It was my sophomore year in college, back in 1958. I had joined a fraternity, and was trying hard to come out of my shell. Inside, I was a very shy and anxious young man, who had very little self-confidence. Outside, I tried to be an extrovert, one who enjoyed a good party and lots of alcohol.

I consistently drank too much, and made an ass of myself. As I look back from the perspective of a husband of 39 years, father of three grown sons, and grandfather of three grandsons, I realize how awkward and insecure I must have appeared to my fraternity brothers.

In those days, ROTC was required at the West Coast University I attended. The only enjoyable part of this weekly early Thursday morning drill was “The Colonel’s Coeds.” These were attractive young ladies, elected by the ROTC cadets, and approved by Colonel Woolsey, our Commandant. They had sexy and tight jumpsuits, colored red and white.

There was this one little cutie, very petite, who had a beautiful face and perfect figure. She also had a dubious reputation, but for the life of me, I cannot recall her name. She was very friendly to me, and this truthfully caught me by surprise. I would have thought she would only be interested in the “jocks,” or more handsome upper class fraternity boys.

However, she kept on making a point of getting my attention, so that I began thinking about asking her out. It took a lot of courage, and I was sure she probably would turn me down. Well, she accepted the date, a beach party, and I set the time to pick her up in Santa Barbara. The campus was ten miles North, right on the Pacific Ocean.

The Saturday afternoon of the big date, our fraternity had another party, this one South of Santa Barbara, in Carpenteria. Instead of the usual keg of beer, there was a keg of wine! Before I knew it, I was very drunk. I wasn’t too drunk, though, to forget my big date. In order to be ready, I had to drive back to the campus in Goleta, through Santa Barbara, get cleaned up, and then drive back to Santa Barbara for my date and the party.

I drove along the Pacific Coast Highway and into Santa Barbara, with everything very fuzzy and blurred. I don’t know how I made it back to the campus safe and sound, but I did. Once at the Fraternity House, I tried to clean up. It was hard to use my electric shaver, because I was so drunk, I couldn’t clearly see my face in the bathroom mirror.

But foolishly I headed out and up the winding road from the oceanside campus, and towards the highway leading back to Santa Barbara. The last curve before the two-lane highway was a sharp one, and I didn’t make it. Losing control of my 1953 Mercury, I slid the car along the metal road guard, which opened the side like a can opener. The car’s throttle was jammed at full speed, and I found myself ready to run over a white convertible stopped at the intersection. The next thing I remember is sitting in a drunken stupor on the other side of the highway, where my car had jumped the highway, an irrigation ditch, and fortunately landed in a little hill of dirt on the other side.

A stranger approached my car, identifying himself as the person whose car I had almost run over. I don’t recall his exact words, but his message was that was not going to report me. He did suggest that somehow I get out of there soon. It seemed like just after he left, when two of my fraternity brothers arrived, put me in their car, and drove me back to the campus. Soon after we left the scene, I saw a police car heading towards my torn-up vehicle.

This was in the spring of my sophomore year. That summer, I had to stay for Summer School, to make up classes and raise my grade point average. I stayed in Goleta, ten miles from campus, with a fraternity brother. We did not have a phone, and one night I walked down to the corner service station to use the phone booth.

As I was about to enter the booth, a man approached me, and called me by name. He said something like, “Don, how are you doing? I’ve been concerned about you. I understand what you’re going through, as I went through it once myself. Take good care of yourself.”

Then, just as quick as that, he was gone. I never saw him again, nor heard of him. But in the more than fifty years since, I have not forgotten him. I still ask myself today, “Was he an angel?” “Was he a ‘Good Samaritan?’” “Who in the world was he, and why was he so nice?” “Why didn’t he turn me in?”

I realize, as I look back, the true reality of what happened back in 1959, took years to sink in. I didn’t stop drinking too much right then and there. But later that summer my roommate and friend John told me how I had almost been voted out of the Fraternity.

I wasn’t blackballed, because all but one of my brothers was able to separate my true self, from my unreal self. And since that time, I have continued to struggle in my journey to accept my true self, and be free to be the person I have been created to be. It’s a pilgrimage I will continue to travel, until I breathe my last breath.