Time: summer,1966 about a year before opening in Subud.
Place: 32nd Street Navel Station, San Diego, California
First......a little background info...
Before I was opened, my interest centered around any activities that caught my attention long enough to seem interesting or different. I read a lot of books...first The Bible (Christian.. King James version), because my whole family were Methodists, and as such, reading this book was the proper course that any young man should aspire to.
Later on, when in my teens, my eye caught glimpses of other, non-Christian teachings; Buddhist, East Indian mystic teachings, Yoga, etc. I gave myself up, almost surrendering myself to each and every Guru or Saint that ever lived, or at least, that got into print. They all claimed to have some Great Truths, and they would show me how to attain it myself, if I would only follow their examples and teachings....
I was easily persuaded, and found myself following one teaching after another....hoping to find The One Best Way for me.... the one that would explain all the others, and explain and answer all the many questions I had about this world and, if true, the next life, after death.
Hatha Yoga was the most enjoyable to me. I ate vegetables, washed my body (inside and out), stood on my head, and performed many of the contortions and positions, as prescribed by the old Sages and Yoga Masters of India. I truly believed that this was my Way.
But I was a little too sure of myself, and possibly naive, for suddenly, and without much warning, I was enlisted into the armed services, and soon off to the world of stark reality. I had to put aside my hope to find enlightenment and self awareness, and could no longer practice Yoga diligently, as I had been doing for about 3 years. I was forced to associate with many different types of men from all sorts of backgrounds. I had little hope of continuing any serious searching or practicing my pleasant Yoga.
Out of frustration, and wanting to be accepted as " one of the boys" I began to drink beer, often. My friends were few, and a kind of mental- emotional torment began to grow in me.
Once, during an all night drinking session, the object of which, was to complete the task of filling up and entire bedroom full of beer cans. . . stupid, I know . . . at my shared beach apartment in Imperial Beach, California.
Soon enough, I continued the on-going debate, arguing about life, death, sex, religion, etc., I went into a rage, and started to scream to God, cursing at the top of my voice... complaining about my fate, and demanding to be shown the Truth. My friends, or should I say, beer-head buddies, just laughed and considered it part of the fun.
It was no joke to me, though, and I thereupon challenged them to a test. If, as we have been told, God is Almighty, then why doesn't He show himself, here and now... to prove His existence. More laughter, and joking. I was getting to the point that I felt that no one in that room had any brains, or even cared whether there was or was not a God, and I decided to show them that I was smarter and wiser than they were.... I would, at this very moment, get up and go to Mexico (a mile or so south), and then proceed to Argentina, on foot, if necessary, just to show that I had no fears, or that I was going to do something to show them that I was bold enough to be listened to and believed!
So I started packing a small ditty bag, and proceeded to leave. Two of my friends, also drunk, suddenly decided to go along with me. Great. We would have a fine time in the sun, in Argentina!
We three piled into my old 1949 Dodge pickup, sped to the border, and quickly were singing our way South.
Soon, the drink wore off, and both of my "friends" got scared....we were "AWOL" (unauthorized Absentees), and maybe even "deserters" ....We had better go back before we were noticed.... but alias, the pick-up broke down, and in minutes, while we were looking for help, it was stolen.
One of my "friends" left right away, and the other one stayed with me, as we took busses and hitched rides as far south as Guyamas. We lounged on the beach for a couple of hours, but I soon got the message, from my more practical side, that it was time to go back.
Yes, I was late, AWOL, and promptly given 30 days in the Brig, for "CORRECTIVE CUSTODY".
The US Navy, in theory, believes that a man must be clean, organized, and dutiful, in all his daily work, both public and private.
In the Brig, all this military stuff is greatly exaggerated, even more so than the "Boot Camp" training. They wake you up by the loudest and most irritating manner known to man - a wooden night-stick is rotated around in an empty steel garbage barrel for about five minutes...this could wake the dead! Next, you quickly get dressed...inspection....march, march, march....then to "chow"....then more marching, marching, marching.....all before the sun even considers your side of the globe!
