Another small victory. Now, if we could only stop the bone-chilling cold that was rapidly spreading through my body. I shook as if I were suffering from a never-ending seizure. Images of climbers trapped in whiteout conditions on Everest danced through my mind.
I pointed to the dry bag. “Lay two of my jackets out on the ground so I can roll on top of ’em.” Once I’d dragged myself onto the splayed jackets, Matt pulled more clothing from the dry bag and piled it on top of me, tucking everything in at my sides. Then he gently wrapped my head in a shroud.
Matt suddenly stiffened, his eyes on the lake. A second later, he jumped up and ran to the edge of the water. “Hey!” he yelled, waving his arms. “Help! Help!”
I hadn’t heard or seen anything, but Matt obviously thought he’d spotted something. My brother continued to jump up and down and wave his rifle in a maniacal attempt to get the attention of whatever was out there.
After a minute of shouting with no results, Matt returned.
“Greg, I’ve got to go get help. The last thing I want to do is leave you here, but you’re right, you probably wouldn’t survive the trip. I think I saw some fishermen out there. I’m going to take the boat out. If I find them, maybe they’ll have a satellite phone. If they don’t, I’ll go downriver to the place we had cell service and call 911.”
I was barely able to speak through chattering teeth. “That,” I said, “sounds like a lot of ifs.” Matt didn’t mention the biggest if, which was Mama Grizzly. The bear scat near the shore confirmed this area was no stranger to bears. If she was still stalking us, she could easily make her way to this beach. If she came after me, I doubted I’d have the strength to raise a rifle and defend myself.
I must have closed my eyes, because Matt was shaking me. “Greg, I’m going to leave you here with my rifle,” he said, his voice stern, “but you have to roll onto your belly and stay awake to watch if the grizzly comes back.”
I tried to process what my brother was saying. Finally the meaning of his words registered. I did not like this plan, not at all. I was to remain on the beach in a state of shock and hypothermia, soaked nearly head to toe in blood, and if necessary defend myself against a bloodthirsty, man-eating grizzly.
Yet we had no other options. It was literally do . . . or die.
* * *
BEN, CIARA, AND I LEFT Mari’s house about nine o’clock that night. That was late for us on a school night, so I wanted to get home and get the kids to bed—especially Ciara, who was eight—right away.
Ciara put on the flannel Christmas pajamas that she wore year-round, and I tucked her into bed beneath her red-and-white comforter. Even though it was late, I wasn’t going to skip our usual bedtime routine, which was to pray for Greg and Matt. I’d been praying for them with the kids at bedtime each night since Greg left. It was mainly for Greg and Matt’s safety, but there was another reason I prayed. I wanted to alleviate any fears the kids might have, especially Ciara. Like me, Ciara was sensitive and intuitive about things. Though I’d tried to not let on about my own worries, over the last couple of weeks Ciara had also seemed uneasy about Greg’s trip.
I knelt beside the bed and took Ciara’s hands. We closed our eyes. “Father God,” I said, “we just lift up Daddy and Uncle Matt and pray for your protection over them. We pray that you would keep them safe. We ask that you would protect them from other hunters’ guns, that they would have fun, and that they would get their game.”
It was Ciara’s turn to pray. “Jesus,” she said, “please bring Daddy home safe.”
Ciara gave me a hug and kiss, then rolled onto her side and closed her eyes. I could tell our prayer had helped her feel a little more secure. To be honest, I felt better too. The uneasy feeling wasn’t entirely gone, but I knew I’d done the only thing for Greg and Matt that I could. They were in God’s good hands.
* * *
MATT TURNED AWAY FROM ME and walked toward the boat. I pulled my arm from the sling and wiped blood from my eyes so I could be ready to shoot. I rolled onto my belly and angled myself in the direction from which I believed the grizzly would appear. Next I crumpled one of the jackets into a ball, placed it on the rocks in front of me, and laid the stock of the rifle across it. This would be my line in the sand if the grizzly decided to return and finish me.
