have been 88 years old. (He died of congestive heart failure when he was 76.)

Without him, there would be no narrative, as there would be no me.

We had a strained relationship at best. Dad was a difficult man. Difficult to know, and difficult to love.

But I owe him thanks as he stood up, and tried to raise me after my mother was declared unfit, and he brought me back from Las Vegas when I was seven, where I had been living with my mother in the throes of her own addictions, selling herself to strange men, in our little travel trailer, and I tried not to listen.

In 1966, there were few single Fathers. Dad stood up and said he would do the best he could and care for his son. At first I lived with my Aunt, Uncle and five cousins...and for the first time, learned what life was like in a big family, a real family. We fought like rat terriers, all five of us, but no one at Catholic School messed with us, as they would have the whole lot of us down on them with a fearsome vengeance.

After third grade in Catholic school, Dad was able to get us a small apartment, and I moved in. I got used to his girlfriends, and later his wives, as I distanced myself from them, already an observer, hiding in books and movies.

An early memory is riding in the car on a Sunday morning, going to get the newspaper with Dad. I was two or three, and I remember his smell, and the smell of the newsprint, and a feeling of safety.

I also remember my first lesson about telling lies.

My parents were still married, and I was all of five years old. He asked me if I had brushed my teeth as it was bedtime, and I told him I had. (I was already tucked in...I didn't feel like getting up.)

He checked my toothbrush with his fingers, finding it dry and went insane.

He threw me from bed, holding me to the floor and kicked me all the way to the bathroom, screaming "Don't you ever lie to me! Ever!"

All that taught me was if you lie, don't get caught.

He was an explosively violent man, whose passions centered around his music (a professional musician, jazz and big bands) scotch, women and his mother. (And I thought I had issues...)

But he loved me, in the only way he knew and would have died to protect me. He had PTSD before it was fashionable and memories of World War II haunted him for the rest of his life.

Five wives, three kids...I was the baby...and he always wanted to be a star.

We lived in Dallas at the time Kennedy was assassinated, and Dad worked for Jack Ruby. I knew him as Uncle Jack.

My mother danced at the Carousel Club. The FBI interviewed them both, and Dad would never speak of that November.

He was the most self centered man I have ever met, and a few months before he died, I moved in with him, to try and care for him, as the quality of his life had declined to a point where he opted out, he was tired, and life had lost it's sparkle.

Two days before he died, he squeezed my hand and said, "I'll love you forever..." That's the last thing he ever said to me.

I still miss him.

Misanthrope, mysoginy and other 'M' words...

Life. The pendulum swings...things are good, not so good, suck really bad, better again, aw hell this is great... then back again. It took a while for me to learn that life was not static, that things change, always.

I went through a rough patch getting off the pain pills, but found that if I rolled with it, the urge would subside. Sometimes not for very long, but hey, small battles right?

So life was nice. Until I got my mail.

I have found that historically no good ever came from me checking my mail, even less if something were sent 'certified'. Nope, no sir, no good at all.

Divorce papers. Pages of legalese that amounted to my marriage being over. Now, I was not even close to being considered a good husband or father, and my first marriage had to be one of the most disastrously dysfunctional relationships ever imagined...but the finality rocked me.

I brought the parcel with me on the boat one day, just me and the skipper, and read them in front of God, his world and a pod of bottle nose dolphins that had been following us from our leaving the harbor.

They required I sign the documents and send them back. I couldn't understand why there were tears staining the pages as I read, as I had no barometer for loss, as of yet, but there it was.

I was now an official, court documented failure.

"Never again, skipper." I grinned through my tears.

He laughed, and pulled deep on a Doral. "I'll give you five years."

"You're crazy."

"Nope. I've seen it before. You are the marrying kind. Dead set on someone else being responsible for your happiness, you don't have a choice."

Smug asshole.

What could I say, deep down I knew he was probably right, although I couldn't see me doing it any time soon.

