Sir Harry Bowen

When you travel alone, you never know who you're going to meet. You have to leave yourself open to new experiences even it it happens to find you while sitting on a barstool.

I was in Mobile, AL the other night for a Lyle Lovett concert. He was playing at the Saenger downtown, so I went over early that afternoon hoping for something exciting to come my way. I thought it would be great to work my way backstage and meet some of the band, the back up singers or even Lyle. I'm not a big fan of celebrity. People are people. But like a kid I'm more curious about the whole process of what goes on before a concert, how does the soundcheck work, who's doing what, are there really no Red M&Ms in the bowl. And there's also something covert about being somewhere others aren't supposed to go. It wasn't like I was going to try to bust through security, but if I could find a sympathetic ear, I may be able to talk my way past the guys with the tight shirts.

But outside the theater I bumped into the manager. He was taking down the ad poster from the outside case, telling me he was going to try to get Lyle to sign it so he could hang it in the Green Room.

"Is he signing autographs now?" I asked. I didn't want one, but I just wanted to see if he was around and what was going on back stage.

"He's not even here yet," the guy said.

"No sound check?"

"I think that's later," he said. "No one's in there except for the guys setting up the equipment."

It was only 4, so they had three more hours to get things right, and not wanting to be some kind of backstage rat, I headed for a place I knew would welcome me: Hero's sports bar. I decided to give up on any adventure for that day, and spend the next few hours nursing a beer or seven.

I was on my second beer, watching Richard Simmons crying about New Orleans on TV. On the other TV, the Simpsons were on. By the time the third beer came, I began to notice that if you were to shave off Richard Simmon's hair, leaving a little on the sides and a couple of strands on the top, he'd look just like Homer Simpson. Sure you'd have to keep Richard out of the Dermasurgeon for a while so his five o'clock shadow could return, but otherwise, he's a dead ringer for Homer.

So I'm sitting at the bar killing time watching three or four TVs, when this guy pulls up a stool next to me. He's a large black man wearing a black cap, sweat shorts and a T-shirt. He takes a look at the beer menu and gets excited when he sees Carona.

"Carona!" he exclaimed. "They have Carona."

I wasn't sure who he was talking to, but I offered, "A buddy of mine swears by Carona light."

He turns to me. "That's the best stuff. But they don't have that here."

So he orders his beer, and it was time for another Dos Equis so I ordered my next beer.

"You from Mobile?" he asked.

"Pensacola. You?"

"L.A."

The bartender brought his beer over, and we began to talk. The guy was a great conversationalist. We discussed things like Karma, keeping an open mind, learning from others, and exposing yourself to new situations. We talked about the excitement of running into someone interesting and actually having an intelligent conversation. The guy was one of those choice people you hope to run into, just to gleen a little insight in to another's perspective. We both shared the same philosphy that says you're responsible for your own happiness, we both agreed on the Golden Rule way of life, and we agreed that no matter what you have to put yourself out there in a place where you'll have the greatest odds of success.

He had moved from Detroit to L.A. because his work was drying up in Michigan. Unless he wanted to work in the auto industry, there was nothing left. So he took a risk and moved to L.A. He didn't know anyone, but because of his outlook, he quickly made friends, and those friends led to more friends, and he was able to find work in his profession.

So here I was talking with this guy who I suddenly admire, perhaps because he reminds me of me, but more so because he's just a great guy. Sitting there on that barstool, I realized I had made the right decision to come to Hero's, and not try and scam some backstage pass just because I've never been back stage before. I didn't need the thrill of meeting some singer or band member. I truly enjoyed my time with Harry, and I was looking forward to my next beer with him.

An hour passed and we finished our dinner and beers, and he said he had to go. He said he had to shine his shoes.

"What's going on in Mobile tonight?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm in town for the Lyle Lovett show."

"Hey, me too," I replied. "Where are you sitting?"

"Oh, I don't have tickets," he said. He looked at his watch as if he was searching for the best way to say it. "I'm singing with him."

"No way."

"Yeah. I've been with him for nine years."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No. Before that I was with the O'Jays, and Was, Not Was--you know 'Everybody walk the dinosaur.'"

