For a year, I knew I was going to speak in Florida and made plans for a four-day fishing trip to the Florida Keys. Freddie, my friend, brother, and outstanding dentist, has won the World Bonefishing Championship three times. He has often invited me to join him there.


Bonefish are a sporting game fish that live exclusively in shallow saltwater flats that surround the world’s coral reefs and islands. The flats off the Florida Keys are acknowledged as the “Bonefishing Capital of the World.”

I landed in Key West on Sunday morning, where I was greeted with the news of an approaching hurricane. It crossed my mind that this might cost me a day’s fishing, but it didn’t linger. We were on the water within two hours, looking for the tell-tale signs of bonefish feeding. Our guide poled us through the flats on flat–bottomed boats that skim the shallow, crystal-clear water. Below me I could see sharks (at least five species), rays in abundance, and a barracuda after leaping mullet. The sea is full of multi-colored grasses that move with balletic grace.

Bonefish are spectacular fighters. When they take the hook, they’ll run your line out whistling like the high-pitched squeak of a speeding zipper. When you bring the fish close to the boat, they’ll make another run; it’s thrilling, and we release them unharmed. By the time we got home Sunday night, the news was that Rita was increasing intensity and bearing down on Key West. Sick people and visitors in RVs were told to evacuate immediately. But, the sky was still clear the following morning, so we went out again. It wasn’t until the wind picked up and the rain started to fall that we came in.

As we drove back toward Sugarloaf Key, there were lots of cars coming in the opposite direction, and then we heard on the radio the official notification for everybody in the lower Keys to evacuate. My initial reaction was an “oh shit” moment. How could this be happening to me? I had planned to be here for four days, was having a blast—it just wasn’t fair. I had another speaking engagement at the end of the week, and there was no certainty that the airport would be functional if Rita got stronger as she approached. When we heard the announcement that the only road through the Keys might close by midnight, we were passing the Marathon Airport where I got the last rental car.

Before leaving, Freddie told me to call his close friend Steve, whom I’d met just days before. He handed me Steve’s number and directions to his house, saying it might be hard to find a room. It’s my style not to reach out and ask for anything, I’m happy to respond to others’ needs, but it’s always been hard for me to ask. I like being holed-up alone in hotel to eat when I want, read all day, write, and sit in a hot tub.

By the time I get to Homestead, at the southern tip of the mainland, all the motels are full. I’m on my way to Miami and look at the directions to Steve’s house. I’m on the Florida Turnpike at just the exit to get off. I call Steve for directions, and by the time I get there, he has a martini waiting, and a tray with cheese and crackers. It was a warm and wonderful way to end a hectic day.

The next morning, I watched Rita’s wind and rain pelt South Florida, from a picture
window overlooking Biscayne Bay. Sitting safely in the middle of the hurricane, experiencing such awesome power, provides an opportunity to reflect on life’s existential questions (meaning, purpose, and what we need to learn). Awe is the mechanism by which we tame the ego and learn how to be present in every moment.

I flew to Pittsburgh, where I spoke as Rita was approaching the Texas-Louisiana coastline. That evening I watched the evacuation, the cars stalled on highways. Having just been there and done that, I knew the feelings of helplessness and fear of Rita’s awesome power. I also remembered the kindness of strangers, people opening their homes, sharing gas, water, and helping neighbors board up homes and businesses. Later on, I went to a benefit rock and roll concert at the Mellon Arena for the victims of Katrina.

The DJ emcee thanked the crowd for showing what the heart of Pittsburgh is all about. Then he plugged their beloved Steelers, which brought cheers from the crowd, and introduced Franco Harris. Franco said he was proud to be part of this city and to live in America where people come together as a nation to help each other through hard times. Then an incredible band opened with the most astounding rendition of the Star Spangled Banner I have ever heard. Slowly the crowd, mostly younger (although to me everybody is younger), began to stand. The scene brought tears to my eyes: a ceremony of awesome power uniting community and nation. Rita was rolling, and people connected with each other in ways that liberate the human spirit.

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My friend and soul brother Patch Adams came to Phoenix last week for a day between speaking engagements. It’s as close to a vacation as he takes; he says his work is his vacation, it re-energizes him, and he couldn’t find greater satisfaction anywhere than feeding off the love he gets from sharing his with others. I love being with him, and there is almost nothing in the world that energizes me like when we play together.