(After three marriages, I can see he was right. It took me eight years of being alone to come to a place, a place where I am absolutely complete being alone, and pretty damn happy. Not to say I'm not open to the right possibility, but today, I don't chase it. If it ever happens again, I want it to be for the right reason...but there's no hurry.)

So I swore off women. Lasted about a week.

But it was a start.

That's the thing about exotic locales. They are, by nature and definition, romantic. I had a friend in recovery whose sister was visiting the Islands from California. He thought I should show her around the Island. I did, and the forces that be donkey punched me in the heart.

I blame a full, yellow moon, walks on the beach at night and the bane of my existence...holding hands. I am an absolute sap for holding hands.

I knew she was a tourist. I knew it was a vacation fling. I failed to see this was a rebound affect brought on by my losing my first family.

When you're tumbling in the dryer, it's hard to focus on your socks.

Adrenaline and Percocet...not for everybody.

He taught me about work on boats, and he taught me how to fish for big game.

I had a knack for talking to our charter clients, making them comfortable, and when we caught fish, the usually large and pasty businessmen, having a true "fishing adventure" threw tips my way. I wore shorts and sunglasses to work, and the outdoor work kept me ripped and tan.

My Captain was single and attracted women like a testosterone powered bug zapper. On occasion we took a couple of ladies for a half a day charter, five miles or so onto the big blue, and well, things happened.

Not a bad life, if you didn't weaken.

I baited hooks, set the drag on the huge reels, and coached the anglers in the chair. The skipper would pilot the boat, a 28 ft. Bertram, and I would join him on the flying bridge, keeping my eyes peeled on the outriggers, waiting for the zing...and it would be on.

Marlin strike hard and fast and when it happened, the angler, usually half drunk and drowsy from sunburn had to be coached every step of the way. I would leap from the flying bridge after the fish would hit and snap the angler into his vest, inserting the rod into the holder between his legs and pray he wouldn't snag his line, until I could set the drag. It was a brief, violent ballet, and I loved every minute of it.

I learned to dig adrenalin and for a few years sought the rush in unusual ways, but that story is for later.

We went to meetings at night and I stayed sober. Life was getting good, and we would have long talks about God, the universe, and women, as we rode the pacific...a tiny, finite speck, in the middle of the ocean.

I learned out there that God could be as big as I wanted, or needed, at any given time. I was in his world, and I learned that it could be good.

Then I broke my hand.

We were tying up at the downtown pier, trying to outrun a sudden storm and the swells and wind had gotten fierce. The surge took the boat away from the dock, right after I had wrapped a cleat, and the force snapped the cleat, and I took the brunt of the force in my right hand, snapping several bones in the process.

I went down, howling. Shit that hurt. My middle finger was set at an unnatural angle to the rest of my hand and I knew it was busted.

We finished tying the boat up and one of the girls watching us ran me to the emergency room.

Xrays and a cast and a refillable prescription for Percocet. I thought I could handle it, but the buzz was just too damn strong. For those of you who have wrestled with a pain pill issue, I feel for you, I truly do. I floated on that buzz for a couple of weeks, after all, I had a legitimate reason, right. For us, anything is a legitimate reason.

I was invited to a party up the mountain, and took one of my old co-workers. I also took a baggie filled with pain pills, and during the evening, I nibbled my way through the bag.

Around midnight, I was truly and seriously depraved. I told my friend we were leaving and he reluctantly joined me.

I drove down the mountain doing sixty with my headlights off, screaming and laughing like a banshee. I stopped at the bottom of the mountain. My friend got out of the car without saying a word, walked away, and never looked back.

He never spoke to me again.

He had no vision.

Errol Flynn saved my life...

You can always tell an accomplished barhound from an amateur. They have moves. The way they sit; stand, light a smoke, or gun down a shot. They usually also pick a spot at the bar where they can look at their reflection in the mirror behind the bar. This serves two purposes.

