Monthly Archives: July 2018

Lessons from a POW

This was one of my very first columns for The Lebanon Democrat. It is special to me because the man i wrote about here is very special to me. i wrote it right after the bad San Diego wildfires in 2007. Dave remains a wonderful, actually amazing man, and i am proud to call him my friend. For some reason last night while watching the woeful San Diego Padres lose again, something Dave said to me popped into my brain. Something Dave said during our time together or wrote in his book keeps popping into my head. That’s a good thing. If i remember correctly, this pop up was how his North Vietnam interrogators kept wanting to know where they kept all the cows, pigs, and chickens to feed the crew on an aircraft carrier. Regardless, i wanted you, in case you missed it before, learn a little bit about an American hero. If you want to learn more about his story, his book, The Ways We Choose: Lessons For Life From a POW’s Experience is available on Amazon, Barnes and Noble, and i believe you can still get one from his website, www.DaveCarey.com. If all else fails, contact me. We will get you one if you want it.

SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA – This past Monday, I left the cleanup from the San Diego fires and flew to Lake Tahoe, Nevada. It was not an escape. It was work. I was co-facilitating a team building workshop for a California police department with my friend, Dave Carey.

Dave is not your ordinary business associate. On August 31, 1967, Dave Carey’s A-4 was shot out from under him over North Vietnam. He spent five and a half years as a Prisoner of War (POW), most of the time in the infamous “Hanoi Hilton.”

Dave and I met in 1985 at the Naval Amphibious School in Coronado. We worked together for just shy of a year as I transitioned into Dave’s position as the head of leadership training for the West Coast and Pacific Rim. Together, we help create a two-day workshop on leadership excellence for senior Navy officers.

Dave retired. Four years later in 1989, I followed suit. After my initial dive into my new job as Mister Mom, I soon started to look for ways to generate income in the quiet hours.

After some discussion, Dave and I agreed I would write a book about his POW experience, or more accurately, about his motivational speeches concerning his experience. After completing the draft, we decided it really should be written in first person. The original draft is on my office bookshelf.

Eight years later, Dave holed up for three weeks and completed The Ways We Choose: Lessons For Life From a POW’s Experience.

Part of my approach to writing was generated from conversations with Dave. He and I were driving to another workshop about fifteen years ago when I asked him about what outcome did he expect the audience to have when he gave a speech.

Dave said he had expectations initially, but discovered his listeners made their own connections. Early on, Dave had completed a luncheon speech when a huge Texan came up to him, put his big arm around Dave’s shoulder and drawled, “Can I talk with you, Dave? I understood every word you said today. The fact of the matter is, in this life, we are all going to get shot down, and some of us more than once.”

I don’t know about you, but I’ve managed to get shot down several times. Dave’s book and his ideas have been significant guides to me as I have wandered through living. The book not only applies to San Diego, Lake Tahoe, and Middle Tennessee; it worked in the Hanoi over 40 years ago.

Dave’s book revolves around a question he is most frequently asked, which is, “How did you do that? How did you and the other POW’s get through that?” He maintains they did that in a similar way to how we get through our daily process of life and work.

Dave’s assessment of how he and his fellow POW’s made it through boils down to five factors:

  • We did what we had to do
  • We did our best
  • We chose to grow
  • We kept our sense of humor
  • We kept the faith
    • In ourselves
    • In each other
    • In our country
    • In God.

His anecdotes relating to those factors are humorous, inspiring, and thought provoking. I have had the wonderful opportunity to discuss these things in depth with Dave.

So I check myself against his factors almost daily. They have even become part of the value statements for my consulting group.

I will not ruin the book by parroting it here. However, I am particularly fond of Dave’s pointing out how the POW’s trusted each one of them would do the best they could, would resist the severe interrogations to their limit; recognizing each of them had their own limit levels.

I now try to consider folks I work with are doing the best they can do. This puts a whole different shape to the way I work with these people. Fewer rocks are thrown; fewer lines are drawn in the sand; fewer chips are put on shoulders.

I would encourage everyone to read’s Dave’s book. Your connections should be yours, not mine, not Dave’s. I know folks in Middle Tennessee also get shot down every once in a while.

i should note here that bit about my consulting group is no longer extant. i write. i used to drive ships. i gave up consulting when i got tired of trying to make people do the right thing. i still follow Dave’s advice.

