Marshall Ramsey

It was like a giant black time machine. As the Grumman TBM Avenger rolled to a stop outside of the hanger, a warrior from the past carefully was extracted from its cockpit. That warrior, Dean Boyers, wasn’t as spry physically as he was during World War 2 — but mentally, he was as sharp as a tack. He walked away from the plane with a confidence that even Top Gun’s Maverick lacked.

He had once flown a plane like this once. And he had flown it well.

At 95, Lt. Boyers is not only sharp, he’s a masterful storyteller. He began his speech by looking into the eyes of his radioman’s daughter. His voice choked as he spoke of her late father. Eyes moistened as the hanger got suddenly dusty. He then began telling us about his service, his friendship and respect for his crew and began talking about his late friend, Lt. Guy Brown (we were there to remember his life and death) The Avenger, owned and restored by John Mosley, is painted like Vicksburg’s Brown’s plane. That plane was hit by antiaircraft fire over Japan and broke in half. He and his crew lost their lives a week before the end of the war. Three more faces in a list of thousands of fallen Americans.

Their plane was number 96. Lt. Boyer’s was 95.

Lt. Boyers spoke of their missions. How they had figured out that if they came in low, the Japanese anti-aircraft gunners had less time to shoot at them — and that the shells would explode thousands of feet above them. He spoke how they’d party, tell jokes and do everything they could to relieve the stress of the war. He said to pay for those parties, a pilot would be charged a quarter every time their plane’s giant radial engines would backfire. It could be a pretty hefty sum. He then told us how he told his crew if they’d take care of the back part of the plane, he’d get them home safely.

He did.

It’s easy to view him as a warrior and hero. But he’s also just a man. A man asked to do an impossible job. And like the millions of Americans who served back then, he did it well.

Time has smiled on Lt. Boyer. He has lived a long, fruitful life. I’m grateful I was able to shake his hand today.

As we left the hanger, I looked over at the giant black time machine one last time. Recently revived from being a museum piece, it had done its job well.

How we react to mistakes determines how we succeed.

Number one: We all make mistakes. In fact, there was only one perfect human — and He ain’t us. What makes us special is how we deal with the after effects of them.

I used to be pretty crappy at this to be honest. If someone called me out, I’d get defensive — like my very worth was being assaulted. It probably was a self-esteem thing, I really don’t know. All I know is that I felt like crap and I missed the silver lining from it — I never learned anything from screwing up.

I’ve learned a little bit over the years. If a coach, a boss, a spouse, a friend, etc. says, “Hey, you messed up,” don’t go immediately to DefCom 1. Take a breathe and listen to see if you can figure out HOW you screwed up. Once you get the constructive criticism, try to correct it and move on. Your blood pressure doesn’t rise nor do feel like you are being attacked. And who knows, you might actually learn something.

Of course, you also have to take into consideration WHO is telling you screwed up. If it is some random yahoo from the internet busts your chops, take it with a grain of salt. Anyone who has the courage to stick their head out of the foxhole will take a few shots occasionally. And if you have the courage to stick your head out, you’re truly living.

Mistakes are one of the finest universities in the world. That’s why being cautious and trying to avoid them all the time is devastating. Sure, you don’t want to walk along the roofline of your house and slip and fall to your doom for example (some mistakes can be fatal). But most of your risk taking will lead to reward or at least growth.

Training has been good for me on this front. I used to get defensive when a coach would call me out. Now I just try to figure out what I did wrong so I won’t repeat it.

It’s not what happens to you, it’s how you react to it.

I saw a man dump ashes into the Gulf a few years ago. I made up a story for him. 

A lone elderly man walked on the beach with two small urns. This would be his last act of codependency as he unscrewed the silver containers’ lids. Inside the bigger one was the ashes of the woman he had loved his whole life.  And inside the same urn was the ashes of the woman who tormented him his whole life, too. She had been like the riptide in front of him: Beautiful to the eye and the unitiated but dangerous beneath the surface.  He had nearly been sucked out to sea numerous times by her pain.  Somehow, by the Grace of God, he had figured out how to swim perpendicular to the tide and survive.

A lone seagull flew overhead and squawked.

He had remembered the fights. Her drinking. Her attempts at self-medication that never seemed to work.  Narcissicism tore at her soul for years. She worked hard to protray herself as someone who was happy and in control. But soon her physical ailments shredded that facade. Her broken soul was laid bare for all to see — expect he protected her by acting as a filter.  Each year became harder and harder. His soul was scarred now as well.

Lightning flickered on the horizon from tall cumulonimbus clouds that clawed their way toward the sky.  A lone freighter’s lights blinked as it sailed toward New Orleans.  It was just him, God and an urn full of ashes on that lone beach.

“Why?” It was the only word he could muster. Love kept him from asking anything else.  He didn’t expect an answer — God had remained silent so many other times. Why should he expect an answer now?

The seagull landed in front of him and waddled greedily toward him.  The man fished into his pocket and pulled out a napkin. Inside were a handful of stale French fries. He tossed one to the gull, who gobbled it before demanding a second one.

“You remind me of her. Nothing was ever good enough. Always wanting more.”

The gull really didn’t care. He was there for the fries, not a lecture. The rest of the fries seemed to satisfy him as he flew back out to sea and the toward the darkening sky.

The gull had freedom. And the man now had it, too — yet he failed to realize it.  Love had him locked in a prison his own heart had built.

Low rumbles of thunder rolled across the gulf. Waves became taller and a white foam covered them like foam on a rabid dog’s snout. She had not known peace.  Like the land tormenting the sea, her mind crashed and thrashed her until the end. He had found her journals. Her secrets had come out and now he was going to make sure they went with her.  A second container contained their ashes.  When she died, he had burned them in their backyard.

Lightning forked across the sky. The sky and sea grew angrier.  Wind and sand whipped across the beach. Her soul was now fully lashing out at the physical world, trying to take him with her.  He looked out at the storm with his steel blue eyes and squinted. “Allison, I will always love you. And I forgive you  because you were ill. But I as of right now, I’m letting you go.  Goodbye. May God’s peace find you.”

The old man took off his shoes and walked to the edge of the surf.  He then dumped both sets of ashes into the water.  He watched them swirl, mix and hiss in the water. And as they began to wash out to sea, he heard the gull’s lone cry. Then the wind calmed and the waves died down. The storm clouds parted revealing the sun sinking into the sea.

The storm was over.  A tortured soul was finally free.

And a survivor headed home.