Full and By: A Doctor’s Life of Stethoscopes, Sailboats, and SLRs

By Art Myers

Who would have thought that an offhand comment would lead to a life-changing adventure? It might have started as crazy talk, but to one man’s wife, it was an invitation to move beyond the ordinary. Full and By: A Doctor’s Life of Stethoscopes, Sailboats, and SLRs tells the tale of how Art Myers went from schoolboy to physician to world traveler, with his family packed aboard a forty-one-foot sailboat and plans for a future in a tropical paradise.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Oct 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781889169057

Book preview

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In 1972, I had a comfortable medical practice in Daytona Beach, Florida, treating mostly hospitalized patients. I was in essence what is now called a hospitalist. I liked medicine and enjoyed practicing my specialty, but it was exacting work. My practice consisted of treating very ill patients, often critical and sometimes dying. The work I was doing was preceded by years of study that required a different kind of intensity and demand. So after medical school in Philadelphia, internship in Texas, three years of residency in Michigan, six months of fellowship training in Wisconsin, and some years of private medical practice, I feared I might be headed for a condition known among health professionals as burnout.

I knew I needed a respite. In fact, over the previous several months, I had been envisioning some future time away from medicine. I thought of such a break as my sabbatical and often discussed with professor friends how they would spend a similar hiatus away from their work to kick-start their professional disciplines. It is common for those in academia and research to receive the benefits of what Harvard first introduced to academia in 1880, the sabbatical.

I had the ideal family, consisting of Stephanie and our four kids, Diane, Lynn, Chuck, and Gretchen. Stephanie had completed some formal nurses training in the past and had in fact worked in nursing, but she wanted badly to complete the requirements to take the nursing boards and finally be permitted to put RN after her name. She found the time and place that she could do that while we were in Daytona Beach. She matriculated at the local college and not only successfully completed the required courses but at one point was named Nursing Student of the Year.

Diane was starting tenth grade and Lynn the eighth grade, Chuck the sixth grade, and Gretchen the fourth. We had a large house in an exclusive suburb with a hotel-sized, screened-in swimming pool. And we possessed all the toys that I imagined everyone wished they could have. Furthermore, we owned a thirty-four-foot oceangoing sailboat we kept at the exclusive yacht club. We lived everyone’s dream, with all the accoutrements necessary for the perfect life. We were America’s exemplary family. But I occasionally had a feeling that some things in my life that I thought were important were objects or practices defined not by me, but by others. I just shrugged off the feeling, knowing that everyone has such moments.

During the Christmas holidays, Steff and I were invited to a holiday party for the medical staff aboard a surgeon’s huge luxury yacht that was kept in a berth at the yacht club. I left Steff talking to a physician friend while I walked alone through the immaculately appointed cabins. I noted the rich tapestries used for porthole dressings and the expensive hardwoods used for trim throughout. I trailed my fingers lightly over the fine finished teak as I wandered back to the main cabin where I found Steff. I caught her attention, and she walked over to me. I looked at her silently for a moment. She returned my look as she does when she senses that what I am about to say is important. She wore a long blue gown, dressed tastefully as she always was, and as usual, I never found her hard to look at.

I snickered ineloquently and blurted out with a laugh, Why don’t we cash in, as they call it, get rid of all our possessions . . . I noticed several pairs of eyes turning toward us. I dropped my voice and almost whispered to her as if I were divulging a nuclear secret. The words left my mouth so easily, but I swallowed hard, thinking of what I was suggesting. . . . buy a proper boat, load the kids on board, and point the bow toward a tropical paradise?

I’d love that! she answered, her eyes flashing with excitement.

Taken completely by surprise at her response, I said, Oh, that’s crazy talk. I was mostly joking when I said that.

I’m serious, honey. I’ve been thinking similar thoughts for some time now. I’m so ready for that sabbatical you keep talking about. She sounded a little excited.

Ah, come on, Steff. I didn’t mean to make it sound so serious.

She looked at me again with that piercing look she uses to mean she’s serious. No, it isn’t crazy talk, Art. Besides, I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how hard you work and the burden it’s putting on our marriage . . . and . . .

I held up a hand for her to stop talking as I saw tears welling up in her eyes. I reached to touch her hand. Stop, I said. I know where you’re going with this. I know . . . I know that we don’t spend much time together anymore, et cetera, et cetera. I paused for a moment, her damp eyes still on me. I realized that I had opened a touchy subject with her.

Okay, I said, wanting to avoid a serious discussion in the setting of a Christmas party. "I’ll tell you what. I challenge you. The first thing in the morning when you wake up, before sitting up or rolling over or having a drink of coffee, you tell me then that you would still like to cash in everything, get a boat we could live on, and take off toward the horizon. A deal?"

A deal, she answered without hesitation and quickly walked away to talk to some of the other wives.

The sky was overcast the next morning with a thick layer of dark clouds. It’s going to rain today, I thought, peering out at the gloom through the open curtain at the foot of the bed. I lay still for a few moments, thinking of the day ahead and, in general, being happy that I wasn’t on call. Then I remembered the challenge I had thrown out so casually to Steff the night before. Oh well, I thought. She won’t even remember it. The idea was just too fantastical.