He didn't have time for another beer. As the professional, he wanted to be prepared. Though before he left, he did tell me he give me a sign to let me know he feels me. So he raised up his fist the way a boxer would if protecting the side of his face.

That night from my seat, I had a clear shot of Harry. I was watching a man do exactly what he enjoys doing, and getting paid to do it. I was watching the faces that fill the corners of my home with their voices. And one of those voice would've never been heard had he not had the courage to take a risk and leave Detroit.

So, Cheers to Sir Harry Bowen, singer with Lyle Lovett. The next Carona's on me.

Another Time. Another Place.

Two guys were laying bricks in the hot sun. When asked what they were doing, the first guy said, "I'm laying bricks, and getting paid good money to do it." The second guy set down his trowel, looked up toward the sky and said, "I'm building a church."

Someone recently justified taking parts off the Oriskany by reasoning that it's nothing but a "big rusting hulk riddled with holes and grafiti." But I'll contend that the Oriskany has touched so many lives in so many different ways, that new stories are emerging daily. And at the risk of jeapordizing my own manliness, here's mine.

Most everyone has someone they often think of as their, “Another time, another place” person. We may be perfectly happy with the choices we’ve made, but for whatever reason, there’s someone we knew and connected with, but couldn’t or didn’t pull the trigger on realizing the potential relationship. Maybe they were involved with someone. And when they weren’t, you were. Regardless of the reasons, I’ll bet most of us could think of one person who, though may not have been perfect, they were certainly perfect for us.

Mine is a woman I’ve admired for over 10 years. And during those years we've kept in touch off and on, calling from time to time to check to make sure the other’s still alive and hasn’t fallen off the face of the earth.

When we talk, it's brief, never really lasting more than five minutes. And the conversation's so benign that anyone could be in the room, and I wouldn't care. It’s what is not said that causes us to stay in each other’s lives.

She called one day after six months of silence, and we spent a few minutes together on the phone. After all these years, each time I talk to her, I still learn something new about her. But even that day, she surprised me.

But let's back track:
Long before the Oriskany was scuttled, I was researching the ship and those that served aboard her. I spent countless hours devoted to knowing all I could about this ship. My goal was humble enough; try and understand what it must’ve been like to serve aboard a ship that shaped so many destinies. I figured that the more I knew about ship, the better I could enhance the experience of those who wanted to dive the Oriskany with me. I had former crew members contact me with information, pictures, stories and websites to research. With all that information I came across, it was hard not to form a connection to the ship.

So the other day, I was talking to her after six months. Her father passed away recently after a long illness. Her work was going well. She recently received a promotion, and her kids were excited about school starting. I told her I was traveling a lot, putting the hours on the plane, and was diving the Oriskany almost every day I was in town. And then, she told me something after all these years, I’d never known: Her father had been stationed aboard the Oriskany when he served in the Navy.

Now I'm not saying that it's some kind of sign, or catalyst to cause an uproar in our respective lives, but you have consider the remarkable odds of that ship, that officer, that daughter and this divemaster all coming together, and you have to at least leave room for my contention that this ship touches so many lives and is not some hunk of rusted steel sitting at the bottom of the Gulf.

I guess the way we see the wreck is the way we look at anything else in life. We're either laying bricks or building churches.

Free Diving at Tiburon

I was invited to play golf at Tiburon this week, and for the weeks prior to arriving, I was all excited about playing the course. Tiburon is the 36 hole champion course located at The Ritz-Carlton Golf Resort in Naples, and was designed by Greg Norman. Leading up to my trip, I had everything organized—clubs ready, shoes ready, laces cleaned. I was ready to start playing the moment I arrived.

But something happened between receiving the invitation and my departure for Naples. Over the last two weeks, I’d been free diving the Oriskany and I rediscovered just how peaceful free diving can be.

