Cool Under Fire

Keeping a level head when everything else goes to hell in handbasket

Have you ever been in a situation where somebody said something to you, and you weren’t really sure what to say in return? Then, being the schmuck that you are, you went right ahead and said something anyway, and as soon as you said it, you knew it was the wrong thing to say. You did that not because you had something to say but rather because you knew you had to say something, or at least you thought you did.

Don’t feel bad if you answered, “Yes.” I’ve done it too… lots of times. That’s why I’ve come to admire people who can think on their feet and handle sticky situations in such a way that they diffuse them and win the day - gracefully. They are the kind of people Admiral Hornblower would describe as “cool under fire.”

I can remember two such situations where I saw someone do just that, and I figured, “Boy, things would have gone a lot better for me if I’d used that approach instead of the one I used the last time I was in a situation like that,” when basically, I had – as my brother Mark used to say, “Opened my mouth and inserted both feet.”

Why? Because I didn’t stop for just a second, take a deep breath, and ask myself, “What do I really want to accomplish here?” The next question is, of course, “How do I go about doing that?”

The two moments that stand out for me occurred back in the 70’s. The first occasion was on the shores of Lake Huron in beautiful Bright’s Grove, where I used to rent a cottage for my wife and three kids in the summer. There was a very interesting group of cottagers there, and we all hung out together: kids, adults and drop-ins. The guy in the cottage beside us was from Detroit. He was a 2nd generation American – of German heritage – and his name was Harry. Harry was a very charismatic fellow who owned – and operated – a large and very high-tech photo lab in Troy, Michigan. He did a lot of work for advertising people and had clients like Ford, GM, Vanity Fair and the Detroit Lions.

“A very impressive Rolodex,” as we used to say. Today you might call it a Google Contact list

Whenever we had our group barbecue/potluck dinners on the beach, followed by huge campfires, Harry was usually the guy who told the best stories, and he embellished them with the most contagious and infectious laughter. He also provided the most extraordinary fireworks. But… I had the best music and knew how to hook up sound systems. That’s one reason Harry liked to have me around and over the years, he became a great customer.

One summer, there was an Australian fellow named Mick who was hanging around. Mick was a doctor and he was doing some sort of residency program over here – in Canada. Mick was a handsome devil, and he felt that his rightful place as number one in our hearts (especially our ladies’ hearts) was somewhat challenged by the charismatic Harry. Mick didn’t seem to like that very much. On this one particular night, about thirty of us were sitting around the campfire having some drinks, listening to music (that summer, it was The Doobie Brothers, Dire Straits, and The Eagles), and spinning yarns, with the best yarn-spinning being done by Harry.

On this particular night, Mick had had a few more drinks than the rest of us, and every time Harry said something interesting or funny, Mick would say something somewhat derogatory and challenging. Mick’s comments were mostly about things like Detroit, the USA, and especially people of German heritage. Everyone could easily sense that Mick's comments were aimed at Harry and as the night wore on, things started to get a little prickly. Every time Mick made one of his snide comments that centered Harry out, the guys would all sort of look at the ground and shake our heads with dismay as we all sensed that this situation could go sideways at any moment if Harry decided to – rightfully we thought – take exception But Harry seemed totally nonplussed by all this which only seemed to frustrate Mick who became even more verbally abusive.

Finally, after Harry told a funny story about Bob Seger and the Detroit Auto Show, Mick said, “Oy don’t know why Oy ‘ates Detroit so much. Oy think it must be that Oy just don’t like Americans.” Looking right at Harry as he said it. Every guy there figured that Harry could not let that one slide. He had to respond.

Harry seemed to know it, too.

What would you have done? I know what I would have done, and I might have gotten knocked on my ass for doing it, but I would have felt like I had to do it anyway. If I went down, at least I would not be called a chickenshit since I had been provoked and stood up for myself – for a few moments, anyway. But then, I might have won the battle and knocked Mick on his ass. And then?

Probably found myself in court for breaking the surgeon's fingers.

But not Harry. He just looked right at Mick and smiled as he reached over and patted him on the knee. Then he said, “Y’a know what, Mick? I think I can live with that.” Then reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a quarter and gave it to him, telling him, “So why don’t you take this quarter and use it to call somebody who gives a shit.”

Everybody started to laugh. It was perfect. Mick knew that he couldn’t move on Harry or we all would have stopped him. He knew that he was the one trying to pull the big swinging dick thing and that Harry had artfully repelled him with no physical damage done (so far) and had us all on his side.

