that I am no mere spectator of coincidence, but a participant in fate.
First I must thank my co-conspirator on this path: my loving wife, Bea Austin, who always stayed focused on the process and reminded me that I was led to write, and that is all I needed to do—write! The guidance was always about the writing and not the result. The people who directly helped with this book are listed and incriminated below. This is my story, and I’m sticking to it.
This is how it all played out:
While at a meditation workshop weekend in 2007, I mentioned to my friend Lucy Jokiel that I was writing a book. At that moment as we ascended the stairs, she said, “Tom, I will help you by doing some editing.” That brief exchange was the beginning that led to the first draft. Then George Krzyminski came along and put his helpful touch on some of the earlier drafts. My daughter, Celeste Barcia, took precious time from her busy life to help me go over those first tentative writings.
My dharma teacher, Kevin Griffin, offered constructive comments, and then was kind enough to introduce me to Lisa Fugard. Lisa went through the manuscript and marked it up, revealing even more territories on the map. Following her skilled guidance and encouraging direction gave me the bravery to “clean house” and start a complete rewrite.
I feel compelled to send much thankfulness and credit to Christy Maxwell and Dan Brown, who both stayed with me through the final draft of this book. Together they added much of their hearts and helped bring the book to its victory lap.
I’d like to thank my publisher, Central Recovery Press. Without their commitment and belief in this book, it would still be inside my computer, and just a dream. Thanks for making it a reality.
And finally, a very special thanks to all my friends on Facebook. As I finished the writing, I would find myself periodically posting excerpts from the book. Your loving responses and encouragement kept me at the keyboard in those long last hours. Namaste.
3:45 a.m., February 10, 1968, Kaneohe, Hawaii. A tall, thin woman looking much older than her fifty-two years sits up in bed, meditating. A cup of coffee rests on her nightstand, and a cigarette glows in the dark. She listens in silence to the small voice within, her shadow standing guard as she sits in the stillness, becoming one with the calm. Flobird meditates for several hours every morning, a habit she picked up in 1960 while getting into twelve-step recovery.
She lives each day by the spiritual guidance she receives during meditation and diligently records the messages in her journal. Writing becomes automatic, a prayer in ink, and the spirit guiding her pen to identify her next assignment. At times her dialogue with God is intense, and at times she questions the assignment; but she always steps into the unknown and does exactly as her spirit guides her.
On this particular morning, Flobird’s meditation leads her to the North Shore of Oahu, about forty miles from Kaneohe. She hops into “Redbird,” her Fiat, and drives to the Sunset Beach area. There she finds a four-bedroom, completely furnished, wood-framed home nestled under the trees right on the oceanfront. Guided by an inner direction, she reaches above the doorjamb, locates the key, unlocks the door, and enters. Coincidentally, I live next door.
During the winter months, the waves on the North Shore are huge. This is the only time they break with massive force, and they must be at least twenty feet high before they are considered surfable by the locals. The energy from just one such large wave as it comes crashing down is breathtaking, and the salt spray can be seen in the air for miles.
At night, the roaring waves sound like thunder or a gigantic gong echoing across the oceans from some unknown temple. Often they become so enormous that they wash over the highway. Sometimes these monster waves can even level houses in their path.
The North Shore community is relatively small, and everyone knows one another. Today, Haleiwa, the main village, is a bustling town sought out by tourists from all over the world who come to watch or surf the killer waves; but back in the 1960s, it had only two grocery stores and a bank.
This time and place was magical for those of us fortunate enough to live there. The community was dominated by surfers from around the world who competed at the world’s most famous surf spots, which dotted the five-mile stretch of coastline. There were also so-called hippies searching for enlightenment through the use of drugs, including LSD and hashish, which were believed to lead to spiritual illumination. Some of these drug-using hippies were in both categories: They surfed and took a lot of drugs, but they were ultimately looking for something greater. That was me.
In the early morning hours of this day, I was startled awake by the sound of a car on our lane. With a clarity entirely unfamiliar to me in the breaking dawn, I gazed out the window and saw a tiny red Fiat pull up to the vacant house next door. I watched curiously as a strange woman got out and walked calmly up to the house as if she indisputably belonged, as if placed there by mystical entitlement. I had no idea this event would change my life forever.
As I held the match under the spoon, heating up the water to help the white powder dissolve, the anticipation of shooting pure methedrine into my veins caused a feeling of electricity to race through my sleepless and deprived body. I had been awake for three days, and every time I fixed, I told myself I would never do it again. My wife was asleep. It was 2 a.m., and the world was quiet. But this quietness did not exist inside my head. Anxiety, fear, and separation plagued me like demons. I had moved beyond any human level of desperation. I would have settled for hell.
Sitting in the bathroom with a soft light on, I tied a belt around my arm and pumped up my veins. Gently, almost sexually, I tapped the top of the syringe until I saw blood back up—the sign the needle is in the vein. I had become so intimate with my loneliness through the process of fixing dope. How did I get here? I squeezed the syringe, and the rush overtook me as my hair stood on end. My using had become a madman’s paradox: The more I used to get further out of myself, the deeper I found myself locked within. I created a new prison with every hit.
At the time we lived on the Venice Canals in Venice, California. It was the summer of 1967, the time of love-ins, Tim Leary, LSD, and free love. We were hippies, extending a childhood dream of blissful states, resonating love, and dancing in the streets. So why was I in this bathroom alone? Where was the love? I was not free. My flowers had turned brown. The garden was in decay. What had happened since the first time I picked up a drink and then continued on to drugs? Drugs and alcohol had initially given me relief from the separateness I felt. Even though I had come from a loving middle-class family, I never felt I fit in. Drugs helped ease my feelings of disconnection, so I continued to use them, seeking relief from those feelings that had haunted me my entire life. The dope brought a softness I had mistaken as peace. The drugs had simply silenced me.
As I removed the needle from my arm and felt the drug rush through my body, touching every cell within, I sat there with the syringe in my hand, blood dripping on the floor, waiting for relief that did not seem to come. How many times had I repeated this scene? Again I found myself high