It allows them to see that they are actually existing in this certain space in time (sometimes there are questions) and they can see behind them. Very important to the accomplished drinker.

Recovery has it's tells, too.

There are phrases you hear, over and over, and the veteran to recovery has a certain air about them, more of an attitude. I know the word attitude denotes a general arrogance, but the recovery vet is much more humble, without even trying. So if you know a few things, and you go back to meetings after more research, you may fool a few folks into thinking you still have your shit in one sock. For a while.

I threw my game face on that night and arrived a few minutes early.

An old timer, (one who has been dry so long they shy away from open flames) was making coffee.
He introduced himself.

"First meeting?", he asked.
"Me? (I was the only one in the room.) Oh no, been around awhile."
"Bullshit." He went back to making coffee.

I failed to mention the old timers can also spot a wet drunk from 1,000 yards. I tap danced around the topic and admitted yes, I was coming back, but had over a year before I went back out. He was not impressed. Now I was too embarrassed to leave and too mortified to stay. Shit.

I took a Styrofoam cup of coffee and sat at the table, watching the regulars arrive.

The meeting filled up and a man walked in during the opening reading. Tall, tan and fit, he was a dead ringer for Errol Flynn. Not the actor. The Movie Star.

He was also from Texas and he owned his own sport fishing boat. We talked after the meeting and he agreed to sponsor me. He also gave me a job as his first mate on his boat.

I was now a professional sport fisherman. The day before I was a coked out pizza waiter. Once again, all I had to do was acknowledge the problem and ask for help.

The universe did the rest.

Now if I could just remember port from starboard...

Pidgeon...not to be confused with English. Seriously, it's not even close.

Apparently I had blacked out and tried to prove a point to God. Looked like God won.

I showered, took some aspirin and actually looked for a volume control knob somewhere in my room to dim the crashing of the waves. If anything, they were getting louder. God, my head hurt. (It was at this point I swore off Stienlager...not drinking, no, that would have made too much sense, and we all know it probably wouldn't have worked anyway.)

There was a restaurant next door with a patio by the water. Food seemed to be in order...food and a large Bloody Mary.  Perhaps two.

I ordered eggs Benedict and sank half the drink, munching on the celery. 

As the vodka hit bottom I looked across the Pacific to the horizon, and thought, damn, that's a lot of water. (What do you want...my head hurt.)

After breakfast and my two fortifying cocktails I felt human enough to wander through town. As of now, I was technically a tourist, so I did the touristy things. Gawked at the natural beauty, wandered through touristy shops and bought large buds of purple weed from sidewalk surfers on skateboards.

 (It took awhile for me to understand them as they all spoke that strange bastardization of the English language...Pidgeon. It really takes some getting used to. Vowels were dropped and entire words were omitted and substituted and it was done in a sing-song fashion. In fact, there was more of a cultural difference in the speaking of the language than the language itself. Very hard to describe.)

I tried to keep the drug and alcohol use to a respectable level, avoiding a huge bottom out, but my tolerance was wearing thin. I kept to myself and found out of the way beaches where I could soak up sun and body surf. My pasty Alaska pallor was replaced with a deepwater tan, and my hair bleached out from the sun and salt.

I had found an apartment on Mongoose lane, and started waiting tables at a pizza joint in town. One of my co-workers was a coke freak and after a particularly long and vibrant weekend, I decided to try and get clean one more time. I looked in the phone book and dialed a number. The meetings were a block away, in an open air pavilion. 

I had stumbled past the place countless times and never knew. All I had to do was ask for help, and there it was.

Here we go again...

Writing my wrongs...

So, another cab ride into a strange town, surrounded by beautiful scenery, thousands of miles away from anything remotely close to responsibility and inside I was miserable. 

