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GABE'S BLOG.... |
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JANUARY-JUNE 2009 11-11-09: Just today I received an email with the following attached to it....
Even as I look at it now, the tears still run down my face. Seems I was emotionally booby-trapped by the email....on Veterans Day. But it reminded me to take the time and give thanks to those heroes who served and do so yet today.
I have a number of fallen heroes who have been important in my life other than Jon Canaday....
My Uncle--Bill Gabelhouse, who swam under burning oil on the ships he was shot out from under in the Pacific....
My Uncle--Harry Kolb, who spent three years in a POW camp in Germany after being rescued from hanging by a Nazi officer....
My Grandpa--Louis Mitzner, who fought in the trenches of the Argonne Forest in WWI....
My Cousin, Jimmy Gabelhouse, who served in Vietnam....
And I have other heroes who are, thankfully, still with us....
My life-long teacher, John Roseberry, who served in Korea and Vietnam....
My friend and Dojo Brother, David Ossian--a combat Marine who served in Desert Storm....
My friend Bryson Keenan--twelve years a grunt and twelve years a spook--now a security executive in Singapore....
To all of you....thank you for your service, and may God bless you and your families.
I've been working on a special project that is proving itself to be both exciting and a challenge. After Jon's death, his sons tried to piece together their father's life. It was confirmed that he worked for the CIA, and that he had been a UDT frogman. But specifics--years in service--campaigns or countries were almost entirely unknown--and/or still classified.
In Jon's When-I-Die File, I was designated to be the writer of his obituary. I did not expect what that responsibility would bring with it....
After reading Jon's obit a number of old war horses and spooky sorts reached out to me. They all loved the obituary, but more so, they all knew Jon, and had served with him. Some left phone numbers that I called and some sent only emails. I took notes from our phone conversations, and kept all their email accounts. Most of those old warriors and spies had been with Jon in Vietnam in the 1960's. From their accounts and from my own intelligence gathering, I began to painstakingly put together something I wanted to share with Jon's sons....
A true-life account of one covert mission that Jon was a part of in Vietnam.
But I wanted a mission that was shoot-and-loot. And an old salt aboard a rescue and salvage ship stationed out of Da Nang steered me in the right direction.
Seems that in 1966, Jon, along with his UDT shooters made a long swim in the South China Sea and into the mangrove swamps of the Rung Sat. Rung Sat is Vietnamese for Jungle of the Assassins. The Soi Rap River ran through the Rung Sat--fed by a number of other streams and rivers--the Vam Sat, the Dong Tranh, etc. The Soi Rap was a major merchant lane where ships from the South China Sea went up river 22 miles to Saigon where they offloaded. The Viet Cong owned the Rung Sat, and preyed on any and all Merchant and ARVN shipping bound for Saigon. The Rung Sat was 400 square miles of sweltering and mosquito infested, mangrove swamp and rivers that offered a safe haven for over 1,000 VC regulars.
The U.S. Navy and Marines wanted to basically invade the Rung Sat and set up housekeeping. But, before the Marines of the 1st Battalion, 5th Regiment could land on the Long Thanh Peninsula--entryway to the Rung Sat--UDT and SEAL teams were covertly inserted--each making their way to the heart of the swamp on the Vam Sat River--clearing the way for the Marines.
Operation Jackstay started with the insertion of SEAL teams and UDT swimmers from the USS Reclaimer--including one Jon Canaday. It ended with 63 VC killed, three service and supply bunkers destroyed, and a handful of sampans captured or sunk. More important, Operation Jackstay was the feasibility test that was the basis around which the entire Brown Water Navy of Vietnam was built.
And so, for Jon's sons, I recreated a story and told it as seen by their father over forty years ago. Knowing now what Jon did in that green hell of swamp and brown water makes my adventures small. God bless Jon Canaday, and those men....who were necessary.
The tale will provide the back story of Jimmy McCann and will likely include a cameo appearance by....Gabe Turpin.
The story begins with Jimmy's service under British Colonial commandos during the Mau-Mau uprising of Kenya. Flashing forward to present day, Jimmy McCann once again finds himself in Kenya, where he seeks the aid of an old N'dorobo shaman in finding the spiritual leader of a nuke-armed terrorist cell that wants to make the port of Mombassa a jihad version of Pearl Harbor. Central to the story will be the CIA's use of psychics and intuitives in their remote-viewing program, and the resultant rendering of a shamanic journey into a black-ops weapon.
