Part One
Why you shouldn’t run
carrying scissors
Throughout your life you will foolishly do what your parents warned you
against, despite all their wisdom and experience, you felt compelled to prove them
wrong, prove your invincibility, or just prove how stupid you can actually be.
I have compiled a hand full of stories about some of my life lessons, as I wrote
these I tried my best to recall which of the above choices I was trying to prove.
To be honest with ya I got nothing, but I’m pretty sure my parents would have
picked the latter.
Like running with scissors some of these stories seem a little reckless, like
being one of the charter students in a skydiving school. And some of the stories
are just about the change in how I perceived life in general as I matured (yes I
only meant physically).
I hope you enjoy the stories, I also hope you listened to your parents better
than I did.
Jumping For Joy
(The power of teenage hormones)
Long long ago in a not so distant land I began making the transition
from a meager dependant into what I considered to be “an independent man
of 18”. It had little bearing on me that I was still living in my parent’s house,
eating my parent’s food, and driving my parent’s car. I was now 18 and clung to
such “realities” as I could now be literally “hung” by a jury of my piers, shot at
by foreigners over a cause I would more than likely never understand and most
important of all, vote for the next poor fool that was fighting to spend the next
four years of his life being criticized and scrutinized over every action and breath
he takes. All of these plus the added boost from my raging hormones gave me, “an
independent man of 18” the unquestionable right to do as I pleased whenever I
pleased.
This leads me to the premise of this story as I would never have done this if
I had not been “an independent man of 18” with a better than average hormone
boost.
It all started when I decided to help bolster my less than stellar Junior College
GPA by taking a no brainier elective course, so I selected Advanced SCUBA Diving.
I know it sounds tame enough but keep reading it gets better. As it turns out this
particular class was being taught by a semi-retired, forty-something, ex-Marine
Special Forces instructor (see I told you it would get better) by the name of Dean
Weston. Mr. Weston was a 6 foot square by 3 foot thick slab of mussel with the
worn chiseled features reminiscent of Robert Shaw in the movie Jaws. During the
course of the course I not only learned repetitive dive tables & underwater salvage
techniques but the proper etiquette on how to use a flamethrower and the proper
way to lob a hand grenade.
The class was wonderful, it was an incredible feeling getting college credit
to be diving up and down the California coast every week. Of coarse there was
Mr. Weston, who being Mr. Weston, somewhat of an adventurer, phalanthpust,
entrepreneur, and just an all around charismatic guy, seemed to be a local
icon everywhere we went. As the semester wore on I became more and more
enamored with my namesake instructor and took every opportunity to strike
up a conversation with him. During a couple of these conversations he had
mentioned how he was going to give up working for the college and open a sky
diving school as soon as he had enough capital. I remember thinking that was a
risky proposition on, oh so many levels, but it seemed with him being, what I then
considered as old enough to know better I just left it at that.
Well as the class came to a close, I finally relented to become one of Dean’s
first costumers. One week later I found myself looking for Dean’s home/classroom
while trying to simultaneously read his map navigate my VW van up the steep
windy roads of the Laguna Beach hillside and come up with a good excuse to back
out of the class.