Randy White - Tampa Burn

I skipped a little further because Tomlinson had highlighted and bracketed the following: It has also been documented that a substantial number of ECT patients have been able to recover sizeable blocks of lost memory by the careful reconstruction, or registration, of key life experiences and places…

I handed the article back to Tomlinson as he told me, “That’s what I decided to do-revisit and re-experience key elements and experiences in my life. I was still trying to remember writing One Fathom Above Sea Level. That became my focus.”

He told me that the only remaining memory he had about writing his now-famous work was connected to a popular song. It was a song by a classic rock band named America.

He said, “You know their stuff: ‘Sister Golden Hair,’ ‘Ventura Highway,’ ‘You Can Do Magic.’ The band’s got two genius writers, so they’ve had a ton of hits.

“Back when I wrote One Fathom, though, the song that haunted me was ‘Horse with No Name.’ Everyone knows the lyrics. ‘I’ve been through the desert on a horse with no name…’”

He sang a portion of it softly, then whistled for a while before explaining, “The line that just rocked me, though, was, ‘The ocean is a desert with its life underground, and a perfect disguise above.’ Are you familiar with the line, Doc?”

I know very little about rock music. Tend to listen to Latin music, Caribbean basin stuff, and Buffett, of course, and lately have taken an unexpected liking to an extraordinary folk singer and composer, Wendy Webb. But even I knew the song he was discussing, though little else about the band.

He repeated the lyric: “‘ The ocean is a desert with its life underground, and a perfect disguise above, ’” before adding, “For someone like me, a sailor, that line was like a three-pronged probe. It hit me in the marrow, the brain, and the heart. All the far-out implications, all the very heavy vibes and duality it communicated. That song, it just sent me off on a whole new spiritual trip.”

Tomlinson combed long, bony fingers through his hair and said, “The line was the seed that started One Fathom. That song. ‘A Horse with No Name.’ That’s all I remembered. The rest of my memory from that time period was a blank sheet. So when I disappeared from the marina? I got a piece of pure karmic luck. I called around, found out where the band America was playing. I met their road manager, Erin, and finagled a job as a roadie. So that’s where I went when I disappeared. I was working for the band America. Can you believe it? A really cool experience, man.”

I watched him smile, enjoying the memory of it for a few seconds before he continued, “They had no idea who I was, why I was there. A great bunch of people. They do more than a hundred gigs a year, all first-class, and it was pure good karma that put me in the right place at the right time. So I helped them set up in L.A., Phoenix, Chicago, little towns in Iowa and Wisconsin. Yeah, and San Diego, too.”

San Diego, he said, that’s where his memory started coming back to him.

What Tomlinson remembered, and now confessed to me, was that he hadn’t just been a member of the radical group that had sent the bomb to the San Diego naval station. He’d been the group’s founder. He’d also helped design the bomb. And build it. And send it.

“We got the directions from The Anarchist Cookbook, ” he added. His voice sounded weary. I couldn’t remember ever hearing him so sad. “In other words, I am directly responsible for the death of your friend. I guess the electroshock wiped out my recall; every single detail. Or maybe I wanted it wiped out. I’ve come to the conclusion that, in me, a clear conscience is the first symptom of damaged brain function.”

I’d stopped walking. Stood looking out over the Gulf of Mexico: green water, pearl horizon, copper morning sky. I said, “He had a wife and children.”

“I know. I’ve been helping them secretly for years. Financially, I mean.”

I knew that was true.

I said, “I gave you documents from another friend of mine that legally exonerates you from any responsibility. I did that for you.”

“I know that, too.”

“There are no statutes of limitation on murder. If you turn yourself in-or if someone turns you in-you’re going to jail for a very long time.”

Tomlinson had been looking at me. But now he turned so that we stood side by side, both of us looking out to sea. “I plan to turn myself in and confess. I’m responsible. It’s the moral thing to do. Spiritually, it’s what I’m obligated to do.

“But Doc”-his voice choked slightly-“I don’t think I could take it. Jail, I mean. Being penned up. Not being able to get out on the water aboard No Mas. What I’d rather have happen-my spiritual preference -is I’d rather just… disappear. Like the other members of my organization did years ago. Back when someone was hunting them down. I’d prefer that. Rather than go to jail, I wish the man assigned to make me disappear would just… do it. Get it over with and make it happen.”

I hated the inference, and the implicit obligation. How could he ask such a thing of me?

I said, “Stop it.” Then changed the subject immediately by becoming aggressive, wanting him on the defensive, asking, “What else do you remember? What other nasty little secrets were in there hiding? How about this: Were you ever a member of a second radical group? One called Fight-4-Right? And did you spend time working for them in Central America?”

He shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. But it’s possible. I lost about two entire years of my memory. I have no idea what I did during most of that time period. Only part of it’s come back.”

“Did you ever know an Australian oceanographer named Thackery? He was a big environmentalist and a surfer.”

I was thinking about the e-mails I’d found, written by Pilar.

Tomlinson had to think about that. “Maybe I did know someone named Thackery. It… it sounds familiar. But I can’t be sure. I’m sorry.”

“What about Pilar? Did you know her before I met her? Or has she said anything to you, sent you any e-mails, or asked you anything that suggests that you did know each other?”

He grimaced and took a deep breath. “No-o-o-o. I don’t think I ever met her before you and I went to Masagua together. If I was ever in Central America before that, I have absolutely no recollection of it. But there is something I need to tell you about that woman. About Pilar. This isn’t easy, man. And there’s no way to sugar-coat it.”

I thought: Uh-oh, here it comes.

But it was not what I expected.

I was still standing, looking at the water, but I had turned away from Tomlinson slightly. I waited through a long silence before he said, “The thing about you, Doc, is you tend to see the good in everybody. You’re analytical, sure. But you focus on what’s productive in people, what’s positive.”

I said, “So? The exact same thing’s true of you.”

“I know. I know. But the difference is, there’s no rational explanation for malice or impiety. Because of that, rational people like you are slow to recognize it. But someone like me, I know intuitively if a person’s basically good, or basically bad. You’ve always thought Pilar was one of the great women in the world. I knew the moment I met her she was just the opposite. She’s one of the bad ones. Not evil, just bad.”

I was more than taken aback. It was a shocking thing to hear from a man whose judgment I valued, and who rarely said an unkind word about another human being. Tomlinson’s demons have made him reluctant to judge.

Yet, he continued, “She’s self-obsessed. Huge mood swings. Delusions of grandeur. Think about it, Doc: She associated herself with a Mayan goddess. Ixku? Remember her taking that name? Trouble is, when your best friend is in love with a witch, you can’t risk the friendship by telling him.”