Monday, June 11, 2012

Article: Grey Eagle


John Nicholson
Grey Eagle
Published in June 2012 issue of "Journal Plus: The Magazine of the Central Coast" 

Last night I announced to the American people that the North Vietnamese regime had conducted further deliberate attacks against U.S. naval vessels operating in international waters, and therefore directed air action against gunboats and supporting facilities used in these hostile operations. This air action has now been carried out with substantial damage to the boats and facilities. Two U.S. aircraft were lost in the action. President Johnson’s Message to Congress, August 5, 1964
            Until his A-4 Skylark actually left the flight deck of the USS Constellation, Navy fighter pilot John Nicholson thought it was another drill.  He and fellow crew members were on deck watching a “B” movie, “The Night Has a Thousand Eyes,” when he was ordered to find two other pilots, change to flight gear and report to the flight deck. Their mission was to provide air cover for two American destroyers under attack in the Gulf of Tonkin, off the coast of Vietnam.  It’s not in the history books, but San Luis Obispo resident John Nicholson was the first Navy pilot in the air on the night of the Gulf of Tonkin Incident, the official start of America’s war against North Vietnam.
            The next day, following direct orders from President Johnson, American planes attacked North Vietnam.  In what turned out to be a critically important day for Nicholson, his wingman and friend, Everett Alvarez, nicknamed Alvy by the other pilots, was shot down and became the first American prisoner of war.  John would not see Alverez again for eight-and-a-half years. 
            Nicholson was born in 1930 in Bombay, India, where his father worked for the Goodyear tire and rubber company. He lived there until 1936 when the family moved to South Africa. Worried that he was “going native,” John’s parents shipped him back to the US in 1945. He arrived in New York on the day an Army B-25 bomber smashed into the Empire State Building. It wouldn’t be the last time John’s major life events coincided with famous historical moments. 
            John finished high school in Ohio and attended Oberlin College where he studied engineering and met his wife of sixty years, Evie, who studied classical piano in Oberlin’s famous music program.  Evie still entertains family and friends with expert performances of Beethoven and other famous composers. They had four daughters between 1954 and 1959: Paula, twins Jacqueline and Jennifer, and Eve.  John and Evie have nine grandchildren and six great grandchildren.  They were all smiles when talking about their large and close family.
            Following his retirement from the Navy in 1976, John taught high school for eighteen years in Sanger, California, and served as Superintendent for the Sanger School District for one year. He helped many students gain admission to the United States Naval Academy, and today they call him to say that the legacy continues: now their children are attending the Academy.
            John joined the Navy because he had an interest in flying but also because he saw that men he admired had fought in two wars, WWII and Korea, and he wanted to do his patriotic duty.  Also, his father had been General Douglas MacArthur’s chauffeur during WWI. John committed his allegiance to honoring the chain of command, and even though he had no ROTC or Naval Academy background, he advanced to the rank of Captain, and in 1973 became the Commander-in-Chief of the aircraft carrier, USS Ranger, on which he had served as a combat pilot in 1969. Not surprisingly, John Nicholson loves a challenge, a word that to him is synonymous with fun. But not all challenges are fun, especially when the life of a friend is at stake.
            As Nicholson approached the Vietnam coastline on August 5th,  he remembers looking at the mountains near the Chinese border and thinking they looked just like the calendars hanging in his childhood home: dark green, mist shrouded, mysterious.  When his target was abruptly changed from Wallu, near the Chinese border, to the docks of Hon Gai, he focused on his mission.
            He saw flak after a successful bombing run in the harbor, and then he heard a “may day” call from his friend Alvy, who was hit and had to eject. Low on fuel, Nicholson came around once to check on his friend, but then headed back to the carrier. His last words to Alvy were “You know what to do.” For the next eight-and-a-half years, Nicholson was focused and motivated by his friend’s capture. “That was my challenge. It might not have been fun, but as long as he was a POW, I was not going to quit anything.”
            Deployed in the Vietnam conflict until 1973, Nicholson flew over 100 combat missions, the most memorable a mission that never happened. It was April 1, 1968, and he was scheduled to attack Hanoi.  He was extra keyed up because he had the premonition that he wouldn’t return, as strong a feeling as he’d ever had in his life. At the last moment a voice announced over the intercom that the mission had been cancelled, followed shortly by “April Fools!” Nicholson came unglued, and he didn’t settle down until the perpetrator of the joke apologized and made it clear that the mission really had been cancelled. Once again, Nichoson’s life intersected with history: President Johnson had just announced that he would not seek reelection and military operations were suspended that day.
            Following the Paris Peace Accords in 1973, 591 American POW’s were released during Operation Homecoming. John Nicholson was at Hickam Air Force Base in Honolulu when Alvy Alverez’s plane landed, en route to the US. It was 3:00 AM and at first John was told he would not be able to see his friend until after a long debriefing, but he persuaded the security personnel to give him thirty minutes alone with Alvy. When he saw Alvarez approach, he went to give him a bear hug, but Alvy flinched. “He was nothing but skin and bones,” said Nicholson. “He had suffered horribly during all those years at the Hanoi Hilton.”
            After both had recovered from the shock, the first thing Alvarez said was “What did you mean by ‘You know what to do?’ I’ve been thinking about that since 1964.” After that they talked nonstop until it was time for Alvy to go.  Still friends after all these years, they see each other periodically. Divorced by his first wife while held captive, Alvy married the stewardess he met on the flight from Hawaii to the United States. Nicholson’s comment? “You don’t waste any time, do you Alvy.” You can imagine his response.
            While commanding the USS Ranger early in 1976, an admiral insisted that Nicholson hold a flight drill during heavy weather.  John argued, but the admiral ordered him to put planes in the air. Certain that planes would crash and lives would be lost, Captain Nicholson asked the ship’s chaplain to join him in the command center overlooking the deck and pray for the pilots. As predicted, an approaching jet hit the fantail of the carrier. Miraculously, the cockpit detached and started skidding across the flight deck, prompting the startled chaplain to pronounce, “Lordy, Lordy!” The pilots ejected before hitting the tower. One landed on the deck and received minor injuries, while the other landed in the ocean and was recovered unhurt by a destroyer. 
            The challenge was no longer fun for John Nicholson. Even though promotion to admiral was possible, he announced his resignation from the Navy, but, true to his character, he commanded the Ranger until the completion of its mission in September.
            Most of us observe history from a distance. John Nicholson, also known as Grey Eagle when he was flying, made history. To learn more about this remarkable man, visit his website at http://www.greyeagle1.com/Navy/Logbook.html.

