CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

OUT OF THE MOUTHS OF BABES

My son continues to play a major role in my ongoing recovery by giving my life greater purpose. Darryl has been the one constant in my sobriety, because no matter what, he deserves a sober dad. My father’s suicide taught me how vital good parenting is and how I need to be there for my son. When I’m around Darryl, I understand just how pure life can be and how easily I could have missed the opportunity to watch him grow up. Being around for him has been worth every second.
When Jen and I decided to have a child, I hoped being a father would save my life. Before then, we were both out of control. In motherhood, Jen immediately became more responsible. My problems were more deeply rooted, and my toxic body and mind required more years of desperate living before I finally surrendered.
One time I was at a twelve-step meeting where a man with twenty-five years of sobriety talked about how in the first thousand days, a person is still a newcomer. It takes about that long for a person’s mind and body to fully comprehend sobriety, and it’s normal for newcomers to be full of mixed up emotions. At eighteen months sober, I sometimes felt like a brand new baby and at others like a wily veteran.
It took me six years of being a drunken daddy and eighteen months as a sober one to realize that children are truly our most precious gifts from God. My son and I spend enormous amounts of time together. While I’m with him, I sometimes see myself as a loving, beautiful man; at other times, I’m a chaotic madman with a messed-up brain. The big difference is that I now recognize my shortcomings. I’m learning to be the man and father God wants me to be.
One day it was my turn to take Darryl to see his asthma doctor. I picked him up at school with his usual snack of cookies and juice.
“Hi, Daddy, what are you doing?” he asked.
“I’m here to take you to the doctor, remember?”
“What are they gonna do?”
“You’re worrying about taking a shot, aren’t you? It’s just a checkup. They’ll check your breathing. No shots, bud.”
“Okay, Daddy.”
We arrived a few minutes early, so we sat in the car while I helped him with his math homework. It was a beautiful October day, unseasonably warm with the leaves bursting with color. I was with my seven-year-old son being a responsible, sober dad. Life was good. I thanked God I had made it that far.
Inside, the office was packed with kids. A nurse called us into an examination room. The doctor came in and asked a few questions about Darryl’s breathing and medication and listened to his lungs. I noticed a sign that said something about “flu shots,” and suddenly realized why the place was so busy.
Before I could ask about it, the doctor said, “His lungs sound good. We’ll test his breathing. Also, I’d like him to take a flu shot while he’s here.”
Darryl heard the word “shot” and looked me squarely in the eyes.
“You said I wasn’t taking a shot today, Daddy!” The tears started to come.
“I know, honey. Daddy didn’t know they were giving flu shots today. You need one because of your asthma.”
He put his arms around me and cried. I was deeply touched; somebody in this world needed me to protect him, to tell him it was going to be all right. Somehow, he knew I would. I almost cried with him. It was another moment when I realized God was showing me something important.
“It’ll be okay, buddy. They give smaller shots these days. You’ll hardly feel it.”
That was the best white lie I could come up with on the spot. The nurse reassured Darryl that they had a new device that presses the skin right before the shot to dull the nerves. Sure enough, he did fine. It was the first shot since his birth that I was enough in touch with my feelings to understand that this little boy needed me and trusted me with his well-being. I wouldn’t let him down. But I still had more to learn.
A few weeks later, I asked Darryl if he wanted to help me put up a new toilet paper holder. He liked home projects; Bob the Builder was a favorite cartoon character. We gathered the necessary tools, and I explained about the need to do things safely.
“Shouldn’t we be wearing our glasses?”
“You’re right! Go grab some for both of us.”
I laughed to myself. I had been trained on supertankers for twenty years to wear safety glasses, and here my kid was reminding me not to use a drill before donning some.
“This is the drill, and these are the drill bits,” I explained after we put on the glasses. “First we pick a size a little smaller than the screws, so when we drill the hole the screw will be tight.”
“Okay, Daddy. How about that one?”
“That one looks a little big. Let’s try this one.” I showed him how to tighten the bit with a drill chuck and how to reverse the drill.
“That’s the righty tighty, lefty loosey rule. Right, Daddy?”
“That’s exactly right. Good job, bud.”
I drilled the holes and mounted the first bracket. I eyeballed the second bracket as Darryl watched.
“Aren’t you gonna use the measuring tape?” he asked.
“No, I think that’s good enough.”
After the second bracket was mounted, Darryl watched as I tried to fit a toilet paper roll into the two brackets. It wasn’t wide enough.