When I was stationed on Crete, I would spend just about every moment I could in the Aegean, free diving, and spearfishing. Every time we had a day off, my buddies and I would load our gear in the car and dash off for the day to someplace new, or visit an old favorite. One of the best spots was a cliff overlooking the water. We’d throw in our gear, then jump into the water 30 feet below. At the base of the cliff there was a swim-through under the water. And if you held your breath long enough and swam through the entrance, when you surfaced you were facing one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve ever seen. The high cliffs around the sand formed a horseshoe, so the only way to get to the beach was by water. So Horseshoe Cliff Beach became THE place to free dive. After a couple of trips through the tunnel, we found that we could also reach the beach by swimming a hundred feet around the outcropping, but that just wasn’t as fun. From there we’d all go to a little taverna, and challenge each other to breath hold competitions. The loser would buy the beer.

That feeling came rushing back to me a few weeks ago when I started free diving the Oriskany. I was in the water pulling myself down the line trying to get a little farther each time. On one SCUBA dive I even attached tie-wraps at 40, 50 and 60 feet to gauge my progress. And from that moment, I became obsessed. Each day I’d get a little deeper, and spend little more time swimming just above the wreck. Just Monday, I was ready to touch the flag on the Oriskany. But the tech divers who chartered the boat were ready to go home after the first dive. (To their credit, the first dive was 2 hours long.) So I didn’t get the chance to attempt the top of the site.

So today I was surrounded by a beautiful course with a bunch of friends, and all I can think about is getting wet. I didn’t want to play golf any longer. I wanted to go to the pool and see how long I could hold my breath and prep myself for the next chance to dive. But I had come all the way from Pensacola to play, so I put away my stopwatch, and pick up my driver.

We had a shotgun start, with my group teeing off at the fourth. I was playing fairly well, and having a great time with the guys. But my heart just wasn’t in it. I felt like the distracted conversationalist, saying, “Yeah,” and “I agree,” and “Nice hit,” all the while thinking about getting wet. I found myself passing the water hazards, then wondering aloud to my cart buddy, “How many balls you think are in there?”

“I don’t know. A hundred? Maybe two hundred,” he said. He turned to me and looked at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Why?”

I hit the gas and caught up to the other pair. They were about to make their approach shot inches from the pond on the left at the Gold number 9. “No reason,” I said.

“Oh no,” he said. “You’ve been talking about free diving all morning. You’re not going to--”

“C’mon,” I said. “It’ll be fun.” I dashed out the cart. “We can sell the balls back to the club.” I was having a little trouble getting my right shoe off, so I wasn’t as fast as I had hoped, but that didn’t stop me from talking. “We’ll make enough money on this one hole to pay for our entire round.” I turned around to see how close he was behind me, and when I did, I saw he wasn’t even out of the cart. “What?” I said in protest.

Then at that moment, my wish came true. I was suddenly and overwhelmingly drenched with the cold, pounding rain of south Florida. And then came the lightening, followed by a surprisingly immediate clap of thunder. The damn storm was right on top of me, and there I was alone in the middle of a golf course with one shoe on, hopping over to the water hazard, and at the same time trying to pull my shirt over my overly muscular torso.

When the first bolt of lightening hit, I fell flat to the ground. When my head came up off the muddy sod, I looked around and saw my buddy laughing from his clean, dry vantage point of cart 57. I managed to pick myself up, pull my shirt back over my overly muscular torso, and hop until I reached my other shoe. Then just as I neared the cart, the lightening hit again.

We finally made it back to the clubhouse just as the rain had thoroughly hammered me, smearing the mud on my face and clothes, and almost drowning my clubs. I was soaked, soiled, and reeked of fertilizer and I noticed all the other guys were sitting around in their pressed shirts and shorts, drinking beer, chuckling at me. I didn’t care. All I wanted a beer to wash down the Scott’s Turf Builder. But when I went for my wallet, I couldn’t feel it in my pocket. It had fallen out during the lightening storm.

I could hear the laughter grow louder, until finally I picked out the biggest one, poked him in the chest with almost each syllable when I wagered, “If I can hold my breath longer than you, you buy me a beer.”

Then before I knew it, men from every table were challenging me on breath hold competition, and each time, I won, earning me a fresh beer. One guy even bet my green fees and lost.

So what started as a friendly golf game, bolted into a free-diving-golf ball recovery attempt, and ended with free beer and golf for me. So even with the drenched clothes, the muddied face, and he one shoe, I still had a great day. I got wet, held my breath and drank free beer.

At least that’s the way I remember it.