I have personally been on the receiving end of a Bill Clinton Waggle. Not that waggle. Jeez. It’s worth noting, though, the influence our forty-second President has had on my career, both directly and indirectly. Bear with me, I’m going somewhere with this.
January, 1992
Bill Clinton was hardly a nobody the first time I met him, but he was in danger of being an also-ran, running well behind Paul Tsongas in the 1992 primaries. The man whose campaign slogan was “I’m not Santa Claus” was handily thrashing the former Arkansas governor. When I asked my news director if I could cover his speech at a fundraiser called Democrat Days, his thoughts on the matter were if I wanted to waste a Saturday night driving 150 miles out of the ADI to cover a sure-fire loser, then knock myself out.
The big lesson from that experience was if you’re hanging over the edge of a swimming pool with your camera, and the Secret Service is yelling at you to get down, the wrong response is to say you need to be there to get a good shot. I also learned if you need to get through a large crowd, the best way to do it is to turn on the most powerful light you have and let the heat of the bulb assembly clear a path for you.
It was so loud, when I shouted a question at Clinton as he approached, I couldn’t hear the answer. I trusted the microphone was picking up something usable. I got what I needed, and scored the night as a win, but the big takeaway, though, was if a politician needs you, he’ll talk. Your value as a journalist to a politician is based solely on that criteria. My running gauge of the accuracy of this truism was my “relationship,” such as it was, with Bill Clinton over the next decade.
August, 2014
There are still four or five weeks left in the sailing season here. After mid-October, the thermal currents that also create the famous San Francisco fog start to dissipate, and with them the afternoon winds that create ideal sailing conditions. I’ev been fortunate enough to have lost a large part of my vision during the sailing season… if you choose to adopt a “glass half full” approach. The Marin Sailing School is this incredible organization that also runs a nonprofit arm that teaches blind and visually impaired men and women how to sail. I’ve been looking forward to this for weeks, and being on the dock, about to board a J24 is more than exciting. It’s a chance to reclaim another part of what makes me… me.
Since sailing is one of the skills I need to learn for the upcoming expedition, I feel incredibly fortunate that this kind of instruction exists in my adopted hometown. San Francisco joins Boston, Newport and New Zealand as one of the very few places in the world offering this kind of opportunity. What I love about these classes is that the blind sailors are not ballast. they are crew members with real responsibilities that the sighted crew rely on. On my boat was Lila, also visually impaired; Danet, a sighted crew member who works at Lighthouse SF, a nonprofit I think I’ve written about previously; Sonya, a business major at USF who also volunteers with sailing instruction for at-risk youth; and Phillip, who is blind, a champion sail racer, and a founder of the school. Watching him handle the boat, it’s very clear this is a skill that can be mastered, and I am ready for the challenge as we put out for the day.
July, 1992
By this point, Bill Clinton’s fortunes had changed considerably, and this time, when I asked my news director if I could go to St. Louis, where the Clinton/Gore campaign was ending the bus tour that had originated in New York after the convention, there were several people in the newsroom who wanted to go, so while I got the nod, I had to go with a partner. I was still new enough to reporting that having a spot on the riser – the multi tiered platform where radio, television and print reporters can set up – was still a thrilling place to be. Still, I knew enough by this point to see the real point of the riser was to keep us all in one place, but I was also young enough not to care. After the speech (the “It’s Time for Them to Go!” speech), I left the tripod in the capable hands of my partner, slung my camera over my shoulder and leapt off the riser… about a ten foot jump. Yes, it hurt. I definitely twisted something, but using my now refined technique of burning my way through the crowd with my portable light… which isn’t called a sun gun for nothing… I made it to the rope line and waited for Clinton to come to me. To my chagrin, he had gone in the opposite direction, towards camera-right of the podium. I had gone camera-left. I did snag an interview with Gore, but it felt like winning the bronze.
Turned out the best part was yet to come. In the distance, I had spotted the campaign bus. I was going to get that interview with Clinton, no matter what. I pushed through the crowd again, and got as close to the bus door as I could, but not nearly close enough to get an interview whenever he showed up. Dejectedly, I wandered around to the other side of the bus to lick my wounds, stretch my probably sprained ankle and check the video I had shot of Gore… and wouldn’t you know it, on this side of the bus, with almost nobody around, there was The Man Who, as Gregory MacDonald would have called him, chatting up a few regular people, by which I of course mean non-reporters, with no media around. I walked up next to him and started rolling. Too easy, right? Of course, I was getting bupkis. Every time I tried to ask a question, he turned the other way and shook another hand. It was clear I was a minor annoyance at best. He shook hands with his supporters and began to walk away.