I Was a Sailor

Today’s Navy is a world apart from the Navy i served for twenty-two years. The change had begun as i was completing my active duty. Women were becoming part of seagoing world. Computers were becoming more and more critical to getting the job done. Gas turbine plants were replacing the old classic steam engines. i expressed my feelings in a poem included in these posts before and was part of my book, A Pocket of Resistance: Selected Poems. i will not judge which Navy is better or worse. They are just different, that’s all. But i sure liked going to sea in the old Navy. i am posting this in a group called “US Navy Gearing Class Destroyers.” Old sailors. i hope they enjoy it.

I Was a Sailor

I was a sailor
when the boatswainmates
swept down and triced up;
the decks were spotless;
first division stood
at the ready on the forecastle to
cast away all lines;
the sleek greyhound visaged lady
got underway,
no tugs,
no bow thrusters
like they, the pansies are required to use
today;
no sir:
we ruled the seas
standing proud in quarters standing out,
no manning the rails for show,
we did it like it was supposed to be;
the bow cut through the channel like
it owned the sea,
the trough slid up the side
only feet under the gunwale;
the stern wash was white with foam:
we were underway,
rocking and rolling.

I was a sailor
back when being a sailor
was tantamount to being a man;
there weren’t no great number
of automatic controls back then,
not one hell of a lot of video games or graphics to read:
you turned the valves and the steam hissed;
you cleaned the boiler plates on the lower level
with the blowers blasting air in your face
for relief from the hot wet heat;
inserting the plates and firing it up
hoping it wouldn’t smoke white
and
blow your ass
off the naval station
to kingdom come;
the boilers would rumble,
groan and croak,
spew their smoke out the stack,
build up steam
until there weren’t no smoke
and
the boiler tenders
down in the bowels
knew they would be
getting underway
soon.
we lined up the feed pumps;
kicked off the auxiliaries,
went on ship’s power,
dropping our umbilical cords from the pier
like the doctor cuts the cord
on the newborn:
separating us from mother earth,
sending us to the bounding main;
when we turned the nozzles of steam
onto the turbines of the main engine,
watching the tree trunk sized shaft
turning slowly;
the engine room wheezed and coughed:
made us feel like we
were in a jungle of sweltering pumps and motors
while the distilling plants gurgled with
Rube Goldberg smugness,
making you wonder if
they would really make
good water
again.

I was a sailor
back when we manned the big guns,
not standing apart, aloof, with computer controls
in the air conditioned spaces
but inside those big guns,
metal death traps where
we stood alongside the breech
when the firing shook our brains, our guts, our souls
and
we loved the thrill of it all;
the brass kicked out the aft end;
the hot case man with his asbestos gloves
smacked them out onto the rolling deck:
no automatic, manless machine of death
back then.

I was a sailor
back when we didn’t know
what the hell politically correct meant,
back when they meant
|what they said when they said,
“if the navy wanted you to have a wife,
they would have issued you one.”
Navy was a way of life,
living on board, locker in a club
just outside the main gate
with civvies,
so
you could go down to sailor town,
drink beer and cheap whiskey,
enough to make the woman look
pretty enough to pay
for the night so
you could get back in time
for quarters at 0700
unless there was a fight.

I was a sailor back then
when men were men
and
sailors were sailors
and
then was then.

Way “off the wall”

The item below appeared in yesterday’s (July 10, 2018) edition of the San Diego Union Tribune. It was included in the daily sidebar, “Off the Wall,” which contains interesting and humorous tidbits and a sports trivia quiz.

This particular item was so wrong, so bad on so many levels it caused me to laugh so hard i snorted my breakfast cup of coffee.

i hope you are not offended and also find it funny as hell:

Off the wall

Touching tribute

After a young New Orleans man was killed, his grieving family chose to remember him doing what he loved: sitting in front of a TV with his beloved Boston Celtics on the screen.

The body of 18-year-old Renard Matthews , who died from a gunshot wound to the head on June 25, was dressed in a Celtics jersey at a Sunday wake at the Charbonnet Labat Glapion Funeral Home in the Treme neighborhood. WDSU-TV reported that his body was positioned in a chair and he had a video game controller in his lap. His favorite snacks were positioned on a nearby table and the floor.

The 18-year-old Matthews will be buried today.

Memories

Yesterday, i posted birthday thoughts for Blythe. i had picked out too many photos to accompany those thoughts. So here they are today, with loving memories of our good times together:

Blythe atop Nuʻuanu Pali on Oahu in 1981. It was a wonderful pre-Christmas, end of a year of Westpac deployments for me, and magic to be with her. It was also cold up there.
In the Petrified Forest for about 15 minutes of our whirlwind visit to it and the painted desert. She was not really enthused about rocks that used to be trees. i was awed and felt the force of history, nature, and a sense of something larger, inspiring.
And a few of my favorite things. My RX7 Blythe helped me pick out. My parents in their first fifth wheel trip to San Diego, outside one of the best bachelor pads ever, overshadowed by the next move to a condo in the Coronado Cays, the Koala stuffed bear i got her in Perth, Australia, and Blythe. Life was good. August, 1981.
Sailing with Blythe on JD’s boat on San Diego Bay, 1982.

