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 just shook their heads and let me go.
The next day I woke up in a daze from the night before, but somehow made it to the bus that transported us all to boot camp. I slept most of the way from Los Angeles to San Diego, about a two and-a-half-hour drive. As the bus drove onto the military base, I looked out the window at an alien world. Everyone was wearing uniforms, and they all looked alike. I saw white stucco buildings with red-tiled roofs neatly lined up as far as I could see. When I realized the magnitude of what I had done, fear rose up in me. I thought, “Tom, where are you, and what have you done?”
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