I slowly crawled out of the bed, trying to avoid waking her, stood for a few seconds on the soft carpet, and walked quietly toward the door. I was at the foot of the bed when I heard, coming from beneath the pile of bedding, a voice spoken in almost a whisper but clearly meant to be heard and understood, When are we putting the house on the market?

On December 7, 1941, a little less than two months following my eleventh birthday, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and Japan and Germany goose-stepped America into the Second World War. I remember Dad stopping the old Studebaker at the gas station on the way home from church that Sunday and the attendant telling us, Them Japs just bombed Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands.

By that time we were a family of six as I had two younger brothers, Bruce and Milt, and an older sister, Joanne. The war changed everyone’s life. Families were broken up as sons and fathers left to fight the war. Wives willingly went to work for the war effort in factories and agriculture. And if that was not possible, they volunteered their services doing important tasks such as preparing packages of necessities to be sent to our service personnel overseas.

We installed blackout curtains, a government requirement, on the windows of our house in Alta Loma, California, and covered all but a small beam of our car’s headlights in order to keep enemy planes from spotting us. We huddled together and doused all but emergency lights when the warning siren went off, and breathed easier when the all clear was given. To be certain that the troops had ample food and supplies, we were issued ration books containing stickers needed to purchase hard-to-get food and other scarce products. Much missed, for instance, were sugar and coffee.

A new sense of comradeship and responsibility swept across the country. Everyone seemed to want to do something to help the war effort. The phrase for the duration became defining words of our conversations, implying the time until the war ended.

I was old enough to worry about the war, and when I had the chance, I read news of the fighting in newspapers or watched news films at the theater. It was common for theaters to show short film clips of the news with the feature films. The news we got was always a day or two old, the time it took to get film from the war front to the processors and ultimately the movies.

One night when Dad was away, a warning siren suddenly cut through the silence of the night. It seemed as if it would never stop. We were all scared, certain we’d hear bombs falling any second. Of course, none of us really knew what that sound would be, but our imaginations ran wild. Mom huddled us quickly into a corner.

About an hour and a half went by when she abruptly ushered us all outside into the darkness, quickly shoved us into the car, and took off for Cucamonga, where her parents lived. I remember her creeping along slowly because of the covered headlights and frequently sticking her head out her side window to keep the car on the country road on that dark night. She had always maintained a close relationship with her parents, and it was natural that in time of potential danger, she would seek safety and comfort in their presence.

From where we lived in Alta Loma, it was about five miles to Cucamonga. Mom’s father, my Grandpa Shaffer, was a physician. His office was combined with his house, and it so happens I was born there. As a country doctor, he had in fact attended my mom as her delivery physician

when I was born. I suspect that was not too rare of a practice in rural America when the only physician available was a family member. Needless to say, no bombs fell that night, and in the early morning hours, Mom took us back to Alta Loma so we could clean up for school.

My grandpa, Dr. C. P. Shaffer; my Grandma Shaffer; my mom, Cecilia; and my aunt Kathleen

My brother Bruce; my sister, Joanne; and me

World War II ration book and stickers

In addition to the darkness of night, feared by many, there was also a darkness just beneath the surface, a gloom that violated the hallowed ground made so by the hearts and hands that contributed so much to the war effort. For instance, a man who could prove that he was morally opposed to the war (most often due to religious reasons) was classified as a conscientious objector, or CO. He was assigned to noncombatant service such as medic training or other alternative service. On occasion, groups of COs traveled on trains or buses to training sites or other venues and passed nearby. They were frequently screamed or jeered at, called draft dodgers, or much worse, pummeled with thrown objects and spit on. I was particularly attuned to such insulting behaviors since I was at that very time exploring in my own mind how I felt about the war and all its tragedies and consequences, and how I would respond if I were drafted and subsequently called up. And well it would be that I was coming to terms with those nascent feelings, for that is exactly what befell me a few years down the road.

Another event illustrates the subtle and the not-so-subtle pervasive shadow generated by the war. One day I asked my mom, Why is the nursery closing? There was a lovely nursery a few blocks away that had been in business for many years under the same family management. I didn’t know anyone who hadn’t bought a plant or two there.

Well, the Yamaguchis are being sent away for a while, she explained.

Sent away? What does that mean?

It’s because they are Japanese, and we are at war with Japan. She let her voice trail off.

I still didn’t understand. But some of their kids who I go to school with have never even been to Japan, and I bet lots of the parents haven’t either. I don’t get it. I shook my head.

I know it doesn’t sound fair, but all the people who are from Japanese families are being sent to what they call relocation camps for the duration.

She tried to explain, but I was still confused and didn’t ask any more questions. I later learned that the Yamaguchis were ordered to either abandon or immediately sell their nursery, in all probability at a huge loss, and like all persons of Japanese ancestry, they were ordered to live in one of the prison-like shelters euphemistically referred to as relocation centers. I think the Yamaguchis were restrained in the Manzanar War Relocation Center near Lone Pine, California.