Our "work" consisted of anything they could find, either inside the Brig or at the Naval Base, that was either dirty or demeaning...and, of course, included polishing any brass within a radius of a hundred miles! We chipped paint on board old sea-going tug-boats, swept up behind anything and everything, and oh yes, march, march, march. We marched everywhere. We never walked, or strolled, we only knew how to march, march, march.
After a few days, you start to think that you are going to be here for the rest of your life, for the days are long, and you think they will never come to an end.
At "chow", and in keeping with good Naval tradition, we were not allowed to talk to each other, or look around, or make any unusual sounds,. . . but it was permissible to say "Grace"...at each table. We men, at my table, had a prayer that always got the goat of the guards:
"Rub-a-dub dub...
thank you for the grub....
Go God, Go",
. . . repeated, in the lowest voice we could, three times, by all of us, in unison! We had to laugh without ever making a sound, as did the very poker-faced Marine armed guards that surrounded the dining room.
The place was a monastery, complete with all the personal sacrifices, long working days, chastity, brotherhood, and isolation from outside influences. The brotherhood was a necessity, not a choice. If any sailor-prisoner broke any rule, or got caught doing something not permitted, then we all suffered for his actions....usually taken out into the courtyard (beside the barracks) and made to stand at attention for hours on end, rain or shine, day or night.
You soon learned to follow the rules...and most importantly, do things together, in unison! This discipline was exactly what they tried to teach us when we were first trained in "boot camp", but here it was exaggerated to the limit of your mental endurance. After a while, you began to get the drift of it, and could easily "fall in line" with the absurdity and overwhelming comic nature of it all.
One night, while we were all sitting on the spotless linoleum floor, in our jockey shorts and tee shirts, busy spit-shining our boots, just before bedtime, when we would be finally allowed to go to our untouched and welcome beds, (never being permitted to touch, sit on or lie down on at any time other than after "TAPS"!), a friend of mine, Tom Satterfield, managed to make a whispered joke about the Marine who watched over us. He slept in the little office-bedroom at the end of the long barracks. Unfortunately, and to the sad grief of all, Tom was overheard by our guard, and we suddenly heard the command:
"Satterfield!...get up here!"
We had heard this before, for Satterfield was the one who got caught the most. As usual, we all had to quickly stow away all our gear, and scramble to form muster in front of our bunks, awaiting the inevitable punishment we all had to face. Our Marine, known only as "Sir" to us, began to inspect us all very closely, one by one, nose to nose, asking gently: "Do you think that Satterfield's joke was appropriate for the occasion?", ... looking at each one of us like a father, acting out his part, with seemingly intense concern.
We were used to this treatment, and the only permissible answer was always: "Yes Sir", or "No Sir", but when he came to stand in front of me, and asked:
"Well.....,`HAT-TA-LEY', what do you think of his joke?"
.....I must have been somewhere else, or too tired, or something, for I simply replied: "I liked it".
At this point, Satterfield and a few others could not hold back their laughter, and you could hear muffled, almost irresistible chuckles from the others.
The Marine got steaming mad, and shouted:
"Ok, you want to make jokes, want to be entertaining?....I will let you entertain all of us...Satterfield and Hateley will now come to the front and entertain us all with a song".
I humbly asked if it was ok if we had some time to prepare for the performance, and surprisingly, he said that we could have five minutes!
Satterfield and I quickly went to the latrine (the only other room in the building) to consider what to do. We considered...
"Is this guy serious?...does he really want us to make up some song?... What will we do?"
Satterfield was quick and witty, and soon came up with a great little ditty, that, if allowed to, would bring the whole house down! I decided to be the MC and introduce our act. We practiced, quietly, going through, as best we could, the whole thing .....time was short, so we had to use all our inner and outer efforts to get me to learn the short song, and for me to think of some way to introduce it.
We soon solemnly came out of the toilet and into the long room, carefully making our way past the awaiting prisoners, in their jockey shorts, up to the end, where the Marine was waiting for us, arms folded, looking very serious. The men, about 50 of them, were a little more relaxed now, as they were permitted to stand "at ease", with their arms behind their backs.
