I got exceedingly drunk, threw up everywhere, and woke up the next day with a terrible hangover. I didn’t remember much about the night before, but I sure wanted to do it again—and really soon. Alcohol had magically taken away that terrifying feeling of separation that had become a powerful part of my life. The aftermath the following day left me shaky, dehydrated, and torn down, but it seemed like a fair trade for that momentary state of self-assured bliss. What another may have viewed as degradation, I simply saw as part of the experience— jagged around the edges, but smooth enough for me to endure.
So the adventure had started, and there was no turning back. I thought it was a marvelous experience. From a shy person who was too timid to ask a woman for a date, I had turned into a wild man who went to parties and ended up running around naked and out of my mind. I began to feel connected to a world from which I had previously felt so separated. Alcohol had become my friend, and my world was okay when I was hanging out with this new friend. I began to develop a sort of selective amnesia, my mind forgetting all the nightmarish scenes that would ensue. I was learning the art of bargaining with myself. Or was it the gift of denial?
I was open to anything that got me high. My new principle to live by was: Try anything once, and if the resulting damage is in any way negotiable, a second time will settle any doubts. I soon began sniffing glue. I became a regular at hobby shops, buying model airplane glue and squirting the glue into a sock.
Surfing and getting drunk or loaded went together for me at that time. The drugs and alcohol did for me what I couldn’t do for myself. I used my station wagon for surfing and dating, with the backseat in a down position at all times. This served two functions: It was great for surfing trips when people had to ride in the back with the boards, and it was great for date night at the drive-in movies. Now I had the courage to ask girls out, but I had absolutely no social or dating skills. Where other guys may have used tried-and-true standbys like flowers or a serenade from a guitar to court a girl, I would bring out the beer and glue socks. It’s easy to imagine what a healthy teenage boy wants to do while on a date with a beautiful girl at the drive-in. My problem was that when I got close to making out with my date, I would stick a glue rag between our mouths and say, “Try this.” I always wondered why the girl didn’t want to go out with me again. The disconnect between reality and how I was starting to operate only deepened, and the line between myself and “them” was unmistakable.
So drugs became my best friend, especially grass and pills. Chemicals were now my confidant, seductress, lifestyle, and destination all in one. I remember the first time I took a stimulant, those little white cross pills called Benzedrine, or “bennies.” My then-girlfriend Cindi, a beautiful Asian girl, lived about twenty miles north in Malibu, so I took three bennies and started driving up the Coast Highway. All of a sudden they kicked in, and my first thought (being a true addict) was: “I have to have a thousand of these things.” The second thought was: “Where is a hitchhiker when you need one?” I was so wired out by the pills that I was talking to myself nonstop.
I would have been a graduate of the class of 1962 at Santa Monica High School, but by the eleventh grade I was slipping away from student life. Consistent with my surfer lifestyle, I began growing my hair long, resulting in frequent expulsions from school. I also missed many classes to go surfing at lunchtime, often not returning to school, or sometimes I went surfing before school and didn’t go to class at all that day. Teachers, classrooms, and a formal education seemed like trivial things I had moved beyond. I had evolved into a creature who spent his days surfing the sunlit waves and his nights stoned under the moon- and starlit sky.
The summer before my senior year, school officials told my parents I had to get a haircut before I would be allowed to attend classes. I thought, “That’s great, let me just quit now.” But my parents wouldn’t go for that, so I got a haircut and was allowed to enter the twelfth grade. I had already given up on school and reacted to everything with total rebellion: missing or getting expelled from classes, talking back to my teachers, not doing homework. I worked diligently at dropping out. My plan worked. Eventually, I just reported to the dean’s office in place of certain classes, and finally I was kicked out of school for good.
What does a typical California surfer do after being kicked out of school? He heads for a surfing heaven like Hawaii, which is exactly what I did in April of 1962. It was my first trip to the islands, and I stayed on Oahu for about a month. I arrived late at night and was picked up by some friends I had surfed with in California who had arrived in Hawaii a few weeks before me. As I stepped off the plane, the warm, balmy breeze swept over me, and the fragrant air was especially sweet; this tropical environment felt so good. This place felt like home. The spell of the islands had been cast.
Early the next morning, I headed for the ocean, strolling through the empty streets of Waikiki. Watching the coconut trees swaying in the morning breeze, I walked across the sand and dipped my foot into the water. It was like a heated pool. I dove in, and my body immediately tingled with the warmth of the water washing over me. In contrast to the shockingly cold California ocean, this water seemed to embrace me. The ocean’s heavier salt content kept my body buoyant and stung my eyes as the water rolled down my face. I had played in the ocean my whole life, but this first experience in the waters of Hawaii was like stepping through a portal into another consciousness.
It was as if part of my being had been hypnotized, and the magic waters shook me awake. I knew in that moment I wanted to spend the rest of my life in the islands.
That first trip I stayed in Hawaii for a month, just surfing and lying on the beach. I spent the summer months back in California at Malibu Beach doing more of the same—surfing and getting high. I returned to Hawaii for a second trip in December of 1962 for another month of surfing.
Despite my love for the ocean, during that period of time in Santa Monica, including the two trips to Hawaii, I became hopelessly lost. The drugs had already quit working, but I continued to use them. The feelings of self-doubt, fear, and separation had returned. Getting high was no longer effective in deadening my emotional pain.
In the summer of 1963, I went back to Hawaii for my third trip. I landed with a surfboard and about fifteen dollars in my pocket. I didn’t work for the entire four months I was there. Being only nineteen at the time, having quit school and learned no vocational skills, and not knowing how to even look for a job, I knew nothing but this lifestyle of surfing and using drugs. I would break into a car on the street late at night, curl up on the backseat and fall asleep, and then wake up the next morning and head for the nearest gas station to use the restroom. The rest of the day, I surfed and begged for money on the street. I was homeless long before it became as commonplace as it is today.
We certainly look different on the outside than we feel on the inside. There was something adventurous about being a surf bum, spending days in the sun and ocean and nights at parties. Tom Catton, I’m sure, was acquiring a certain reputation as I traveled back and forth between Southern California and Hawaii, looking like the free-spirited soul with long blond hair and a suntanned body—but that was only the outer image.
By summer’s end, I had sold my surfboard and decided to go back to California. Lost and overwhelmed with intense feelings of separation, I had no idea what to do with my life, and neither did my parents. A few months later, a friend joined the U.S. Navy. I had never paid attention to the draft or what military service was really about, but I didn’t know what else to do, and it was easier to sign up with Uncle Sam than to look for a job. It was a drastic choice, but I was desperate for a direction.
The night before joining the Navy as a seaman apprentice, I went to a party and got really loaded. My friends and I were driving with booze, pills, and pot in the car and got pulled over by the cops. When we began throwing things out the window, we were arrested and taken to jail. I told the cops I was leaving for boot camp in San Diego the next morning, and they