When the real Jimmy was alive, he often said, "Gary, you wouldn't believe how close we come sometimes to having really bad things happen to us and our country." DANCE WITH THE DEVIL will be a story about such bad things.
Salama
Click to play Havens' Woodstock performance of Freedom....
And Havens reached this pinnacle--this union of art and spirit because he had totally emptied himself of talent and voice, and had cast himself into the holy fire of spirit. This from an interview with Richie Havens about his performance at Woodstock....
Man, it was wild. Each time I walked off they said, "Richie, Richie, three more. Just three more songs. They're on their way." I went out there--that's how Freedom was done. I didn't know what the hell to sing anymore. I sang every song I knew, every song. I said, "I don't have another song. I'm not gonna sing doo-wop, either." So that's why there's a long intro on Freedom--I was trying to figure out what the hell I was going to sing. Finally, the word freedom came out, because I was thinking, This is the freedom that we've been looking for for 20 years, from teenagehood until now, and this is the freedom. This is it. So I started singing freedom--the word freedom--and then "Motherless Child" popped out. I hadn't sung that in ten years. And then just a little of the other piece, with the mother and father thing. It was another bit that I used to do with this band when I was fifteen. It channeled right out, man, I'm telling you. And I'll tell you another thing, I had to wait until the damn movie came out before I knew what the hell I actually did. But as far as I'm concerned, I feel that it doesn't belong to me anyway. It belongs to everything that made it come out. Richie Havens in 1969 gave a sacred performance that transcended his talent. As did a number of other performers. Woodstock was not only the largest concert in human history at that point--it was a cultural event that was fueled by performances that were no less than uncut spirit.... Carlos Santana's guitar cadenza, and percussionist Mike Shrieve's drum solo--Janice Joplin and Joe Cocker with Jimi Hendrix--all gave transcendent performances that will forever live in human history as examples of divine art.
Look at the images above. What do you see....what do you feel? The Art is much larger than the artist. There is no human metric to capture the measure of even a single man or woman who is in this state of grace.... Despite whether the mantra or medium is music, words, paint, clay or fabric, giving one's self up to one's art is a holy communion.... *******
08-03-09: About three weeks ago I got a real punch to the gut. I learned that the inspiration for my perennial character, Jimmy McCann, had been hit on his motorcycle and killed. I sat on the couch after ending the call, and thought back on over 25 years of friendship and inspiration. Later I learned that Jon Canaday aka Jimmy McCann, had left a file that included how to handle his arrangements in the event of his death.
One of those arrangements was his obituary. Jon's notes read: I don't want a regular obituary with all that bullshit about survivors and such. Have Gary write something that really makes me look good.
Writing an obituary for Jon was difficult in many ways. First, he was a good friend for a long time--over 25 years. And I miss him, and don't really need anything that reminds me of that sting. Next, most of what Jon did in his life is classified. How does one write about any achievements if those achievements were designed to be deniable and were almost always considered a matter of national security? Aside from a few stories that were fueled by copious quantities of Bombay gin, I knew little about what Jon really did.
The day after Jon's death, I wrote the obituary that was not an obituary about a man who's life was a secret. If you care to read it, go to:
Then, just today, I received a phone call from one of Jon's sons. Seems the family decided to have a memorial stone at the UDT-SEAL Museum and needed help. The voice-mail message said, "We have three lines with fifteen characters each--forty-five characters to capture the essence of the man. And oh, spaces and punctuations are considered characters, too."
How in the hell can you limit to forty-five characters what you want to say about a man like Jon--only six words you want to convey in remembrance and for ever and ever, amen?
Jon had recently gone down to the Keys with one of his sons. They talked long and hard about Jon's military and spooky career. "At the end of the day," Jon told his son, "I want to be known as a patriot."
So, if nothing else, Jon's stone should read....PATRIOT. Here is what is on the stone....
PATRIOT WARRIOR FEARLESS--FREE CHANGED HISTORY
And Jon was a patriot. He bled red, white and blue. He'd tear up every time he heard the National Anthem, and wasn't afraid to show his love for the flag. Just talking about the real heroes who he kidnapped from veteran homes and hospitals exposed the deep love he held for his country, and for those who served it.