Oh, the words you hear come out of a babe’s mouth. I knew they were coming, but didn’t expect him to be so eloquent: “I told you, Daddy, to measure it. Sometimes grownups don’t listen to kids. Kids have brains too, and sometimes they’re right!”
I laughed. I couldn’t believe my attempt to eyeball the distance had been so far off or that my son was reminding me about safety and advising me to use a tape measure. Our time together had proved more fruitful than I had imagined. I looked lovingly at my son. He was a godsend. God, I promise to do my very best each and every day. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jesus.
That year Halloween was another day when watching a child’s excitement was a beautiful thing. Jen brought Darryl over after school, and we hung out and did homework. Darryl cut out eyes and used a marker to make a mouth on an old white sheet. Jen helped him get into his ghost costume. He popped out with a loud “Boo!” Jen and I laughed.
Darryl and Jen had candy duty. Darryl’s friends came by, and he handed them one piece each. After they left, I laughed and asked him why he didn’t just give them a handful; we had plenty. I wasn’t sure if he was showing his friends who had control of the candy situation or if he had ideas about eating all the leftovers.
We had fun looking at costumes, talking to parents, and remembering when we were kids. Before Darryl left with Jen to trick-or-treat, I gave his costume a tug and kissed him goodbye through the eyehole. I told him I loved him, he said he loved me too, and off he went.
Just a few short years before, I had spent Halloween a bit differently. I was drinking Budweiser, dressed in a T-shirt that said “Yankees Suck.” Darryl and Jen came by. When the doorbell rang I suddenly realized I might be dressed inappropriately. The beer in my hand might not be the best example for greeting the neighborhood trick-or-treaters. I quickly turned my shirt inside out, hid the beer, and pretended not to be under the influence. How things have changed. Thank you, God. Thank you, Jesus.
Of course, I’m still a work in progress. One time I raised my voice to Darryl after he didn’t respond to my call to come to dinner. He wasn’t doing anything wrong, besides being allowed by his parents to watch too much TV. I threatened to take his TV away if didn’t pay attention to Mom and Dad. He started to cry.
I lost my temper because I’m ill, which means I have to work that much harder to remain even-tempered. Just as a person healing from a catastrophic injury might have to relearn how to walk, I’m relearning how to live life.
After raising my voice and making him cry, I went and held my little boy. I explained that some TV is okay, but too much of anything is bad.
“Sometimes you get focused on TV and nothing else,” I said. “And that’s not good for your little brain.”
Hardcore alcoholics—whether they’re under the influence or sporting a hangover, especially a cocaine hangover—use TV to keep their kids out of the way and to remove the nuisance. Now that I’m sober, I don’t use TV as a babysitter. Instead, I’m more aware how parents can both positively and negatively affect a child’s development. I’m also aware that I’m fighting my demons not only for myself, but also for my son and family.
At dinner, I told Darryl I was sorry. “Daddy is still trying to get well from drinking beer. You need to listen to Mommy and me, but no matter what, we’ll always love you.” I promised to do my best not to raise my voice and instead talk about what upset me.
Darryl said he understood and acted as though nothing unusual had happened. After dinner, I asked him to get out his Cub Scout Wolf Handbook. He had a lot to do to earn his Bobcat badge. I had done it as a boy, but didn’t remember the details.
We lay down on the couch and practiced the Cub Scout promise. He had already practiced it with Jen. After a little more studying, he pledged: “I, Darryl Hagar the Second, promise to do my best, to do my duty to God and my country, to help other people, and to obey the law of the pack.”
I was full of emotion. Was this doing him more good—or me?
I was learning what I had missed in Darryl’s early years: how to participate in my son’s life. Although I believe I was born with a propensity for addiction, I had been a willing participant. It was only when the pain outweighed the pleasure that I considered getting help. Booze and drugs had ruled my decision-making. My disease had told me that without continual excitement and chaos I’d be bored. I’m thankful that God stepped in and gave me an opportunity to slow down and be there for my son.
One night while I was attending a Bob Dylan concert, Darryl left an “important” message on my answering machine about losing a tooth. I was already on cloud nine from seeing an American legend in concert, and my son’s message just confirmed to me what I already knew: I never want to go back to my old way of living.
Not long afterward, Darryl and I were headed to bed one night. He asked if we could practice blowing bubbles with chewing gum, having tried many times without success. After a few minutes, he magically started to blow his first bubbles. His missing tooth must have played a role. He laughed hysterically after blowing each bubble. It was a treasure watching his pure delight in that small accomplishment. God, how can such a simple thing bring a dad such joy?