That’s when, running on fumes and frighteningly bad judgment, I reached out with my right hand, trying not to let my camera fall off my shoulder and pulled him back. I think the Secret Service guy didn’t end my career right there, and with extreme prejudice, was because he was too busy having a heart attack over my poor decision.
“What about you being a liberal?” I shouted over the noise of the music that was still playing. Honest to God, it really was Fleetwodd Mac.
He turned around. Oh my, he turned around.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “I’ll answer that one.” Even though I had heard him on television and in person, I remember thinking that Bill Clinton sounded just like all those people who do Bill Clinton impressions.
“Um,” I said. “Bush says you’re a liberal like Michael Dukakis…”
“You tell George Bush,” Clinton said, as if we went out for beer and pork rinds on a regular basis, “that the tired clichés of the past don’t work anymore, and it’s time for change, and I’ll take that message wherever we go.”
Recovering slightly, but still not quite getting it that I was talking to maybe the next leader of the free world and not my buddies in a three-on-three pickup game, I said, “Well, what are you going to do? Take a cross country bus tour every time George Bush calls you a liberal?”
“We’re not through yet,” he said, “and we are indeed planning more of these trips through the heart of America, as many as it takes to drive home the message…”
I only kind of heard the rest, since I was thinking that for the love of all that was good and holy, I had gotten a scoop. I was the first to report, granted on a local mid-Missouri television station, that the Clinton campaign was planning a second bus tour, this time pacing the Mississippi River. I had seen, now for the second time, if they feel they need you badly enough, they’ll talk to you.
The next day, my Dad called me. I had already called him the night before to tell him the story. We had that kind of relationship. He wanted me to know he had seen an interview with Clinton on C-SPAN, and upon being asked if the campaign grind was getting to him, his response had been it was mostly fine, although he could do without the reporter in St. Louis who had nearly dislocated his shoulder in pursuit of an interview.
“I assume,” my Dad said, “he was talking about you?”
So I suppose I also learned something else – that Bill Clinton is a nice guy, but that I know from personal experience he’s a bit of a fibber.
August, 2014
It turns out sailing is the perfect experience for someone learning to use senses other than sight. When the thermal currents finally lifted and the wind began to fill in, I began learning how to rely on the feel of the wind on my ears to judge the best way to till or to set the mainsail. It’s a lot harder than it seems. I had thought telling which direction the wind is hitting you from would be pretty simple. Not so fast. Wind, I should have realized, is not a consistent force, and doesn’t always come from just one angle. There are so many subtle changes to the wind itself, and there is of course the matter of putting the boat in the direction you want to sail… which may or may not be along the face of the wind. The gist of this first lesson was all about speed, of using as much of the wind’s energy as possible. Lila and I took turns when it came to running the tiller and positioning the mainsail. Both jobs were much harder than I could have imagined. I had to force myself to remember that when the boat started to feel like it was tipping to one side, this was good, because it meant we were really taking advantage of the available wind. A level keel meant we were slowing down.
It was an incredible adrenaline rush. Not just the speed, which was considerable, since the J24 is in fact a racing boat, but also knowing Lila and I were responsible for it, and that the entire crew was relying on us to keep us racing. We powered the boat through San Francisco Bay, out of Clipper Cove and into an area known as the Slot. I haven’t felt this kind of rush since the first time I went skiing – that feeling of being almost, but not quite out of control, but that the best way to stay in control is to go faster and use the skills your’e learning. That speed is your friend.
What really felt great, though, was the sense of reclaiming that simple status of being an adult. Yes, the two-thousand pound keel was doing the lion’s share of keeping he boat level, but tilling the helm or determining how much of the mainsail to reel in or let out without losing control of the boom was terrific in a way that’s hard to explain. The best way I can attempt that, though, is to say that when you’re working with a handicap, you begin to think that although you may someday convince people that you can take care of yourself, getting people to feel comfortable about you taking care of them is almost impossible. You feel trapped in permanent childhood. This experience was the first step in not feeling like that, even if just for an afternoon.