If one is in recovery long enough, you hear about the hole in our stomachs...the one that no amount of booze, drugs, sex, relationships, (and no, the two are not mutually exclusive) shopping, or other peoples money can fill.  I mean here I was, literally in paradise and all I wanted to do was numb out. 

I told the cabdriver the same thing I had told the one in Alaska, and after about fifteen minutes he deposited me in front of a weekly motel, right on the water and I paid for two weeks up front. 

All the rooms had lanais' (balconies) and the Pacific Ocean was crashing onto huge rocks fifteen feet away. There was an ice and beer store a block away. 

I strolled through town, got something to eat and picked up two six packs of Stienlager and some ice.

I cracked a beer on my lanais and watched the sun set somewhere over Japan and did my best to fill the hole.

I came to around daybreak with what felt like an icepick lodged in my temporal lobe and empty beer bottles surrounding me on the floor.

My God, someone had cranked up the volume on the waves...I felt like hell and noticed my big blue recovery book was laying on the floor. Soaked.

 It smelled like urine, and I could only hope it was my own.

Captain Cook was eaten for this...

Now before I go off on a rant, and I am accused of being homophobic, uptight or, heaven forbid unenlightened, I declined his pass.
I did it with stoned style and grace, no need in getting ugly because someone, albeit a same sex someone, was attracted to me. In my defense, I was buff, young and alone, and I felt it a little rude to use these things as an excuse to grope my junk just because you turned me on to some weed. (Yeah ladies, a lot like the buy you a drink ploy...you know what I'm talking about.) But, rejection is still what it is, and I guess it made him mad.

He made me walk back to the terminal. (This was not my first rodeo by the way...growing up I was sexually abused a number of times and approached many more. By the time I was ten I had seen more naked old men than Heidi Fleiss. And before I upset some of you more sensitive types...I know there is no parallel between child molesters and gay men, I am not making that comparison, just stating a fact. I stopped being victimized by it a long time ago. To put it succinctly, I got off the cross, used the wood to build a bridge and got over it. Enough said.)

I boarded the commuter flight and hit on the flight attendant extra hard. (Just to be sure)

We landed forty minutes later in the middle of a perfumed moonscape of black lava fields.

A really big ass ocean on one side (for those of you in Texas, you know that this is actually a standard unit of measurement,) and grand, green and lush mountains on the other. Paradise.

I hailed a cab, and history, as it is want to do, repeated itself, one more time...

Poi tastes like cabdriver feet...

Again with the duffel bag.

This time I had a sober layover in the San Francisco Airport. The thought meandered around in my head that prior to entering an aluminum tube and traveling at 30,000 feet for roughly a couple of thousand miles over nothing but water; a drink may be in order.

But I held fast. I heard that if the notion came upon you, it was wise to make a phone call. I dialed a recovery hot line in the phone book while standing in a long tiled hallway amid a bank of pay phones and talked to some faceless, sober drunk, until the urge passed.

I later learned that it may have done nothing for me, but it kept him sober. And that was really the way this thing worked...it wasn't that altruistic, it was rather self serving...sure, I'll help others, as long as I'm getting mine in return.

I patted myself on the back all the way to Honolulu, arriving at one big freaking expanse of airport well after midnight. I deplaned and the warm, perfumed air was a rush, after the stringent, bracing sub-zero air of Alaska.

No hotties with garlands of flowers to welcome me, just Asian looking people working in an airport, buffing floors, nodding off at checkout counters and cleaning bathrooms.

I wandered around and looked out the big windows at the runway. It was dark, so all I could see were runway lights, but I was here. One may ask, now what? Did I have a job lined up, a place to stay, money in the bank? Have you forgotten who you're dealing with? Of course not.

I read a travelers account of the Islands and settled on the Big Island of Hawaii. Volcanoes, cowboys, marlin fisherman, and the Islanders killed Capt. Cook and ate him not far from where I was supposed to land. Perfect.