Suddenly, I heard a sound from across the water that I couldn’t make out. Matt ran back up the beach toward me, waving his arms above his head and screaming, “Help! Help! Help!”
A few seconds later, the unrecognizable sound became recognizable: a boat motor. It was almost too good to be true. It appeared that once again God had intervened.
Soon a boat with three fishermen entered the shallows. One man, the boat’s captain, jumped from the bow into two feet of water, grabbed the bowline, and splashed up the beach. After taking one look at my shredded carcass on the beach, he asked, “What the hell happened to him?”
Matt’s answer was to the point: man sees bear, bear mauls man, man walks to boat half-dead. My brother quickly determined that none of the fishermen were doctors and that they had cell phones but no service. When the captain said he knew exactly the point on the river where he could acquire cell service, Matt said, “Sir, is there any way you could take your boat to that point and call 911 for us?”
The captain didn’t hesitate: “Absolutely.” Matt pulled out our GPS, told the captain our latitudinal and longitudinal coordinates, and handed him our topographic map. The captain and the other two fishermen hurried to hoist anchor and depart. Only minutes after they’d arrived, they were gone.
Matt returned to let me know what was happening. “Those fishermen are going to find cell service and call for help,” he said. “So the good news is I don’t have to leave you alone here.” For that I was more than grateful. I let out a huge sigh of relief.
We figured the fishermen would be gone at least an hour. The task now was to keep me warm and awake until someone showed up. With layers of clothing stacked on me, the uncontrollable shaking had eased a bit, but I was still freezing. The pain, meanwhile, had become almost unbearable. It felt like someone had parked a car on my arm and that my fingertips were about to explode.
I had to face the possibility that something might still go wrong. The fishermen might not be able to find the right spot to make a call. Even if they did, emergency services might not be available. Plan B was carrying me to the boat and racing like hell for ten miles to the boat launch. Even if an ambulance was at the boat launch when we arrived, it would take at least another half hour to get me to an emergency room. The thought of waiting another two hours for medical attention with this pain and cold was intolerable.
I was comforted by the fact that people were working to save me. But what if their efforts were for nothing? With every minute that passed, my chances of survival dropped a little bit more. What if I did die out here? What if my next thoughts would be my last?
I pictured my wife and three children, their arms outstretched, beckoning me home. The thought that I might never see them again opened a chasm that cut to my core. Had I been a good father? A good husband? Who would take care of and protect my family? Had I told them often enough that I loved them? Had I told my dad I loved him that last time we spoke on the phone? Tears poured from my eyes. Instead of blood draining from my body, it now felt as if my soul was bleeding to death.
I had nowhere else to go with this pain. I prayed.
“God,” I whispered, “I know you are here and have always been here for me. You showed me when I was a child that you were real, and I know you’ve stood by my side even to this very moment. But this is my truth right now, Lord. I have been pounded to the bottom of the sea by a tidal wave of fear. Daddy, your little boy is scared.”
19
* * *
A GOOD FATHER
A good father is one of the most unsung, unpraised, unnoticed, and yet one of the most valuable assets in our society.
—BILLY GRAHAM
During the summe
r of 2009, my dad was talking with one of his buddies from his NCIS days. This friend now worked on the admiral’s staff at Navy Region Southwest, which was headquartered on the San Diego waterfront and responsible for naval installations in California and five other western states. Dad mentioned my antiterrorism work with the city. He probably bragged a little.
The friend leaned forward. “Have Greg give me a call,” he said. “I might have an opening for him.”
I did, and he did. The admiral and his staff were looking for an antiterrorism officer.
Among other things, Navy Region Southwest was charged with protecting the largest naval fleet concentration on the West Coast. Nowhere would you find more ships, aircraft carriers, submarines, aircraft, and special operations personnel in one place. I knew with the military’s ramped-up efforts in Afghanistan and Iraq that the navy would be a prime target. If I became their antiterrorism officer, it would mean joint operations with NCIS and the FBI Joint Terrorism Task Force in San Diego, a significant threat environment, and the responsibility to stay one step ahead of a cunning and sophisticated enemy.
