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You Can't Become Rich In Your Pocket Until You Become Rich In Your Mind | ||||
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The Correct Way to Follow Market Letter Writers and Media ExpertsSolution to Mistake #2: Understand the Correct Way to Follow Market Letter Writers and Media Experts MY DISTRUST OF EXPERTS OF ANY KIND DEVELOPED EARLY IN MY LIFE, and nothing that has happened to me over the years has altered my views. I witnessed one of the most poignant examples of the failure of experts to make the right decision when I was a young naval officer serving on the aircraft carrier USS Wasp. In 1960, one of the modern wonders of the military world at that time was a series of offshore Distant Early Warning (DEW) radar towers belonging to the government, which encircled the country to protect us from surprise attack by enemy forces. The sea-based towers were called Texas Towers because they resembled the oil rigs in the offshore oil fields of Texas. At a cost of $21 million, the fourth Texas Tower was a marvel of modern science, six stories high and equipped with a swimming pool, recreation hall, and full facilities to house 90 men. Under the command of the Air Force the three-sided tower was planted on the ocean floor beneath 180 feet of water 65 miles off the New Jersey coast. The tower underwent a crew reduction to 28 men in November 1960. It was nicknamed Old Shaky after high winds from Hurricane Donna battered the tower, apparently weakening its supports. On January 15, 1961, the USS Wasp was returning to Boston Harbor after sea operations. A fierce storm was spewing waves onto our deck, but we had managed to avoid the worst of the high winds and were not terribly concerneduntil we heard May Day! signals. Receiving an urgent message that the Texas Tower was in trouble, we headed toward it. I knew that at about 7 miles an hour, it would take a long time for our ship to cover even the short distance of 35 miles. As we made our way, we caught another May Day! signal, and with that the image vanished from our radar. The last words we heard from the tower were, Thank God the Wasp is on its way. With no warning, the Texas Tower snapped and toppled into the ocean, hurling 28 servicemen to their deaths. We had come within 7 miles of the tower by then. I learned later that it had begun tilting wildly back and forth in high winds long before the SOS. Our commanding officer felt it would stand until dawn and that an anticipated lull in the storm would give us an opportunity to evacuate the structure safely. I was living in my own world of terror. I had never seen the sea that angry. Our deck was being washed by 35-foot-high waves, and on the bridge of the ship where I was deployed, I had a birds eye view of the power of an ocean whipped to a fury by a deadly storm. The top of the flight deck was about 60 feet above sea level, and from there it was another 50 feet to the bridge. When the bow of the ship went down, I could see the waves crashing onto the ship and splashing water everywhere. Our planes were battened down in the ships hangars where the angled deck had allowed us to stow them safely. Most of our men were below deck, but the ship was rocking in the storm, and it was a terrifying scene. The front of the deck was torn up and the metal exterior on the ships hull was dented. We were organized into 4 teams of officers, with each team taking a 4-hour watch every 12 hours. These watches were in addition to my regular duties as a 1st Division officer, and consequently I did not have much time to eat or sleep. Early in the morning, a few hours after the Texas Tower disaster, I headed for the bunk bed room in Boys Town. We heard that Commander Donald Spaulding was looking for an officer to volunteer his services on a rescue boat to search for bodies. Nobody wanted to go. We did not feel secure in our bunk beds with the sea pitching the ship from side to side, much less riding in a round 22-foot lifeboat we called the Whale Boat. The commander would say, Safe as a slow turn on a merry-go-round, but we did not see it that way. The horrifying events were still vivid in our minds, and the storm was still lashing out. Some of the men scrambled to the top of the bunk beds where they could reach the dozen or so light bulbs in the ceiling and quickly loosened each one, plunging the windowless room into total darkness. I was 23 years old and scared. I knew that if the commander couldnt get an officer to volunteer, he would order one to duty, and with my luck, it just might be me. I headed for the safest place I knewhuddled next to the floor beneath my bed. No sooner had I slid under the bunk than Commander Spaulding opened the door to our room and reached for the light switch. Nothing happened. We were all breathing softly. I need one volunteer to search for bodies in the area near the tower! he bellowed. Who will go? A long pause was finally broken by the firm voice of an officer in the bunk bed across the aisle from me. It was George Meyers, a graduate of Kings Point Merchant Marine Academy. Ill go, Sir. At that moment I did not know the full extent of the tragedy of the Texas Tower, but I knew it was deadly out there and that I did not want to risk my life a few miles off shore in the Atlantic Ocean. A few hours later, Meyers and the crew of rescue workers made it back safely but had managed to recover only one body at the site of the wreckage. Over the years, I have often wondered why the Air Force did not remove those 28 men from the tower after Hurricane Donna had weakened the supports. Apparently heavy braces were added on the advice of engineering experts, and they concluded that the tower was up to its original strength. That might have been true, but the new braces actually created greater mass for high winds to weaken the tower and cause it to topple over. The demise of Texas Tower Number Four further increased my disdain for the opinions of experts and analysts, which fueled my desire to ferret out the actions of The Vital Few and compare them to The Trivial Many. Forty years after the Texas Tower tragedy, in the summer of 2001, my wife Maria and I were visiting her parents in Florida, and I noticed a car with a USS Wasp sticker on it. Intrigued, I knocked on his door. A man in his seventies answered and I told him I had been a crew member on the Wasp from 1960 to 1963. Ten ships had been commissioned by the Navy under the name, USS Wasp, and he had been on the seventh, serving in WWII. He told me there was a society of Wasp alumni, and he helped me get in touch with the group through the Internet. Not long after signing up, I received an e-mail from Don Abbott, a man whose father had been on the Texas Tower that night and had lost his life. Abbotts comments brought a lump to my throat. The man your whale boat picked up at the tower site was Master Sergeant Tray F. Williams, he wrote. Abbott added, When Williams lost his life, his wife Betty was left with four young children to care for. Our families tried to comfort each other in our time of loss. Betty Williams passed away earlier this year. |
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