"Is that your motorcycle out there?" the woman purred. "Yes, ma'am it is." "Would you let me ride on your motorcycle?" "If you'd let me see your tater tots, I would." "Would you let me drive your motorcycle if I let you taste my tater tots?" "Yes ma'am I certainly would...."
Jon said it was at that moment in the conversation that the beer bottle hit him on the back of the head. Then he was hit again on the cheek. He back-fisted the assailant--the boy friend of Miss Tater Tots--and knocked him down. Excited from just retelling the tale, Jon continued.
"Gary, I got one good boot on him before they pulled me off and threw me out. But they didn't make me pay for my drinks."
Typical Jon--there was an upside even in getting cold cocked with a beer bottle: Free drinks.
Then, sitting in our outer office, Jon told me how he had befriended an old SEAL TEAM-6 officer who had exported a lot of aquatics warfare to the Army's Delta Force group. The old war horse had basically been abandoned in a vets' hospital. Jon liberated the man and took him to one of the best strip clubs in South Florida. Jon was laughing loud, retelling the incident--how the old warrior had placed his head between the naked thighs of a dancer and yelled at the top of his lungs, "WATER BOARD ME, BABY! WATER BOARD ME!"
Jon's laughter trailed off, and I saw a tear run down his bruised cheek.
"Awww, hell. I get tears runnin' down my goddamn face when I think about those guys. They are truly American heroes and they're forgotten. Yeah, water board me. Heh. Yeah."
That was the last time I saw Jon alive. He was crying over the heartbreak of a forgotten soldier.
Jon Canaday: Patriot
And his dance on rock faces was truly death defying, for he rarely used a rope. No matter how difficult the climb. He was not tethered by reality. He was not bound by the minutia of human limits. He did the impossible....daily. In his prime, John Bachar was unquestionably the greatest climber the world had ever seen. Sunday, July 5, 2009, John Bachar, age fifty-one, fell on a solo climb of the Dike Wall at California's Mammoth Lakes. He passed as he had lived: on the extreme edge of possibility. I was sitting in my den late that Sunday night behind the computer when the first emails began limping into camp. Most could not believe he was dead. Others, hoped it was a cruel hoax, and had desperately called him to receive only his voicemail message. Everywhere across the planet hard men wept. Bachar was bulletproof. At least that's how we saw it. He climbed better than anyone, and he had more courage, focus, and vision than anyone during those glorious days of climbing. Sure, most of us were bold and courageous to a fault. But Bachar was different. If Bachar had a vasectomy, it would have to be done with a chain saw.
Theirs were raptor eyes--bright and hard. Many felt small when they were in the presence of these men. These were men that were difficult to fathom. Men who traded daily with the reaper for their lives. These men were more alive than any I have ever known.... Some spectators will tsk-tsk and tut-tut. Sure, climbing an impossible route without a rope is stupid if you don't know any better. However, Bachar and others like him--some now also taking dirt naps--knew exactly what they were doing. Almost all of us had, for one reason or another, climbed beyond our ability without a rope. And there is nothing like it. NOTHING! I suppose it is the purity of it that is most compelling. Climbing a difficult route without the safety of a rope is the epitome of purity--the apex of honesty.
"There is no try. There is only do, or not do."
However, most of us timid souls are proud about how we....try. We try to be in the moment--we try to be compassionate--we try to love unconditionally--we try to.... We try.
Try is a rationalization. TRY is a spin on the words NOT DO. Unroped solo climbing is the apex of honesty. When it's just you, your heels hanging over a couple hundred feet of air, and you're gripped, shaking like a dog shitting peach stones, the wind is whistling in your ears, you're cold and tired but HAVE to make the move....
In that moment, there is no try. There is either do or not do....life....or death. Simple. Pure. Honest. I've found that at that moment one is truly free. Free from any self-delusion--free from any of one's own bullshit. Our dishonesties, delusions and the bullshit and rationalizations that all too easily set up housekeeping in our lives simply do not exist. They are all swept away when one is alone, without a rope on a high crag....scared shitless. The fear and freedom is unlike anything one encounters in normal life. And talk about truly being in the moment. Climbing--roped or not--is an exercise in focus on the here-and-now. The only thing that exists is the rock wall or sheet of ice in front of your eyes. That is the sum total of your reality. In un-roped climbing, that same reality is also the sum total of the rest of your life.