When I was offered the position, the answer was easy: “I’ll absolutely take the job.”
A huge part of the appeal was the chance to have an even greater impact in the world of antiterrorism. It would fulfill the vision I’d had eight years before at the World Trade Center in New York when I promised to dedicate my life to protecting U.S. citizens. I also loved the idea of in some ways continuing my dad’s work. At NCIS, he had been part of the post-investigation security teams after the Khobar Towers terrorist bombing in Saudi Arabia in 1996, which killed nineteen U.S. Air Force personnel, and the bombing of the navy destroyer USS Cole in a Yemen harbor in 2000, which killed seventeen American sailors. In a sense, I was following in Dad’s footsteps.
Starting in September of that year, I was tasked with defending the navy’s West Coast fleet from terrorists. I also led the navy’s Command Threat Working Group, which coordinated with local, state, and federal security and law enforcement agencies to protect the navy and citizens of greater San Diego. The pressure to succeed had suddenly skyrocketed.
Special events were among my key assignments. One of the most significant occurred less than two years after I came on board. Soon after a team of Navy SEALs took out the world’s most wanted man, Osama bin Laden, in Pakistan on May 2, 2011, I learned that naval special operations command and the carrier group that supported them planned to commemorate the achievement—at the USS Midway Museum, the retired aircraft carrier that was docked at the Navy Pier in San Diego, within view of our office. I couldn’t imagine a group of men and women that al-Qaeda terrorists would be more motivated to attack. I had ten days to prepare.
We deployed our usual assets and then some, which included snipers atop adjoining buildings and on the Midway, naval security Fleet Anti-Terrorism Security Team (FAST) boats on the water, divers, Customs and Border Protection agents on both land and in the water, military helicopters in the sky, NCIS and FBI agents mixing in the crowd near the Midway gangplank, and K-9 dogs in the parking lot sweeping for explosives in cars. We also had tactical teams standing by, ready to deploy if there was a terrorist strike. I was in the command post at our headquarters across the street, helping coordinate everyone’s movements and praying hard.
Thankfully, the event came off without a hitch. I was relieved that some of our nation’s finest military representatives could enjoy a well-deserved celebration, one unblemished by tragedy.
That fall, senior navy and Marine Corps leadership, along with congressional leaders and first responder senior staff from across Southern California, assembled on the Midway to mark the tenth anniversary of 9/11. I was also responsible for security at the annual Navy Bay Bridge Run/Walk. Each May, Navy Region Southwest hosted the four-mile trek across the Coronado Bridge to raise funds for quality-of-life programs for military personnel and their families. My final year of handling security for this event was stressful. It was the one-year anniversary of the Boston Marathon bombing. We had ten thousand navy and Marine Corps men and women and their families running in a concentrated area, a significant vulnerability. We avoided disaster at these events as well.
If that wasn’t enough to keep me busy, I worked with an FBI intelligence analyst and a special operations official in Washington, D.C., to establish an intelligence information-sharing network. It changed how San Diego distributed and processed information about terrorist threats, techniques, and tactics. The network wasn’t part of my regular job duties but something I did on my own. I thought it would help all of us do a better job. I tried to take a servant’s mind-set to my work. My dad once told me, “If you’re willing to come up with the idea, do all of the work, and then give someone else the credit, you can accomplish anything.” For me, the bottom line was doing whatever it took to protect our people from the bad guys.
Some of my coworkers thought I took my job too seriously. One joked, “You should be encased in glass with instructions that say, ‘Break only in case of a real terrorist threat.’ ” But few of the people I worked with had been on the scene of a terrorist attack. They hadn’t seen the Twin Towers reduced to a twisted pile of steel that served as a mass grave for three thousand fathers, mothers, daughters, and sons. They didn’t truly understand what we were up against and what could happen if our efforts fell short.