I had enough cash to rent a place for a couple of weeks and eat while I looked for work, but this time I had something else in my duffel bag...a big blue recovery based book. I had no intention of screwing this up, after all I was in paradise.

The puddle jumper left Honolulu at 7 a.m. for a forty minute flight to the Big Island. I dozed in a hard plastic chair, equipped with a bolted on, coin operated television.

One of the maintenance workers was buffing the floor around my chair, skinny, Asian with a pencil thin mustache. Kind of a Hawaiian John Waters. He stopped buffing and smiled at me. Uh oh.

He asked me if I smoked. Since he asked in a brusque, oblique way, I knew he wasn't talking about Marlboro's. I had heard legends of Hawaiian weed and thought to myself, why not, I'm not drinking, and I'm only passing through.The thought of the book in my bag never even bubbled to the surface.

He led me through the employees exit to his car, an old Dodge Dart, and we motored out to an empty portion of the runway. Halfway through the joint, I knew it was serious weed, and I was captivated by the planes landing and taking off, here in the middle of the Pacific.

That was when he put his hand on my knee.

Let us discuss insanity...

Insanity. The word conjures different images for different people.

There's the rocking back and forth in your own filth while yodeling pig-latin variety; carving up a family and placing them in the freezer "Donner...Party of six!" type, as well as simply talking out loud to yourself-and answering, to name, according to the American Psychiatric Association, but a few.

There is also the definition of doing the same thing over and over expecting different results. That is the variety I am most at home with.(Talking to myself not withstanding.)

One would think that armed with the self knowledge that alcohol and drugs were a bad mix for me, I would leave them alone, as in, burn your hand on the stove, don't touch it again, kind of thing.

Not so much.

Self knowledge rarely availed me anything at all, except fodder for guilt when the dust began to settle.

My first revelation that I might be alcoholic came one freezing night in the army, when drunk and carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels across a frozen parade field at three a.m.

I slipped and fell, shattering the bottle and cutting my hand. I watched it, helpless, as it pooled amid the shards of broken glass. The amber liquid mixed with my blood, melting the ice in small, concise spots. I cried when I saw the broken bottle.

The revelation struck me right between the eye's...I was a drunk, and there wasn't anything I could do about it.

Did I stop? Like hell.

Later, after treatment and gaining all the self knowledge about the condition I could handle, one would surmise I would recoil from the stuff as if from a flame. Instead I ran to the stuff...expecting things this time, to be different. (found out there are many sharp edges in sobriety...booze rounded them off. If I had learned to dodge, just a little bit...)

Now, that's insane.

That being said, we can resume our adventure...

Easing God Out (Ego)

I was twenty three and healthy. My roommate at the halfway house thought getting in shape would be a good idea, so we started to work out. The results were fast and I began getting noticed.

My boss was being little miss flirty and I ate it up. We had lunch together at a little Italian place on the wharf, not far from where I hid my box, although I neglected to tell her that. Need to know, and all. (I was reminded of Lady and the Tramp, but I stopped short of rolling a meatball to her with my nose.) It was a lot of smiles, long looks and stupid little jokes.

Her husband, the trooper, was at symposiums all over the state and as far away as Seattle. She was lonely. I tried to keep it innocent.

I failed to realize I had no self esteem. I thought if I looked like I had it together, and someone, albeit a married someone, found me attractive, how screwed up could I be?

Years later I would hear the following at a meeting: To have self esteem, do esteemable things. Who knew?

I started to cut back on meetings and began what would later become a pattern in my recovery dynamic. Get sober, meet a woman, and blow it, waking up broke, sticky and confused.

I was coming up on a year sober and our flirtations finally culminated in the physical. We went to a movie, "Against all Odds" and I recall Jeff Bridges drove a Porsche and drank beer in Mexico. The beer looked good, really good.

While Juneau was the State Capitol, it was still a small town, and her husband eventually heard the rumor. People disappear in Alaska almost daily, and I didn't want to be one.