Your entire life contracts to that single moment--with your finger wedged into the narrow crack, bruised and bleeding, and you....make....your....move.
Life or death is simply and honestly decided by whether or not your one finger....holds.
And that kind of purity changes you altogether. It is why some of us who have lived through such glorious challenge, oftentimes have difficulty with normalcy. We have lived in the fire of a unique purity. We are ruined for normal.
To Bachar and all the others who have gone before me, and knowingly embraced the totality of life....Godspeed. ******* |
BLOG ARCHIVES
JUL-DEC '09
JAN-JUN '09
AUG-DEC '08
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10-21-09:
Since the death of my friend, Jon Canaday, quite often, I see him sitting
in the wicker chair on the front porch--just as he always did--nursing a
Bombay or Baccardi. Often, he is enjoying the smoke of a Dominican
dog turd as the prayer flags....flag, and the wind chimes....chime.
Chuckles every time I see him. His presence is like a subliminal
cut, edited into my every day--and it's always at night. A couple of
nights ago he scared hell out of me. Didn't feel his energy as I
went to put the garbage out on the curb at 3:00 AM. Then I saw him
out of the corner of my eye as I went to the front door. Saw him
chuckle and lean back. He smiled widely, took a toke on his cigar
and winked at me. He laughed and took a long pull of his drink.
Then he was gone.
It's
not that I think a lot about Jon's passing. It's just that we have
had this relationship for a long time--a relationship where he took real
interest in what I was doing. Of course, he was vested in what I
wrote, since he was the inspiration for my perennial character, Jimmy
McCann, or Jimmy. And so, it's not particularly unusual that Jon
would continue to be interested in what I'm doing....despite he's passed.
No, not at all unusual to me, though I sometimes wish he'd clear his
throat before he appears on my front porch.
It
would be an account of a UDT mission--with fiction-author's license--but
that adhered to facts. Within a few weeks I was armed with thousands
of words and even copies of a few classified CIA reports. Basically,
I knew on which ship Jon served in Vietnam, what he did and where he
went....and when.
Most
of Jon's missions in Vietnam were snoop-and-poop--that is the UDTs would
go in covertly and establish information-gathering means--whether that was
sub rosa sonar or some other spooky communications technology.
Hence, the SNOOP in snoop-and-poop. However, the UDTs were also good
at sneaking in, blowing something up, and sneaking back out. That
would be the POOP in snoop-and-poop. Suffice it to say that Jon did
more than his share of swimming under the waters of Haiphong Harbor. 
Speaking
of the inspiration that lead to my fictional character Jimmy
McCann--scheduled for publishing next autumn--the first Jimmy McCann
novel: DANCE WITH THE DEVIL.
09-04-09:
Back in 1970 I watched and listened to Richie Havens as he gave himself up
to his art at Woodstock. It was a powerful thing to witness despite
it was a celluloid rendering of the event. It touched me deeply and
when he launched into Freedom and invoked the motherless child in all of
us, I wept openly with everyone else in the theater. We were witness
to a rapture--a sacred possession--a musical speaking in tongues.
Our hearts clenched as one, and we yearned to be in that same holy fire.
Richie Havens, like so many of the performers at Woodstock, gave himself
totally to his art--stripped of all the trappings of normalcy, he let the
art flow into him, through him....and us.
Oh,
yeah, they were crazy when I walked out there. And I started singing, and
basically, it evolved. Because I went off seven times, and seven times
they told me to go back, because nobody else was there to go on.
07-10-09:
I remember watching the man climb. It was a sacred act. I knew
I was witnessing an unfathomable level of greatness. Wizard-class
skills. He was like quicksilver-- impossibly adhering to granite
walls. He seemed to defy all natural laws. The man's presence
and intent was much larger than any of ours, yet he seemed to never
acknowledge it. 
Monday
morning following Bachar's passing, I drove to the office as a great
melancholy claimed me. I drove through tears, and remembered their
faces. Each of them. All had the same far look. All had
been ruined for normal life. Their eyes shone bright with a fire
from a life lived high in the halls of mountain gods. Crows feet and
worry lines were prematurely etched onto their young faces. Their
eyes were old, and at the same time, they shown bright with an uncut
passion. They were driven to the edge of what's possible and what's
not. 