Patch brings out that piece in me that can walk up to absolute strangers and embrace them. He doesn’t hold back anything; he walks up to people in his idiot clown persona, gets away with going right up into their faces and connects with then. When I’m with him in costume, I can take the risk to reach out and hug, laugh and connect undefensively. My grandkids think that Patch is the only person in the world who is weirder than their Papa.

I picked him up at the airport early in the morning, and we spent a couple hours alone before it was time to clown. This year my wife, daughters and grandkids wanted to go with us. Everybody got their own costumes together and off we went to Phoenix Children’s Hospital to play with kids and staff on trauma and cancer units. There is no place, no matter how heart-wrenching, from war zones to disaster areas, where patients, victims, and volunteers can’t find something to laugh about. Indeed, we need to, it’s a survival mechanism.

Then we went to the Veterans Memorial Coliseum to hang out with the evacuees from the flood disaster in New Orleans. There we were greeted by a phalanx of National Guardsmen, state highway patrolmen, and corrections officers. At first, the uniformed personnel weren’t sure what to make of Patch, as he tried to pass through the metal detectors butt first. Trying to explain to his idiot clown character how to do it, they too began to laugh.

We were assigned to a large tattooed, hulking guide who tried to shepherd us to the kids’ play area. Patch told him he’d like to see the people who were the sickest or most disturbed, and he’d like to talk to the staff and volunteers. Our guide walked us past the entrance to the main floor where the cots were arranged in rows by the hundreds and people were sleeping and recovering. Patch, who always travels at his own speed, stopped and got into a comedic rap with some of the floor sweepers. Unbeknownst to him, they were convicts, detailed here, and hence the presence and scrutiny of corrections officers. The prisoners volunteered for the duty, so did the officers; everybody at the Coliseum served voluntarily, including nurses, mental health specialists, community and church groups, and a biker couple who rode down from Northern Arizona “to be with people in a good way.”

When our guide saw what was happening, the restrictions began to lift, and when the buzz spread that Patch Adams was in the house and people wanted to see him, everyplace opened up to us. The grandkids went off by themselves and interacted with people, hugged them, and listened to their stories. Sitting on cots, they heard what it was like to survive on the streets of the flooded city. I joined them as they listened to a man in his thirties tell them he left the New Orleans Convention Center when he saw the chaos and violence there. The people trampling each other, stealing and screaming so disgusted him that he left to survive on the streets. Finding food was no problem; it was scattered everywhere, dropped from the overstuffed arms of looters. His biggest problem was who might attack him at night when he slept in the park. He described a psychotic man who found him under a bush and threatened to kill him. My grandsons were entranced and wide-eyed…this wasn’t a make-believe story around the campfire.

And then came Patch, holding onto his pet fish, which he blew into like a clarinet and danced through the aisles singing “When the Saints Go Marching In,” followed by a parade of people dancing. It’s hard not to feel energized by the gift of Patch’s sincerity— he is a channel through which love is expressed.

The experience touched my grandkids in a profound way. From their suburban lifestyle, they saw a reflection of a world perhaps acknowledged, but never directly. Patch told us he didn’t often get three generations of a family clowning together and wanted us all to climb into his shorts. He proceeded to take out the biggest underpants in the world and we all climbed in. Patch invited us to come as a multi-generational family on an international clown trip to some disaster area in the world. He told my grandkids that there is lots of room to spread love in the world and they want to do it.

P. S. Interested in clown trips contact Patch at www.patchadams.org

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Let’s take a break from the ongoing trauma of Katrina’s aftermath and remember that, even in the midst of this chaos, there are stories of heroism, kindness, love, and healing. I received a letter this week which healed me from my despondency. The letter was from my relatives who accompanied me last year to work with the Huichol Indians in central Mexico.


For those of you who may not remember, or were not subscribers then, I encourage you to review the Schlagbyte Archives (May17, 24 and 31, 2004) to fill in the details. In summary, six professionals (three Mexicans and three Americans) made a trip deep into the Sierra Madre mountains to work with Huichol children in a boarding school.

