In the early 60’s, there was no such thing as sky diving. Then, most sky diving happened as a consequence of the chute not opening.  

The parachutes in those days were the big clumsy round ones, not those parafoils  you see these days that enable a jumper to land like a feather, smack on the target.

The big round one was the parachute that I was going to use to drop in on a major civic parade in National City, a suburb of San Diego.

Sporting a “40” Hooper then, it was only logical that I would risk my life in order to boost my numbers to, maybe, a “50.”

In 1958, my then-wife had me served by a disinterested man flashing a  Sheriff’s badge. He handed me papers, starkly informing me that I was not to remain  at my home,  beginning that very  moment. I stared blankly at it.

He did let me pack, but waited outside for me to get into my car and vacate life as I knew it then

We separated for about six months while I worked mornings  at KCBQ in San Diego. The ratings continued to soar. I heartily recommend doing a  crazy morning show as the perfect antidote for personal tragedy.

A welcome change: my bosses, the Bartells, bought a radio station, WADO, in New York City and I was assigned the morning show. The Bartells owned seven highly successful stations across the country and my being singled out for the morning gig there was an incredible ego boost.

Coincidental to my New York trip, my above mentioned then-wife notified me that she wanted to reunite with me. She was a small town Galveston girl with no idea of how New York was going to play, but six months of separation apparently had  worked on her.

I missed her terribly at first, but, a number of women, having heard of my empty life, solicitously rushed in to fill the void.

One of the women, who later became an international sex symbol, did a good job of it.  She went to Hollywood, a lame excuse for breaking it off.

Several air line stews began landing and taking off from my pad, treating me better than First Class.

When I returned to my separated-from-wife, another woman friend fled to Dallas to soothe her hurt feelings, and connected with a rich chum to whom I had sent her, married him, became a young widow when he died prematurely. Then, she married money again, and wound up a multi-millionaire

Returning to the hearth was not easy, but the curse of having been raised  to do the right thing prevailed. I returned with a total commitment.

We went to New York where I made a big splash in the “trades”. Billboard called WADO a refreshing new sound, and I was hailed as “the next Johnny Carson.”

The show was a roaring critical success, but from a practical standpoint, WADO was doomed. The Bartells’ efforts to buy a one day license in New Jersey and paste it onto the six day a week WADO license failed when the elderly licensee with whom they were dealing signed off. His young widow killed the deal, and the discouraged Bartells then made the decision to fold, rather than try to compete in the #1 market with a stunted six day operation..

Fast forward from New York back to San Diego, where my then-wife informed  me she was going to sue….this time… for divorce. My WADO gig had resulted in a job offer from WNEW which I reluctantly turned down, hoping to save my marriage. She went ahead with the divorce.

.Among the things she told me was that she was a small town girl, and was not ever going to be able to adjust to the pace of my life. My entreaties to her failed, and I was again served with those ominous papers..

Now, you can see how a jump in an obsolescent chute into a parade of 100,000 onlookers meant nothing in the scheme of things.

Once again cast out, my heart break mingled with an upbeat  expectancy. No wonder. I was about to burst  through a  time warp that opened up to a luxuriant land of flowering fields, trees burgeoning with sweet berries, flowing silver streams, a dazzling sky of soft pastels, lions lying down with lambs and me lying down with…well, you get the picture.

 

Returning after the  year at WADO in  New York back  to San Diego, the KCBQ Happy Hare response  was huge, not only tops with teens, but with 18-24’s. In fact, my year long absence  in New York had elevated  my popularity to an even higher level. Nationally, I had attracted a lot of buzz, being taped by prominent consultants as a model for injecting entertainment into a tight and bright rock and roll format. 

In fact, I attracted too much attention. Don McKinnon, hailed as the best jock in the country was sent to rival KDEO in  San Diego to knock me off. I had never heard of him, but owner Lee Bartell called me into his office. “Tighten up your show, Harry,” he said between nervous puffs on his pipe. “This guy is great.” I was impressed as Lee was usually unflappable.

 The day before his show was to begin, a letter from McKinnon  arrived. It was one of those cards with a red panic button on the inside. I pinned the card on the studio bulletin board as a motivator.

I did tighten the show and listened to him from time to time.. He was a human machine gun, firing a joke a minute. He was using a lot of funny cue-in’s. I could understand why he was considered great.

I  “covered”  him, meaning that I sped up my delivery and dipped into my own vast collections of cue-in’s and matched not only his unique style, but with an overlay of my own which was not just a hyper rock delivery , but there was something else that  I have never revealed till this moment. Over the years, I had learned to erect an energy field between me and my audience.

People who listened to me were somewhat taken aback at first by my high energy  one-on-one delivery , but in a short time,  they got hooked, listening to me to get a  fix, so they could get energized each day.

My features were unique. I would tell my listeners that I was going to borrow their troubles for that day., then run a science fiction type SFX under my soothing voice while I  washed and fluff-dried their brains, leaving them what was universally called  “Hare-brained,”  Don’t laugh. It worked.

           

I had prepared for my parachute jump into the National City  parade by making three  secret practice jumps into the boonies east of the city. Jumping ordinarily  is scary, but, like I said, I seem to have missed that part in my make-up. Had I had one, my T shirt would have read either,” No Fear.” Or “Stupid.” I have never figured out which.

The parade PA announcer would set it up that day by telling everyone to look skyward, “Look to the sky!  There is Happy Hare!  Let’s give him a big hand.” I would add to the excitement by popping a couple of smoke canisters so they could spot me.. It was decided that I would land a half mile outside the city limits, in an open field very close to the parade route where I could be seen descending, then picked up and escorted to the parade.

The plane was an old DC 3, large enough to be spotted by the crowd as I circled over the parade route. I watched my watch rotate to 2 o’clock , took a deep breath, and  dove into the void.

I had been instructed to sky dive for a few extra seconds, then pull the rip cord., enabling me  to land in closer proximity to the parade. Pulling it right away would render me victim to the whims of the strong north easterly winds..

Then something snapped. I blanked out on the time elapsed on my watch. Losing all track of the time….I pulled the tip cord.

What had first been a furious rush of time and collapse of my senses as I fell, now braked to a psychic crawl. I looked down onto the vast throng of people lined up on National Avenue, all looking upward.

From above, floating down in the parachute, everything was so pristine. I could read the street signs. From where the crowd was, looking up, I was a speck growing larger with each passing second.  The slow descent felt like I was on a front porch swing, casually looking out on San Diego, my vast front yard.

It was too peaceful. Life is not meant to be that way. The gentle westerly winds wafting in from the Pacific rudely gusted and swooped down on me, gathering me up chute and all, and blowing me away from the parade. Now I was going, not east toward the National City boonies, but south easterly to Chula Vista, a much larger city where I might crash into the middle of a busy boulevard, flanked by power lines...

Maneuvering  that massive chute was impossible, clumsy even in the hands of an expert. The wind was ruling out any chance I had of guiding it into the eastern meadow outside of National City. The public, sensing that I was in deep trouble, began rushing toward their cars, ghoulishly on the way toward witnessing my crash.

Police squad  cars , revving up their screaming  sirens and flashing  their orgasmic  red  lights, began zigzagging toward me, trying to anticipate my landing zone.

My mortal combat  with both Don McKinnon, and my then-wife lost meaning, as I flailed at  the shrouds of my chute, trying to will it to fly eastward, instead of southward to the bustling city of Chula Vista, a name translated from the Spanish, meaning “beautiful view.”

Not beautiful in my present view……….

                                                                                                        To be continued