Eaters

As is my routine, i reread my post this morning. i laughed. i had gotten my terms mixed up. At my age, it’s excusable to do that but not excusable to let the mistake continue. In mentioning Shakespeare’s and my friend, Pete Thomas, i described the Guinness and Bass mixture as a “pink and tan.” i was thinking of the old army uniform, which was still the uniform at Texas A&M when i was an NROTC instructor there. i should have written “black and tan.” Oops.

Today, it was hot. Hot for the Southwest corner. Fires too. Something to discuss later.

Part of Maureen’s and my strategy to deal with hot included lunch at a cool place.

We chose Blue Water. It’s official name is Blue Water Seafood Market and Grill. It’s in the hotbed of unique cuisine, made popular for wonderful food of all sorts, not some place to go to be cool or be seen. It’s located at the end of India Street, the old, old road which begins in what was Little Italy, now the place to go to be cool or be seen. Although Maureen is cool and a sight to be seen, i am definitely not either. But at the northern end, India Street tees into Washington Street is not trendy. It’s just crowded because the food is so damn good.

There is an iconic Mexican restaurant with hot border Mexican Food, one of the biggest draws and probably the oldest in this little area of wide spread diet genres. It has a park across the street with concrete picnic tables. My buddy from amphib days, Bruce Brunn, and i used to run around Balboa Park at lunch and then stop for tacos and beer at El Indio and eat in our sweaty running togs sitting on the curb so as not to gross out the picnic bench sitters.

There’s this Brit pub called Shakespeare’s. Today, it was packed and ribald with soccer watchers. One of my best friends of all time, Pete Thomas and i would meet there for an evening meal featuring black and tan’s, i.e. Bass Ale and Guinness. i would order the shepherd’s pie, bangers and mash, or fish and chips.

There is Wine Vault and Bistro, an incredible dining experience with paired wines for each pre-fixe course. It remains one of our finest experiences in dining and we go at every chance. i couldn’t begin to describe how wonderful a place Chris and Mary have created.

On the corner, there is Gelato Vero, a small place with little sitting room Maureen claims has the best gelato in the world. i ‘m not a gelato guy and her claim is a bit expansive. i can’t argue, but it is good.

There are a number of Johnny-come-lately’s attempting to lay claim to culinary excellence by geographic association, but not for us. We’ve got the ones we go to.

i  think i’ve mentioned these favorite of ours here before, so i will refrain from more explantation except for Blue Water.

You have to wait in line. There are no reservations and it is always packed. You can’t claim a table early. The staff assigns you a table based on the number of your group and your preference, if available. We normally sit out on the patio where they have about ten small tables, but it really doesn’t matter. The food matters.

Today, we argued…er discussed what we would order all the way through the fifteen or twenty minute line wait. Maureen likes to share. That’s not my thing, but i will and am getting better at since i am old and somewhat conscious of my waistline. We would have liked to order damn near everything on the menu, most as either a sandwich, a taco, or a salad. Fish. Seafood. High Quality. You can pick out some of those to take home, no, all of those from the seafood market crammed into the side of Blue Water.

As we neared the order/pay young lady, i caved. We ordered the half-dozen oysters on the half shell with separate mild and spicy sauces. And we ordered the sashimi special with Ahi and yellowtail tuna.

It was quite simply, the best yellowtail i’ve ever eaten and the ahi would match up against the gazillion of pounds of sashimi i’ve had everywhere, including Japan.

From my experience at Blue Water and listening to those in line who have also eaten there before, that is a common adjective about the food: “the best,” whatever it is.

It is one of those places we go in the Southwest corner we find so good we keep returning and returning. And every time. i mean every time i wish two people could be with us. My son-in-law Jason loves all kinds of good food. He is extremely knowledgable as well. He and Maureen have discussions about food, and it sounds like Greek to me. i always wish he were with us.

Then there’s this guy up in San Francisco. We’ve been brothers for  half century plus. He loves food. Together, we’ve spent an ungodly number of hours dining at places running the gamut of low end dives to high end dining over those years. He’s the other one i wish were with Maureen and me.

But since they aren’t here, we’ll just have to go back to Blue Water and wish for them again.