Children from six to 16 were afflicted with what appeared to be demonic possession. They became animal-like, aggressive, even murderously violent. These manifestations had been going on for 10 years and the Shaman, called Marakame, had not been successful in eliminating it. I had some experience in treating such culture-bound syndromes, and was invited to organize a team to do a diagnostic evaluation and hopefully provide some therapeutic intervention. This work has had a life-changing impact on me and was the most profound healing ceremony I’ve ever experienced. This year our Mexican colleagues returned without us to do some follow-up work. Their letter follows:

Dear Brothers and Sister:

This is the rainy season, travel is difficult, and instead of the dust of last year we move through mud and roads that sometimes seem like rivers. We miss you, but feel your presence, even the old truck started coughing in despair at your absence……We were greeted warmly in the village, just like old acquaintances. There is universal recognition of the radical decline in cases (only two or three mild cases), and the change is noticeable to all. The community has come together, the Extraordinary Assembly (the highest authority in the community) appointed 5 Marakame to serve as the guardians of the healing of the children. Support groups among friends and parents have been formed to address the children’s needs as well. There is no question that the community senses the problem of the children is something from the past ……The Navajo shawl you brought last year as a protective covering for sick children, is no longer at the Nuevo Colonia boarding school. It has found its way to the boarding school at Pueblo Nuevo, where it is kept as a protective omen. In the Calihuey (holy temple) of Pochotita, we sang, performed blessings, and presented gifts. .... On our way home we sang, the Doors’ “This Is The End.” We are grateful beyond words and worlds for our connection, and the blessing of our work together.

In the dark moments, I am reminded that coming together in community creates an energy that can heal all wounds.

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After a couple of weeks of some serious Schlagbytes, I thought this week’s would be a happy reprieve. We were vacationing on the lovely island of Catalina, twenty miles off the Southern California coast; it is America’s only equivalent to a Mediterranean island. The little town of Avalon, Catalina’s main harbor and capital, restricts automobiles, so people walk everywhere or ride around in golf carts. We explored, sailed around the island, fished, hiked, and ate well.


One afternoon we were guests at the world-famous Tuna Club. The Club, arguably the most famous deep-sea fisherman’s exclusive paradise on earth, is a bastion of privilege and male supremacy. When Avalon elected its first female mayor, she addressed the club, but only after she was escorted in through the back door. A guest told my wife that there were sleeping rooms upstairs, and added with a wink, that no wife was allowed up there.

I loved the ambience, which my wife, of course, viewed as additional evidence of my inherent male piggishness. The trophy room cabinets were filled with old rods and reels. I sat in an old fishing chair and looked at the huge, mounted marlin, swordfish, sailfish, and tuna. There were trophies of every description, and lots of testimonials and photographs. You didn’t have to guess the politics of this place. When I went to the men’s room, mounted between two urinals was a letter from President Bill Clinton honoring the club on their 100 anniversary (Clinton may be the only leader in the world so honored).

Photographs of Presidents, Prime Ministers, Generals, foreign royalty, captains of industry, and Hollywood stars, were in abundance. You had to be blind not to notice that there wasn’t a single black face. This awareness would have undoubtedly dissipated, if not for the fact that the day after we returned, we watched the destruction of the city of New Orleans. In the hundreds of images of those thousands of survivors, I didn’t see a single white face. Where were they?

The people who didn’t get out, lived in the lowest parts of the city. New Orleans is below sea level, and the poverty escalates the deeper below sea level you get. The Ninth Ward is the lowest point in the city, and it is almost entirely black and poor. The citizenry in the higher elevations, those with cars, access to information and escape routes, got out. Does this breed resentment? You bet it does, and when you’re at the bottom of the pond you’ll do almost anything to survive, some will steal, a few may kill.

We are all horrified at the looting, rape, murder and mayhem; we are dismayed that many policemen resigned from the force, rather than face the angry mobs. Where was the Louisiana National Guard which was created for this purpose? Most of them are in Iraq, told they are fighting for freedom which includes saving oil supplies and stabilizing the market. Many of those guardsmen are Black Americans. Where do you suppose they’d rather be fighting for freedom and democracy? The escalating disparity between the haves and have-nots is escalating in this nation, and people are resentful and angry.

When I looked at the photographs, and saw the desperation in the survivors, I felt ashamed of my privilege. Sitting in Zane Gray’s chair, sipping bourbon, and imagining what it would be like to land a 1000-lb. fish, didn’t feel as good when I knew that no black man from the Ninth Ward will likely be sitting there.

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