I cashed in my terminal leave and caught the next plane to Hawaii. I was tired of being cold.

When you pray, move your feet. (African proverb)

I was learning that God was not Santa Claus. I was told to pray, and I did, even when I knew the words were just falling down around my ankles and not going anywhere. I also learned to take action and not lay down and take it in the kiester whenever anything negative occurred. I began to stand up for me.

There was a huge learning curve ahead for me but I learned about the whole one day at a time concept, and I placed one foot in front of the other; and things began to happen.

I applied for, and was accepted into a halfway house after being sober ninety days. I learned to take responsibility, in small, sometimes irritating ways, like making my bed, taking out trash, washing dishes.

There were setbacks for all of us in the house. A few ran away, a few got loaded, and a few hung on to recovery.

I applied for a job that was totally out of my element. I took a test for the State office building, and applied for a position as safety officer in the telecommunications division. I had no idea what the duties were, but I dug the title.

My boss was a pretty, auburn haired, thirty something professional bureaucrat, with caramel colored eyes. She was married to a disinterested State Trooper and she thought I was cute.

Hindsight being what it is, well, you get the idea...

Sought through prayer and medication...

The guys at the Vet center pulled some strings and I was taken to the Regional Rehabilitation Center, adjacent to the small Hospital, outside of town. I hadn't had a drink in 24 hours so I was starting to think this whole idea was bullshit. My body thought differently.

I filled out paperwork, which because of the tremors in my hands was mostly scribble, and I answered health related questions. I was taken to a room with a large window overlooking a nurses station. The fishbowl. The repository for all new drunks so staff could monitor them for the first day of intake. My body had started to get panicked at the thought of no booze and I was starting to slide into terrible.

For the next two days I shook; threw up, dry heaved, cried, sweated, stank, hallucinated and did it all over again, sometimes in reverse order.

When I slept I dreamed of my daughter. Still a baby, but in this dark, cold wasteland, and she would hold her arms out to me and I would run to her. But I could never reach her. I heard a voice I imagined to be hers saying, "It's all right, Daddy, It's all right." I cried alot.

After two days of this, I ate an entire fried egg, and it stayed down. One for the home team.

I was moved to a shared room down the hall and heard the new occupant of the fishbowl go through his terrors. I wasn't that bad, was I? The cute little charge nurse told me I was worse.

I had a roommate and we struck a chord. A lot like friendships in situations of major crisis, we bonded through survival and shared experience. We both thought being sober blew, but were open to see what happened. He had a job in the kitchen. I was offered one but turned it down. My back was to the wall too much to attempt to try anything normal.

I began attending 12 step meetings and counseling sessions and started to journal.There was a group of about fifteen of us of varying ages, backgrounds and sex. I was informed I was a liar, a cheat and a thief and I could make no valid argument against it. After a while my vision cleared and I could read again.

I started to put a few days behind me. People from outside the facility could attend the meetings and they were viewed as minor celebrities. Two of them were alumnus of the hospital and had been sober six months. That gave them apostle status in our eyes. Six months? Without a drink, or a drug? Aint no way, baby. That's impossible. But it was possible, and I began to think it might be for me, as well.

Two of the more popular folks who had gotten to this stage in sobriety were a 24 year old ex-logger and a 19 year old Indian stripper. They were sponsoring people in our group and we all thought it too, too cool.

I figured they knew something we didn't and we unknowingly placed them on pedestals. We wanted to be just like them when we grew up. We got real spiritual, real fast, and a few of us had butterflies blowing out our ass...we made ourselves sick. We had not so much gotten sober as we had gotten good. And that, was just plain dangerous.

Within a year they were both dead. He was found on the side of a mountain in a tartan sleeping bag, a hole blown through his head. She was found hanging in her mother's attic, moonlight shining through the attic window, framing her face as she twirled gently from the rafter.

Sometimes the gorilla wants to dance, long after you're tired.