Satterfield and I stood close together, heads bowed, in surrendered supplication. I began by slowly raising my head high, looking as if into the outer stars....and slowly, and very seriously, as if reciting from a great book, began to introduce the next vocal recital:
"Taken from one of the most enduring and trusted ethnic folk tales of all time.... handed down from generation to generation....a most loved and cherished musical memory...etc........and now performed by...little Tommy Satterfield and little Dougie Hateley, both five years old!".
We both, with superb style, took our places, pretending to be little children, and began:
Little Ducky Duttle
Went wading in a puddle..
Went wading in a puddle, quite small.Said he: It doesn't matter,
How much I splash and splatter...I'm only a ducky, after all.
Some day I will be bigger..
And I can fly over the clouds
I can cause it to rain, to pour
Down upon us all...Soon the puddles will be bigger
And we can waddle and flutter....Cause it really doesn't matter...
How much we splash and splatter,
We are .. ALL.. only duckys after all."
The whole barracks lit up, and an excited, roaring laughter busted loose from deep down within the very souls of everyone there, the Marine included!
I felt such joy and surprise at my own actions and the reactions of all those men there, that I began to cry and laugh at the same time, without even considering where I was or who was looking at me...but no one noticed. Every one had his own secret laugh, or inner crying going on, all unchecked by any rules or worldly circumstance.
But our Marine, composing himself as best he could, soon got us all quiet, and as was the custom, we got into our cots (beds), and assumed the position of "attention", while lying straight as a board, all tucked in under our blankets, awaiting the welcome words: "Sleep"....an order from the Marine, given every night.
We always went to sleep within seconds, for we were always so tired, and needed all the rest that "God and the guards would allow". But this night, I was not that sleepy, nor, I remember, were many of the others. But the Marine soon collapsed into an audible snore, heard throughout the pitch-black hall. Satterfield, in a bunk next to mine, looked over to me, very pleased with himself, smiled, and went to sleep in seconds.
I felt alive and awake. I looked up into the darkness, with my hands behind my head, thinking about the events of that evening, when suddenly, but ever so smoothly, I began to drift off into a kind of pleasant euphoria, while still awake, yet like dreaming. I felt that I had no weight in my body, and if I wanted to, I could just lift up off the bed and fly!
I don't know to this day, for sure, whether I was just dreaming, or it really did happen, but I did fly. Slowly, I floated up over the bed, turned, and could see my body still in the bed, then, with some confidence, started to go up further, up through the roof of the barracks!
From there, I traveled to many places....across a great plain, larger and longer than I could normally visualize or comprehend. The sky was totally black, but I could see perfectly well. I visited my mother, who lived in a little dirt or sod house. She was worried about something....I was able to jump over tall barricades or walls, some seemingly miles high. I even flew around the earth, and could see the curve of it clearly. I quickly learned that, by leaning forward, I was able to accelerate and fly faster, and if I leaned backwards, I would decelerate, slowing down.
At one point, I spotted an object standing on an earthen podium, adjacent to a small wall of ruins, and upon coming down to land, to inspect it closer, saw a large clear glass jar, about four feet high, with three live naked bodies stuffed into it, like freshly canned plums! They looked like drugged- up hippies, with unkempt long hair, condemned to banishment in the jar, and I knew that they weren't dead, because one of them blinked, as I was inspecting this eerie phenomenon.
I was having great fun flying, and soon a few people gathered to watch me in astonishment. I was pleased to have their attention, and while demonstrating my ability to fly to some onlookers, I suddenly got the feeling that I must go back to where I had come from.
Soon I was dead-heading for San Diego and the barracks....then gently floated down back onto my bunk, fully conscious of where I was and where I had been. It seemed that hardly a moment passed when I heard the noise of the trash can, the earthly, Brig sound, that called us to life, after, supposedly dead-sleeping the whole night through.
I opened my eyes, and at first, everything seemed too bright, and startling, but soon I became accustomed to the life that was before me.
I had to, for I knew, after that incredible night was over, that something was on the rise for me, even if I did not know what it was. Something deep inside me "knew" that my life was now going to be somehow different.
With tears of joy, I now "knew" within myself, that "something" had been planted deep inside me. . . a subtle cool feeling that God just may exist after all.
I vowed that I would never ever again stoop to any arguments on the subject...
with love and good will to all,
Farlan