Well, boys and girls, if you will remember last week’s exciting adventure, I had returned from Detroit after a seven year stint with Specs Howard and was now on my own in San Diego, the scene of my triumphs eight years ago. Dick Casper the GM of KCBQ had heard I was back and, after stalling for 9 months, called me to return to the airwaves and work my magic with KCBQ.

I fulfilled his vision the first three months of my tenure by scoring # 1

(Echo Sfx)…”one one ONE!” on the Jan Feb Mar 69 ARB. Now, I had to stay there.

One of the first tricks out of my bag of shticks was a sky dive into La Jolla Cove, to signal the start of the five mile Rough Water Swim by hundreds of intrepid stalwarts, followed by my solo swim across the city in 200 swimming pools.

My pick up boat was to be Jerry Lewis’ yacht. I had known Jerry since my stint at WADO in New York City, when I appeared on one of his first Muscular Dystrophy shows. The show was local then, shown on WNEW TV. His side kick was not Ed McMahon but Del Moore, a good second banana for Jerry.

Jerry had brought me on and we kibitzed apparently to Jerry’s liking and he held me over, meaning I got to stay after the break and kibitz some more. .

Years later, he moved to San Diego where he lived aboard his yacht and listened to me. When I mentioned the sky diving shtick on the air, he called offering his yacht as the pick-up boat.

Okay, the pick-up boat was secured. I just had to fill in the rest. The first item on my agendum was to snare a signal orange colored flier’s coverall from another supporter, Hap Chandler, the C.O. of Miramar Naval Air Base, later the location of the Movie “Top Gun.” Hap had been a top gun in his youth, and was a bright, high energy guy who looked like he could still give Tom Cruise a run for his money in a dog fight.

But now, he happened to have a few extra of those bright orange coveralls lying around and would loan one to me but only if I promised not to mess it up in a crash landing. I made the promise. I wanted that suit.

“Fine,” He exclaimed. “I have arranged for you to attend a parachute jumping class tomorrow.” You know, sort of a brush up course.” He paused. “You have jumped before, haven’t you?” I nodded without elaborating on my abortive jump into a big parade in National City years before.

He didn’t push it, but I still had to attend the class that next day which consisted of being told by the instructor, that “This is a parachute, model # something or other:” He went through the rigmarole of the rigging and showed me the rip cord that I pull when ready to deploy the chute.

Then I watched a training film that went through the whole procedure of the jump, the backward count at the doorway of the jump plane, the leap into the seemingly bottomless void, the count to ten and the rip cord yank.

The film showed the jumper landing in a field, but I was going to land in the water, “In that case, “the instructor said, “Just before you hit the water, You double up into a knot and land on your rump.” Great! That was the missing element. Land on my rump. That had not occurred to me, so I left the class even more fully prepared.

Let me put it in radiospeak. The format called for a sky dive from a height of ten thousand feet into the Pacific without landing like a Hefty Bag full of chicken soup.

Ideally, the parachute would have been an automatic one. I dive out and the chute takes care of everything. Otherwise, there was a grave danger that I would land n the water with the grace of a bowling ball. Too late: The pins were set and I was “up.”

It was the day of the Rough Water Swim, and I was aboard a decrepit prop plane nearing the cliffs of La Jolla. The plane’s fuselage was groaning, I suppose, in grim anticipation of my coming disaster. I am sure that if it had been able, the plane would have turned around and made for the hanger, like a riding horse turns around and heads for the barn when it knows you don’t know how to ride.

I had, in a moment of madness, agreed to jump into the ocean acting as the visual start signal for the race. When my rump hit the water, several hundred men and women would rush madly from the beach into the water as far as they could, then plop down, and launch into a thrashing five mile swim through the roiling waters around a triangular course, the last leg of which was often against a rip tide.

Sky diving was easier than that swim. Or, so I told myself at the time.

Step one was easy. Flashback! That morning, I had been dressed by two men like I was a matador. They pushed and squeezed me until my body reluctantly assumed the shape they were seeking. I felt like I had been compressed into a giant Thigh Master. They then stuffed me into a corset-like harness that bound me to the chute bag.

Step 2: I boarded the plane, and entered the cabin where all you could hear was the deep throated hum of the idling engines, and sat on a metal bench that was welded to the bulkhead of the plane. Then, I was cinched into a broad safety belt that pinned me to the bench.

The pilot throttled the plane, and we raced down a runway that was rapidly giving way to the wild blue yonder, an apt phrase.

I apprehensively sat alone while my two inquisitionists engaged in an animated exchange out of ear shot. Their conference completed, one of them approached, leaned over and shouted into my ear,” We’ve been talking, and the whole thing has to be called off”

My blood was up. When I commit to something, I am like a ferret after a rat. “Why?” I demanded.

“The skipper on Jerry’s yacht. says the fog is hanging over the shore line and runs out a good thousand yards into the water. Can you spill your chute, and swim a thousand yards into a rip tide?”

