My Watermark is the Pacific Ocean, California.

When I was a boy I was crazy about swimming. My father was in the Canadian navy and at the time, and the family was posted on exchange to San Diego, California. It was 1972, and I remember hearing about Charles Manson and Watergate and Vietnam on the TV. I remember the view of the Pacific Ocean from our house and how I always thought I saw whales. At the time, I wanted to be a swordfish, and in spite of not knowing how to swim (I was only four) I would happily throw myself into any body of water I came across.

You know that sign by the highway ice cream store that says, “Scream until daddy stops the car?” Well, I was like that with motel pools. One day my family was staying at a hotel in San Fransisco that was reserved from military veterans and servicemen. My father decided to take me down to the pool, and when he did he saw that it was full of Vietnam vets doing rehab. He looked at the men in the pool. They had long hair, tattoos, scars and missing limbs. They were angry. He wasn't sure how I would react and was worried I might embarrass them in that blunt way that children can, and as he was trying to decide how to handle the situation—my screaming and crying measured against the possibility of embarrassing the vets--I had already jumped into the pool amongst them, and I was happy, so happy and splashy, and they were happy, too.