I never saw Mick again after that. Didn’t much care, either. But I saw lots of Harry. We watched a lot of Lions and Wolverines football games, listened to a lot of music, ate a lot of steaks and did a little drinking whenever the sun went over the yardarm. But, I always thought that thing with Mick was Harry’s shining moment: the one I will never forget.

My second cool-under-fire situation took place when I helped my father take his new (for him) sailboat, Summer Wind, up to the North Channel, between Manitoulin Island and the mainland at the north end of Lake Huron. We had anchored in a place called Croker Island late in the afternoon. My father and I followed his friend John Blunt’s drinking-rule-for-the-amateur-sailor, “No drinking at all until the boat is safely secured for the night and properly squared away.”

Once that rule had been honoured, my dad asked me, “Is the sun over the yardarm yet?” That was my dad’s personal drinking rule.

I replied, “Aye lad, that it is… well, close enough.”

Upon hearing that, he went below and emerged a few minutes later with two cold beers and a small pennant-type flag – a Royal Canadian Naval Ensign. It was the one he flew on his last ship in the Royal Canadian Navy during World War II. I’m sure you remember that. It was in all the newspapers. After the war ended and the Canadian fleet was back in Halifax, the “boys” had a huge party to celebrate their personal survival of World War II. In the spirit (or heat) of the moment, a lot of them took along a few things to help them remember their wonderful – or at least unforgettable – times together. My dad got his ship’s ensign and, for some strange reason, the ship’s bell. When he got home, he put the ensign in his socks and underwear drawer, and in 1955, he mounted the bell by the back door of the house he built on Lake Huron. It was the perfect dinner bell and was used to summon me, along with my brothers and sisters, when my mother wanted us home for dinner. The ensign remained in the socks and underwear drawer until 1975 when he bought the sailboat of his dreams, and now, here we were, anchored in this beautiful harbour and ceremoniously raising his Royal Canadian Naval Ensign.

Across the harbour was a somewhat larger sailboat. On the stern, under the name of the boat, were the letters: R.C.Y.C. – the Royal Canadian Yacht Club. The skipper/owner was on deck and he had obviously been watching us because, upon seeing the Royal Canadian Naval Ensign being raised on the lanyard of what was obviously not, “a ship of the line” he immediately went below. A few minutes later he came back on deck sporting a navy blue blazer, navy blue captain’s hat, white shorts, and a white shirt with a gold and blue striped tie that was de rigueur for the RCYC types. Then he got in his wooden dinghy and as JFK would say, "with great vigor," he rowed over to us for a closer inspection. He was an older gent and I suspected he may very well have been in a few wars himself - starting with the Boer War. He also seemed a tad peeved or as my grandmother might say, "He had his shirt in a knot."

My father and I were standing by the mast watching him as he rowed around our boat, inspecting our rig from every angle in an effort to assure himself that my father was – in fact – flying an actual Royal Canadian Naval Ensign. That done, he stopped in front of us and looking up at my father as if he wanted to have him flogged for such a flagrant violation of Canadian Naval regulations, he indignantly asked my father, “Sir, by whose authority do you fly that Royal Canadian Naval Ensign from your sailboat?”

I remember thinking, “Uh oh. This guy’s probably an admiral or something.”

My dad took a slow, casual pull on his beer and glared sternly at the guy as he said unto him, “Sir… by whose authority do you question my right to fly this flag?”

The guy was shocked but had no idea what to say next so, with a huge “Harumpf,” he turned his dinghy around and rowed – even more vigorously – back to his boat. A few minutes later he started his engine, hauled his anchor, and steamed out of there. Never to be seen again… by us anyway.

“He’s probably trying to arrange for you to be flogged through the fleet and then keel-hauled,” I said.

My dad just smiled and said, “All I did was ask him a simple question. Let’s grab another beer and go fishing.”

My dad was not always the coolest guy under pressure, but that day – was his day – he was truly “cool under fire.”

At this point, you may be wondering, “Why am I telling you all this?”

Well – honestly – I just think they are such great stories, that I had to tell someone.

Now that’s just my opinion, I could be wrong – but if you think I am, then in the words of my old friend Harry, “I’m sorry, but I think I can live with that… mate! Now… here’s a quarter…”

Thanks for your time and… "Watch out for the edge!"