Poem: Seeing


Seeing                                                                                              

Walking the Bob Jones Trail along the creek to Avila Beach,
surrounded most of the time by deep June green,
I see a huge, ancient oak tree, it’s lower trunk
and massive gnarled roots encased in rock and dirt,
the Mother Tree as it’s known to some,
its many limbs signaling its gender,
offspring scattered on the hillside below the Buddhist Temple
I see pods of young mothers pushing strollers,
their voices animated with excitement about life and babies,
the passion of their common bond,
small feet kicking from the shadows of their safe ride.
I see a sycamore leaning low across the creek,
a leafy branch parting the slow current
like a parasoled woman trailing her hand
over the side of a boat on a Sunday afternoon.
I see snowy egrets and blue herons
hanging out around the dam and steelhead ladder,
motionless and patient like images in an Audubon painting.
I see, as I walk out of the woods and past a golf course,
a white ball roll to a stop in the long green grass
beneath the gently waving limbs of a willow tree.
I see, at the beach, sun bathers
stretched out sleepily on the warm sand
or strolling along the water’s edge
the cold June surf splashing around their ankles.
I see the pier reaching out and receding across the water
like a lesson in perspective, and I see the horizontal triptych
of sand, sea and sky like a Rothko I saw at MOMA years ago.
It’s not always like this. My mind doesn’t always
clear enough space for my vision. But today,
in the shelter of the woods, or as sudden gusts
whip stinging sand across my legs on the beach,
I get to see, to really see, and it feels good.