May, 1996
I was working in Pueblo, Colorado in the bureau of a Colorado Springs station, and Clinton was coming through town for a reelection campaign event. Four years of daily reporting doesn’t turn you old, but it does start to turn you into a cynic in training, but I did still want to try the “jump off the riser and see what happens” move. This time, it was a twosome. My partner, James, was the photographer -, I was only wearing a reporter hat – so we crowd dove together. We made it to the rope barrier and we could see Clinton approaching us.
I had learned two lessons since 1992. First, wait to see which direction the candidate goes before diving in, and second, get to know the Secret Service agents. One of them was actually pretty cool, and we had a little game going on. He would keep telling us to go back, and we would keep not doing that. I think it gave him something to do. As clinton hove into sight, I thrust out my microphone.
I will never forget what happened next. He saw the camera. He saw me. I can’t say for sure he remembered me… the man does meet a lot of people… but he gave me this big smile, shook his head from side to side and that’s when I got The Waggle. The finger swipe that said “nice try, kid.,” and then sailed right past as if we weren’t even there. No way was I getting close enough to yank the shoulder of the President o the United States this time. Our story that night consisted entirely of podium sound and a few shots to prove we had been in the crowd and did get close to him, but no one-on-one, and although I had a lot of interesting experiences that year – I got to see Jack Kemp toss a football to a crowd in Pueblo and Steve Forbes tried to set me up with one of his daughters (I swear on as many Bibles as you care to provide that this is true), among other interesting happenings, I remember most of all is that if your opponent is Bob Dole in the middle of an economic recovery, you don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to talk to, especially a bureau reporter in Pueblo, Colorado.
August, 2014
There are two more chances to sharpen my sailing skills, such as they are, before the season ends. I have a lot to learn, but I have a very good reason for learning as much as I can.
I’ve found my color blue.
I’ve written about the path the expedition will follow as I make my way through the color spectrum. Blue has been a little vague, as I’d only determined to this point that it would have something to do with sailing. I learned this weekend that one of the hubs of blind sailing is New Zealand, and that one of the foremost practitioners of the sport is in that country. It strikes me that this would be an ideal place to both learn more of these skills and to put out from this particular port of call. Plus, New Zealand has the not-so-unhelpful benefit of being just about the only other nation in the world that’s reasonably close to Australia. Australia, as I’ve written, is already the place I’ve chosen to represent the color red, with the destination of the Red Centre in mind. Heading out to New Zealand and exploring this part of the world seems like a natural extension and continuation of this journey. Sailing with this incredible group and getting to sail with them again in the coming weeks, feels like a privilege not many people get to share.
1996 through 1999
I had one more Clinton encounter. I think it says something about how jaded I was getting that today, I truly can’t remember whether it was during another campaign event or if it happened a few years later. He was promoting the benefits of community colleges and had chosen Pueblo as the locale for a speech. I do know I had joined the ranks of local reporters nationwide who have come to realize covering the President when he comes to town is just one more damned hassle in your day where you’re stuck on a riser for the whole day, rather than doing a story where there’s at least an outside chance of doing something creative. There was no way I was riser-jumping this time. I was a good little local reporter, taking my place in my assigned position, doing my required number of live shots.
When I think about that event today, what I realize is this was the point where I could feel my career officially jump the shark. This was the point where I could truly begin to feel myself not caring about the stories I was covering. If covering the President was already just one more paint-by-numbers activity, there was clearly an expiration date on my career.
Today
So this is where the two threads of this post are leading me. I’m on the cusp of a new story – a big one – and the story I feel I’m meant to tell. What’s more, I’m not just telling the story for myself, even though a large part of it is about me. I’m doing it in the service of something I believe in, and so is everyone who is telling this story with me. I haven’t thought about these various Bill Clinton encounters in any meaningful way in years. Until now, they’ve only been useful in the service of having an interesting story to tell on a first date when I get asked “so what’s it like being a reporter?” Right now, though, I realize that the arc of those stories should be a reminder to me of the effort it takes not to be jaded, cynical or grow stale. That when you stop wanting to jump off the riser, it’s time to reach. Not just out, but also in. the experiences I’m having now are daily steps outside of my comfort zone. that’s new and old at the same time.
Two threads merging into one.