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The weekend at Cow Island was loaded with tons of alcohol and cocaine. Darryl was the first on the island and the last to leave. He was drunk the whole weekend. He went swimming with his cast on and acted like he didn’t have a broken wrist with pins and screws holding him together. I came home Sunday morning. Darryl came back Sunday night.
Sunday night we watched the Red Sox game. Darryl's cast was starting to come off anyway, so that night we ripped the rest of it off. We could see a lump that was apparently a metal pin. He then hooked himself up to the IV machine with one end connected to the wall socket. Darryl suddenly said he had to take a piss. He got up but could only go as far as the IV cord allowed. He turned away from me, opened his fly, and began to pee on the hardwood floor. He turned to face me, continuing to pee.
I yelled, “What the fuck are you doing?”
Darryl walked back to his chair and sat down. He seemed amazed at the pin popping out of his wrist. He pulled it out, showed it to me, and put it on the table. I got out a mop and cleaned up the mess. Darryl had no reaction whatsoever; to him it was like any other moment in time.
I knew Darryl was on his way out; I was watching him die. We had partied together for years, but something was different. It was like he’d given up on life. I felt so bad about it that I wrote Darryl a three-page letter telling him he was going to kill himself, either from the wrist infection or by driving drunk, probably killing someone else in the process.
I wrote, “You're going to lose your son, your house, and everything else you worked hard to get.” Darryl didn’t read the letter. He was in total denial. —Alan Joiner, roommate and close friend

I now realize that many people were concerned for my welfare. But nobody could reach me. I didn’t think my problem was serious enough to quit drinking and drugging. If you had to live my life, you’d drink and use drugs too.
Dr. Chance was frustrated that I wasn’t giving my surgeries a chance to heal and told me, “You’ll lose your right hand if you’re not careful. These casts have only been lasting a month on you. Usually it’s one cast per operation, and you’ve broken two.”
I sheepishly admitted fault and asked how the X-rays looked, concerned they’d have to re-do the operation. My fears were well-founded. Once again the doctors went to work on my hand. After several hours in recovery Dr. Chance came in to see me. He explained that my fall had badly damaged my wrist bones and the infection had eaten away the bones where the screws and pins were attached. He thought the bones should be removed.
“This will cause your hand to fall back just a little to the next set of wrist bones.”
“You mean you’ll take bones out, throw them in the trash, and one of my arms will be shorter than the other?” I asked anxiously.
“Nobody but you will know that your right arm is a little shorter than your left.”
We got a second opinion, which confirmed the need to remove the bones, but having surgery meant I’d eventually regain almost all of the original strength and motion in my right hand. I agreed and scheduled the surgery.

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In this beautifully illustrated memoir by Darryl Hagar, The Man Overboard: How a Merchant Marine Officer Survived the Raging Storm of Alcoholism and Drug Addiction, one thing is certain: Even if you think you’ve broken all the rules, you ain’t seen nothing yet! All hands on deck for a wild, wild sail with a whole lot of gusto, grit—and even more heart.. Bravo to this drunken sailor, who sobered up in the nick of time. More than fifty full-page pen-and-ink drawings and action-packed photos of giant waves crashing over Darryl's 900-foot supertankers make you feel like you should be donning a life preserver while you're reading this book. An epic tale of the sea.


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