Poem: Broadway Flea Market


Broadway Flea Market

If you wake up early enough,
and why not on a perfect spring day in May,
you can watch the vendors
construct their airy stalls
like kids playing with Tinker Toys
fitting the plastic piping together
quickly and perfectly,
focused on the essential task at hand.
Soon the tables and pegboards are up
and the dizzying array of wares appear
as if by a magician’s sleight of hand:
jewelry, sunglasses, hats, t-shirts
scarves and shawls (the allure of pashmina!),
belts, wallets and handbags,
a smorgasbord of colorful merchandise
center, left and right,
two aisles for twelve blocks,
from Times Square to 57th Street,
like a river flowing through a narrow canyon,
glints of warm sunlight
reflecting off myriad shiny surfaces
but still cool in the blue black shade.
Soon smoke signals arise at every corner
aromas drift through the stalls
and savory temptations beckon:
shish kabob and gyro, cheese steak and pizza
churros and burritos, sweet drinks and coffee.
Then, like time lapse photography
the street slowly fills with curious customers
a slow dance of stop and go
sidestep and pirouette
two directions in each aisle
a choreography of silent cooperation.
Sounds of sidewalk musicians – saxophone
guitar, steel drum – and a mixed chorus
of voices foreign and domestic
mingles exotically in the air above the crowd
a moving tapestry of humanity flowing just beneath.

It’s New York. It’s Broadway.
It’s good to be alive.


Poem: Hubble


Hubble

The Eagle Nebula, Pillars of Creation
Birthplace of Stars
Don’t think about size: incomprehensible
Forget about distance: unfathomable
Time? Don’t bother.
Think instead about the beauty
mystery and majesty. Allow
these thoughts to drift freely
in the vast spaciousness
of your own mind
maybe a light hand on the helm.
Follow the vaulted star shine
to serenity. Return home
with a new understanding
one best explained by a smile.

Sunday, May 27, 2012


Grandchildren

Until February, our three sons, ages 31, 28 and 22, had blessed us with two…granddogs: Daisy, a sweet-natured, affectionate, red-nosed pit bull, and Sweet Pea, a somewhat aloof, reluctantly affectionate, but otherwise lovable beagle. Of course we dreamed of being real grandparents, like so many of our boomer friends. You can imagine our joy when our oldest son, Devin, and his wife, Sarah, announced last summer that they were expecting.
Never mind that they lived in Boston, about as far away from our California home as possible without leaving the country.  Digital photos and Skype would keep us close until we could visit. In September we signed up for a May trip to New York with friends and added on an extra five days in Boston to personally meet who would by then be our three-month-old granddaughter.
Saskia Fredricksen Jones was born on February 13th, 2012, a healthy, serene, placid baby girl. My son created a Picasa album almost immediately, and we Skyped twice in the first couple of months.  But nothing, other than the birth of our own children, prepared us for the outpouring of love we would experience when we arrived in Boston on May 14th.
For five full days we were with Saskia every moment except when we returned to our B & B to sleep. Everywhere we went we rode on either side of her in the back seat so we could gaze into her expressive blue eyes, laugh when she flashed a sudden smile, talk to her in response to her wordless chatter, feel the pressure of her tiny hands wrapped around our fingers, wonder at her calm beauty when she slowly fell asleep, her dark lashes resting on her rosy cheeks.
We took her to her first Red Sox game at Fenway Park; we visited Lexington and Concord, her first history lesson, and the Jack Kerouac Memorial in Lowell, her first American Literature lesson; we strolled through scenic parks on perfect spring days under new green foliage and among vibrant wildflowers.  We fell gloriously, deeply in love.  Leaving was difficult, but we’ve circled the calendar…Saskia will be here on July 7th! In the meantime, wonderful photos and great memories will nourish us. Grandchildren…everything we heard it would be…and more.