“Are they sure it’s that foggy.?” I asked. I didn’t address the rip tide issue.

By now, we were flying over the La Jolla coastline. The guy motioned me to join him at the open cabin door. He pointed down. Sure enough, a huge opaque fog bank blanketed the Cove. He looked at me meaningfully, and shrugged, like well that settles that, and started to abort.

“Wait!” I hollered.. Did you say it’s a thousand yards to the beach from the edge of the fog bank?”

“Yes.” He hollered back. “I have logged hundreds of hours, and even I wouldn’t risk it.” I thought for a moment “ Radio the skipper and ask him if he will trail me on the way down and pick me up immediately when I land? Make sure he knows that I can’t swim with the wet chute dragging me down.”

He gave me another you’re crazy look and relayed my message on his radio, and got a yes. The guy gave me a reluctant nod yes.

“Okay,” I hollered. “Go out to the edge of the fog bank and I’ll jump. But make sure, the skipper…”

He was already nodding yes. “You are at the edge now,” he said, “It’s Geronimo. time.” Then he smiled, and pointed behind me. “You are going to have an escort.”

I looked back to see the other guy standing fully rigged, and ready to jump..

I was flummoxed. “What can he do? He……”.

“It’s easy,” He interrupted. “He is a great diver. He will make sure you open your chute and then get out of your way, but stay close enough to help you in case you get in trouble.”
I asked for details. ”How can he…?

“No time for that now. He will dive without opening his chute and get ahead of you and still be able to sail in and pull your rip cord in case you can’t, then he will come down and help..…don’t worry He can do it.”

I nodded dumbly, and before I knew what happened, he shoved me out the door. while shouting “Count ten.” Then I was alone, weightless, with the wind howling in my ears and me tumbling so fast that I lost track of the ground.

Ups and downs were meaningless. I began to spin topsy turvy, like a bunch of drawers in a dryer without Cling Free.

I salvaged the presence of mind to count, but when I got to “nine,” I desperately yanked the rip cord, anyway. Waiting till “ten” would have been an eternity.

I was startled to see my jump buddy diving near me like he was as one with the sky. He was spread-eagled, seemingly falling in slo-mo, and still had not opened his chute. Finally, I heard his canopy catching air when he pulled his rip cord. I caught a glimpse of his ecstatic features behind the goggles. When he opened his chute, that meant he knew his ward was safe. Inspired by him I began to center. Everything slowed down. I was living, not for the moment, but for the nanosecond.

It was so clear. I was suspended, almost gravity-free, a state as freeing as an earthling can experience.

Down to earth. The water came rushing up at me and I reflexively curled up and landed rump first. Time sped up.

I was grabbed by many hands and hauled in one motion into a small dinghy, then aboard the yacht just yards away.. Jerry’s crew was taking no chances.

My jump buddy had, by then, landed smoothly in the water with a small splash and needed no help in spilling his chute then dog-paddling with it to the edge of the yacht where he grabbed the ladder and climbed aboard chute and all, without help. He gave me a grinning thumbs up, like I was the alpha sky diver.

I heard loudspeakers on the shore, announcing that Happy Hare had landed Their plans to start the race when my rump hit the water was dismissed. Instead, the P.A. announcer gave the swimmers the signal to begin their arduous race. Then, the announcer shouted, “Let’s give Happy Hare a big round of applause.”

Distant cheers erupted from thousands, people standing on the beach cliffs who had come to see me. The crowd size for this event was usually a thousand give or take.. This day, my foolhardy stunt drew over five thousand.

It was eerie. I smiled my big public smile, and gave them a reflexive wave of the arms, despite knowing they couldn’t see me through the thick fog.

Those same hands that had hauled me aboard were now stripping me of my flight suit and squeezing me into a wet suit for the long swim in the frigid water.

In no time, I was geared up for the next move. Wet suit, flippers, goggles, even a pair of webbed gloves that had been custom made for me by internationally famed underwater photographer Chuck Nicklin’s wet suit crew..

Now came the hard part: swimming a thousand yards against a rip to the shore and the adoring throng.

It hit me. I wanted out of here, but it was not cool to holler, “Mommy!”

The yacht was lurching in a heavy sea, aimed into the crashing waves, with the engines spinning the propellers in a shoving match with the current.

Now earth-bound, some down to earth thoughts began to assail me. I began rationally to figure the odds. Before me lay a suicidal swim to the shore, followed by a marathon across the city in over 200 swimming pools. That’s around 2 miles worth of pools after this grueling swim to shore.

The water was so frigid that I actually began to wish for some insulating axle grease. The old joke, “I tried to swim the English Channel, but put too much grease on my body and kept slipping out of the water.” wasn’t so funny now.

Was I in over my head?

Stay tuned.

Footnote: I withheld the names of my dive buddies, because they were violating the bylaws of the diving society by helping me go through with this unprincipled assault on their rigid regulations. I phoned them before writing, this and was given to understand that my oath of silence still stands and is, I suppose, a lifetime commitment. My devout thanks to them.