I didn’t expect them to understand my passion. To be honest, I didn’t expect anyone to understand it, not even my wife. Rhea had always been supportive of me and my obsession with antiterrorism work. She hadn’t complained about the move to San Diego or the long work hours or my lack of energy at home. She easily could have, because I’d never fully explained how this was something I had to do, how the images of 9/11 still burned in my soul. I hadn’t told her because I was holding back part of myself, just as I’d held back with Dad and with God. I’d been hurt so deeply when my dad left that I couldn’t risk being hurt that way again. I lost my anchor that day. I decided that if I couldn’t trust family, I couldn’t trust anyone but myself.
I also hadn’t let Rhea see how deeply I feared failing as a father. I realized that I was doing the same thing with my kids that I was doing with everyone else I cared about—trying to have a loving relationship yet keeping a distance so that if something happened to pull us apart, I would survive the wound. I knew there was something wrong with this picture but didn’t know what to do about it. Were my kids destined to grow up feeling the way I did, like a loner who was unworthy of love?
Our stucco, ranch-style home was built into the side of a San Diego hill overlooking a verdant valley. It offered an amazing view of avocado and eucalyptus trees, as well as nearby Mount Helix. Increasingly, however, I found myself missing out on the scenery. I was getting home later and later and feeling more and more exhausted. One day, after I drove up our driveway and backed my Toyota FJ60 Land Cruiser into the space next to the basketball hoop, I put my arms and head on the steering wheel and closed my eyes. I knew my family was waiting for me, but I had nothing to give them.
What is going on with me? I wondered. I think I’m doing what I’m supposed to do, ensuring my country’s security. But I’m so busy and overwhelmed that I’m missing out on my kids’ lives. I’m missing their practices, their school events. In my pursuit of what I believe is my calling, have I become what I feared most?
The idea that I might be destroying my family was more than I could bear. I felt that to choose one, either country or family, would be to fail the other. The pressure was too much. Had my dad faced these same decisions with his job when he decided to leave us? Had my dad also concluded that his family might be better off without him?
I began to weep.
* * *
RHEA, THE KIDS, AND I attended the nondenominational Foothills Christian Church in El Cajon. We always sat near the front and enjoyed the worship music, teaching, and informal atmosphere. I also got involved in a weekly men’s Bible study. I figured I needed
all the spiritual help I could get.
The Bible study is where I met Tim, a soft-spoken husband and father who ran an upholstery business. The more we talked, the more comfortable I became around him. He and I started showing up early at the study to drink coffee, chat, and share a few of our concerns and struggles. I learned we had similar deep father wounds.
In June 2012, Rhea and I were making our way toward the sanctuary exit doors at the end of a Sunday morning service when Tim approached. He gave us both a quick hug, then pulled me aside.
“Greg, I’ve been meaning to tell you something,” he said, his expression serious. “The Lord’s been putting it on my heart.” He paused to look me directly in the eyes. “This is what he wants me to say: ‘Greg, I think you’re a good father.’ ”
I was taken aback. I had no reason to doubt Tim’s sincerity. I knew he was a man of strong faith. Was God really speaking to me? It was the first time anyone had given me a message from the Lord since I’d spoken to the pastor with Janelle’s mom.
A tear slid down my cheek. I had to get out of there before I started bawling. When I told Rhea about Tim’s words, she said, “I’ve always thought you were the best dad I’ve ever known.”
After that day, I started making time to visit Tim at his house. As he pulled fabric over furniture, I talked. I shared more about my dad leaving, the divorce, and how it affected me. It was a relief to finally allow another person to see a sliver of the pain I carried inside.
I wanted to believe what God had said through Tim and what Rhea had echoed. I was moved to receive such a message. Yet I wasn’t ready to accept it. I was sure I could accomplish almost anything, but the concept of me being a good father still seemed beyond my reach. I desperately wanted to be that kind of dad for my kids, but in my heart—despite what the people around me were saying—I was certain that I would somehow fail and bring pain to my children.
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