Sunday, May 20, 2012


Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of Happiness
Standing in the Reception Room in the big brick building on Ellis Island where millions of immigrants first arrived in America, it was easy to visualize the wooden benches lined with hopeful people of every age and nationality, and to hear the din of a dozen languages echoing off the plaster walls and tile ceiling. In 1926, my mother, then six years old, her mother and three siblings were among those hopefuls.
After a long trip in steerage, they arrived from Scotland on the USS California to join my grandfather who had come to the states in 1923 to work on the railroad in Philadelphia until he sent enough money home for his family to follow him. My grandmother, already thirty-seven and desperately seasick for the entire trip, bore two more children and lived to be one-hundred-and-four.
My wife and I visited Liberty Island and Ellis Island on a recent trip to New York to see some Broadway shows and visit with family.  The Big Apple was kind to us, especially gracing us with spectacular spring weather which led to lazy strolls in Central Park under full sunshine and an amazing canopy of new green leaves. And, biggest miracle of all, no humidity!
From New York we traveled to Boston to visit our son and daughter-in-law, and our three-month-old granddaughter, Saskia, our first grandchild. For a full five days we were enchanted by her beauty and her emerging personality. I think I learned more about love from watching her and interacting with her in those five days than I’ll ever be able to teach her.
I looked for traces of her great grandmother and her great great grandmother, who made that perilous and courageous journey eighty-six years ago, and I think I saw them in Saskia’s eyes, those windows to the soul that told me this baby, who neither of them will ever see, was worthy of their sacrifice. God bless America. God bless Saskia and her wonderful parents, Devin and Sarah. God bless us all.

Monday, April 30, 2012

Vacation Story


How I Spent…
            With summer approaching, I recall a memorable vacation my family took in 1964.  My father, a captain in the Philadelphia Fire Department, decided it would be a good idea to visit Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. A high school classmate of mine had moved there, which seemed to be the only motivation he needed to suggest the most ambitious adventure we had ever undertaken.
            I was fifteen when my parents, my younger brother and my sixty-four-year-old grandmother, Nanny Jones, and I piled into the only car we owned, a ’61 two-tone Chevy Biscayne, a cheaper model with a “three-on-the tree” manual transmission. No air conditioning. Think about it: twenty-five hundred round trip miles through the south in the hottest, muggiest month of the year.  
            The outbound trip is a story in itself. Details include mechanical failure, wrong turns on blue highways in Georgia, withering temperatures, and all five of us sleeping in the same motel room at night.  Dad and Nanny competed to see who snored the loudest.
            We arrived in Ft. Lauderdale with no reservations, but found wonderful accommodations right on the beach at the Sandy Shoes motel in Ft. Lauderdale-by-the-Sea. I visited my friend, and we enjoyed the warm water, but on the third day a hurricane blew in.  It was spectacular to watch the storm develop, but not so hot when we had to evacuate to a motel across the road, away from the ocean surge.  Torrential rain followed howling winds. We watched part of a roof blow down the street. The next morning there were fish in the swimming pool and the beach was essentially gone. A day later we had to pack up and head for home.
            We caught the storm in Georgia and struggled through wind and rain for two more days.  Right after we arrived, riots broke out in the city, the rest of my father’s vacation was canceled and we didn’t see him for a week. In late September our beloved Phillies blew a six game lead over the last ten days of the season and missed going to the World Series by a game or two.  My grandfather, Nanny Jones’s husband, died in November, around the time I was practicing to get my driver’s license. He was sixty-three, the same age I am now.
            Mom and dad are gone, and my three sons are grown men. I wonder what vacations stories they’ll tell their children?