I got off the bus and joined about 400 guys in line to get our heads shaved. My last haircut had been the one they had made me get in order to return to school in the twelfth grade. A military official looked at me and said, “What are you, one of those L.A. hoods or surfers? Come with me, punk.” He put me at the front of the line and I had my head shaved. This shameful walk only confirmed my fears; I realized then that joining the military was a huge mistake.
I made it through boot camp and about a year on the Navy ship to which I was assigned, but I became very fed up with the military lifestyle. After a weekend at home, I decided not to go back to my ship, taking a leave of absence without permission. I hit the streets for about thirty days; no haircuts. I had my ear pierced, and got really wasted.
I still had the problem of the military. I devised a surefire exit strategy. I figured if I returned to the ship but refused to cooperate, the Navy would give me a discharge. I returned late at night as our ship was preparing to leave for another few weeks at sea. This vessel was a huge guided missile cruiser with a brig overseen by Marines. When I went aboard, the officer on duty told me to go to sleep. The next morning, I was taken to the masters-at-arms’ office, which operates as a center for the ship’s police force.
My plan was to do whatever it took to get off the ship, hoping to be sent to the naval hospital and be declared unfit for the Navy. We were in the middle of San Diego Harbor, pulling out for our big voyage but not yet in open waters. When the masters-at-arms turned their backs on me, I darted away, running through the ship with Marines chasing after me. This pursuit only increased my madness and resolve. I pushed and shoved them as I ran through small passageways, screaming, “Out of my way!”
I finally made it up to the third deck and saw that the ship was moving through the water to the open sea. Marines came up behind me, yelling, “Stop right where you are!”
I ran toward the railing and saw a long drop to the water below. At this point I was on automatic pilot, and there was no turning back. Without hesitation, I flung myself over the railing with all my clothes on, including my heavy cord jacket and desert boots. After hitting the water, it was a struggle to swim with the weight of my clothes; the best I could do was tread water. Finding it hard to claim any victory as I bobbed up and down in the sea, I surrendered and was pulled back aboard by an irritated sailor who had been lowered into the water in a small boat to capture this madman.
I spent five months in all in the Navy brig, but was discharged from the Navy in January of 1966. Amazingly, I was discharged under honorable conditions, with a statement that my mind had become disordered through the use of LSD and other drugs.
While AWOL from the Navy during those thirty days, I met a girl named Laura at a party in Malibu. We spent as much of those thirty days together as we could. She was a senior in high school at the time. She had waited for me and even visited me while I was serving my five months in the Navy brig. I was astounded and moved by her loyalty and affections. After she graduated in June of 1966, we headed for Hawaii. We lived on the North Shore for about three or four months, then headed back to Southern California, where Laura got pregnant. We were married in August of 1966.
Only a few months later we found ourselves fleeing back to Hawaii, with Laura pregnant and my old using buddy Wes tagging along. Upon arrival, we bought a cheap car and headed for the North Shore. Our first two weeks were spent sleeping in parks while looking for a place to live. I smoked dope and took “reds and yellows,” which nonaddicts commonly use as sleeping pills. Every night I passed out. Nothing bothered me, including the rain and mosquitoes. I slept great. With the continuous use of drugs, I had mastered this type of nomadic existence.
In September 1967, we found an attractive little two-bedroom house just two houses from the ocean on Ke Nui Road at Sunset Beach, directly in front of a popular surfing spot called Rocky Point. The North Shore was beautiful in the sixties. The beaches were empty, with white sand, picturesque palm trees, and the most perfect waves in the world.
As we began meeting many of the people living on the North Shore, I discovered that LSD and hashish were freely available; so these became my drugs of choice. I embraced the shared experience; it became like communion with psychedelics. I felt good about not shooting dope, convincing myself that part of my life was over. I was happy to be part of the spiritual movement popular with most people in our community. A group of us regularly came together to go into the woods to meditate. We would hike up into the mountains overlooking the coastline, where you could see for miles in either direction. The waves would line up on the horizon as they pushed their way forward to the shore. It was like each wave knew its destiny, finding its way to the coastline of the North Shore near the end of its journey.
We would sit in a circle as someone read a spiritual book guiding us to higher realms of consciousness. We all wore white muslin yoga pants, considered fashionable at the time. Everyone practiced yoga and sat in the lotus position. The lotus position is a popular way to sit when meditating because it keeps your back straight. Keeping the spine erect is important and something always emphasized when learning to meditate. This was a huge problem for me, because ever since childhood, flexibility was not my friend. I couldn’t even touch my toes. I couldn’t sit in a cross-legged position, let alone in a lotus. This just added to the ever-growing separation I had first experienced in kindergarten. The drugs took away those feelings in the beginning, but not anymore.
There we all were, getting into position on the mountaintop. Since I didn’t haul a chair up the mountain with me, I found myself taking a kneeling position to maintain proper positioning.
“Okay,” I thought, “I’ve got it together: positioned properly, yoga pants on, hair is long (I hadn’t had a haircut since I was discharged from the Navy almost two years earlier), haven’t shaved. God, I’m looking good here.”
Then the reading started. Eyes closed, yet looking upward—they say this is where the third eye is, where the light is—I was high on LSD and had also smoked some marijuana. I was totally ready for the journey. About six or seven minutes into the meditation, my legs started to cramp, and I felt the circulation completely cut off.
“Ok, just listen to the prayers being read. You can transcend this feeling of pain,” I thought.
More time went on, but all I could hear were my thoughts: “I know I will never be able to walk again. I’m sure my legs are turning purple. I will have to be airlifted off the mountain. I can’t take it. I have to move, but then they will all know I’m not in a deep meditation.” At that point, though, I didn’t care. Slowly, and as quietly as I could, I changed positions. With every quiet bend, my knees would defiantly pop or lock themselves in place. Who knew enlightenment would be so painful? I had to lie down and stretch my legs out before it was too late. I lay on my back and started to extend my legs. The pain was really bad, but I got them straight, lay back, and tried to listen.
I thought, “This feels so good now. I can totally stay in this position as long as this goes on. And, hey, my back is still in a straight position.”
“I’m starting to enjoy this now. Whoops, it feels like there is a bug in my pants! Just focus, Tom. Don’t move!”
I stayed still, but I had to move again to scratch my butt. Then I had to pick my nose. “Stop it,” I shouted to my mind. “Can’t you stay focused?”
So there I lay, knowing everyone was in bliss and I was preoccupied with all these bodily sensations, when it hit me….
“God, do I have to pee! There is no way I can hold it much longer, but if I get up to go behind a tree, everyone will know that I’m incapable of meditating for any longer than a few minutes.”
As I look back on