Walking the Talk: A Life Tested by Fire, Wind, and Sea
"There is no sense in talking if you are doing the walking."
Whatever I read, listen to, or witness firsthand, I put it to the test. I put it into practice, even if only briefly. Whether it's meditation, Hatha Yoga (the yoga of postures), or Raja Yoga (the yoga of the mind), I’ve tried them all. Right now, I’m even sending sound waves through my skull while controlling my breath, feeling as though I might have a stroke—but still I push through.
I’ve slept in jungles and deserted temples. I’ve sketched in graveyards. I’ve commercial fished in the Aleutian Chain and the icy waters of the Bering Sea. I hiked through Colombia and Ecuador, and once, just to test my nerve—or perhaps my stupidity-I smuggled a bag of Colombian Gold (marijuana) through Miami International Airport.
One time in Alaska, I climbed a sea-worn rock formation that stood like a sentinel a few yards offshore. I was so caught in the stillness that I didn’t notice the tide rising. Stranded, I had to swim back through the frigid water. Fortunately, no one was around to laugh at me.
The Edge of the World: Sand Point, Alaska
When I arrived in Sand Point, Alaska—a small Aleut fishing community that fishermen called the “One Horse Town”—I had no money and no place to stay. The tundra landscape held only eight trees, believed to have been planted by the Russians long ago. The rest was windblown earth, hard and unyielding.
I wasn't afraid. I was resigned. If I had to die, so be it—I had done what I set out to do: fish in Alaska.
But fate had other plans.
I ended up better off than many who came from the “Lower 48.” I had a warm bed, good food, and, thanks to my friend Dwight Blackburn—a bush pilot flying a Cessna—I even got to island-hop, delivering supplies to remote native villages. We flew above snow-capped mountains and circled smoking volcanoes, the kind of scenes you see only in documentaries—often while stoned or drunk.
Even Dwight once said, “Not even the local boys get to see what you’ve seen. But you're good company.” That stuck with me.
My only regret? I didn’t have a good camera. I had the eyes of an artist, but no lens to share the views.
The Sea, the Soul, and the Sketchbook
My stint on the Bering Sea was brief, but unforgettable. What I saw out there defied words—otherworldly, harsh, and breathtaking.
I often reflect: I was just a kampung boy from a mangrove swamp in Kampung Selut, and there I was—living a dream life few could imagine, let alone believe.
I made more money selling my art than I did fishing. And by the end of that first year, I was vacationing in Hong Kong, Thailand, and Malaysia—with my beautiful partner who ran the only restaurant in town. What more could a man want?
Lessons from the Edge
One lesson that stuck: never look back. Burn your bridges. Face the unknown. The worst that can happen is you die—and maybe no one back home will even know.
During all the years I lived in the U.S., I made one phone call home. It was to my father in Malaysia, at a time when I was on the brink of suicide in Green Bay, Wisconsin. His words pulled me back. Later, when I was living in San Francisco, I received a letter from my eldest brother telling me that he had passed away.
In 1998, after three years living in Japan with my late wife and two children, I returned to Malaysia. Much of what I’ve lived now fades like a distant mirage.
But thanks to my sketchbooks, my art journals, and the photographs and notes I carried with me—I still remember.
It’s said artists have photographic memories.
Maybe I’m one of the lucky ones
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