I don’t really know what Dad was doing before the war, but at one time he owned a medical laboratory in Santa Ana, California, that struggled financially and eventually ended in bankruptcy. Another time he worked at delivering bottled milk to residences early in the morning. I know that because several times I awoke before daylight so he would take me with him on his delivery route.

During the time that Dad had the medical laboratory, we lived in a house on Main Street in Santa Ana big enough to accommodate his lab. At that time, I was attending the second grade. I walked to school with Joanne, and we arrived just minutes before class began. It often was too late to use the school bathroom in time to make the first bell. That meant that I frequently started the class needing to go a little, but most of the time I was able to hold it.

On one particular day though, I had imbibed copious amounts of orange juice and fresh milk at breakfast time because I was so thirsty. I guess it was probably from eating something salty Mom made for dinner the evening prior. It could have been More, a one-dish dinner she was especially fond of making. That morning, my class of about fifteen students sat facing the teacher in a single arc of wooden chairs as she read a lesson to us.

The teacher told the story of a family from Africa, I think, that kept healthy by learning how to purify the water they bathed in and drank. I don’t recall if I dreamed about the rest of the story or if this is a totally accurate account, but I do remember for certain that she spent a lot of time talking about water, to the point that I could feel a drop or two of urine escaping from my body.

I tried everything to keep from wetting my pants. I tried to count to myself, and when that didn’t work any longer, I tried to think of things that I often wished for. Finally, I couldn’t hold it any longer, and I felt the stream of warm liquid flowing out the leg of my undershorts and down my pants leg, making a big puddle on the floor under my chair.

I was so scared and embarrassed that I couldn’t even look down to see the pool at my feet. All the urine that dribbled out of me must have made a pond as big as the one the teacher was talking about, but I couldn’t take a chance on looking down. I sat there stiffly and waited, trying not to look around to see whether anybody had seen the lake I made. When the bell rang and class was dismissed, I tried to look unconcerned as I swiftly exited the classroom and headed home.

At home, I changed out of my school clothes and into old stuff and went outside to play. I was sure the teacher would get upset when she saw the mess I had made and most likely call my mom. But by bedtime, no one had reported me.

As I lay awake, unable to go to sleep, I began to figure out plans for the next morning so I wouldn’t have to go back to school. I finally dropped off to sleep thinking I had a feasible plan. When morning came and Mom woke us in time for school, I announced that I had decided to quit school and no longer felt I needed to attend. Mom could hardly prevent herself from laughing as she explained that there was no arguing about it, I was going to continue to be a student.

Well, that part of the story is laughable, but I have to document the funniest part of this little incident that was yet to come. I wouldn’t have guessed it then, but as time went on, my parents inadvertently turned what to me was the real story—that is, my losing it on the floor—into what they mistakenly believed happened. But they didn’t include in their story the real reason I wasn’t going back to school because I never told them the truth.

I walked back to school the next morning with my sister, fearing at least a tongue-lashing from my teacher and probably a day of harsh teasing from classmates. I gingerly stepped into the classroom and saw that nothing was out of order, and there was not even a drop of moisture on the floor where I had been sitting. I took a deep breath, acted as normal as I could, and never heard a peep about it from my classmates or teacher.

But at home, I learned later, both Mom and Dad were in hysterics over my deciding that I was done with going to school as I had all the education I needed. They thought that was about the funniest thing they had ever heard. A boy in second grade deciding he had been to school long enough was the most ridiculous thing they could imagine, and they laughingly relayed the story to friends everywhere. I never let on that their story wasn’t the truth, and they never questioned my account. And I kept my mouth shut. Moreover, for a decade after, they told the story to friends and family, a story about my deciding I didn’t need further formal education.

The most hilarious part of the story, though, came maybe ten years later, when I was a young man, and I finally told them what had actually happened. However, they were so invested in their version and had known nothing about the pants wetting that they ignored my story and went right on telling the version they thought was the real story, that of a second grader who was ready to quit school.

Once Dad dropped off me and Bruce, who was about two years younger than me, at Grandma Myers’s and left us for several months. Times were so hard that Dad had to hit the road to find work and finally ended up employed in a mine in Colorado. We delighted in riding in the rumble seat of Grandma’s Ford Model A, and I still chuckle recalling the cautionary advice she frequently tossed out at bedtime: Nice boys don’t sleep with their hands under the covers.

At the start of the war, Dad got a job driving an eighteen-wheeler. Looking back, I realize that we were poor in those days. One time, Dad took me with him on an overnight trip hauling some type of building material. He made sandwiches before we left, which was our dinner meal. The next day, he pulled into a truck stop and reached into his pocket and drew out a handful of change. He looked at me sadly, straight in the face, and said, I wish I had more, but this is it. I was really planning on buying you something nice. Unfortunately, this is all I have. So take all of this and go into the store and buy whatever you want. At the most, I don’t think it was over fifty cents.

It wasn’t long before he got a better job hauling magnesite from the mines in Nevada to industrial sites in California and up the West Coast. Magnesium, extracted from the magnesite ore, was used by manufacturers of military equipment and supplies as quickly as it could be mined and extracted from the magnesite. I guess much of it was used for munitions. We moved to Lone Pine, California, on the eastern side of the Sierras, so Dad would