He has had a full career—as a Merchant Marine officer, a journalist, a television commentator, a world-class sailor, and today, president of U.S. Sailing, the national governing body of the sport. Gary Jobson served only brief stints on active duty as a Naval Reserve officer, but he says they influenced his career and his life—and helped him cope with cancer.
The celebration on board our destroyer, the USS Newman K. Perry (DD-883), was important. Senator Edward Kennedy (D-MA), several of his family members, and a variety of VIPs were due to arrive in a few hours. The occasion was the transfer of the USS Joseph P. Kennedy Jr. (DD-850) to the city of Fall River, Massachusetts, for permanent display at Battleship Cove. It was January 1974, and snow was beginning to fall. I was a reserve ensign and had been serving as first lieutenant.
It was my job to have the decks clear and ready for the dignitaries. The snow was accumulating. At one point, I gathered my work detail and gave a demonstration on how to shovel faster. Just at that moment the commanding officer and the executive officer of the Perry came on deck to see an ensign, in dress blues, shoveling like crazy, with a dozen Sailors leaning on their shovels watching. “Mr. Jobson, can we have a word?” the CO asked. You can guess the lecture I received on the protocol of working with the crew. I have to smile thinking back to that snowy day, and the lesson I learned.
I grew up sailing on Barnegat Bay, New Jersey. During my high school years, the Vietnam War was front-page news. My draft number was 92. When I turned 18 in 1968, the prospect of joining the infantry wasn’t appealing. I decided to attend the State University of New York Maritime College. Serving in the Merchant Marine—along with a commission as a Naval Reserve officer—seemed like a good opportunity. As a reservist, I spent three 30-day stints a year at sea on active duty. And I stayed in the Reserve for ten years.
I never got past lieutenant, but every day on board the Perry and other ships was filled with lessons, many of which have served me well during my long career as a yacht racer, journalist, author, and member of many different boards of directors. The Navy has to function smoothly. After all, the sea is full of surprises, orders can change without notice, and people must rely on many others to complete important tasks. You never know when a turning point will arrive, but you must be ready for that crucial moment.
As a Coast Guard–licensed Merchant Marine officer, I learned about the need to be ready for any unexpected problem. That training served me well in a long-distance yacht race. I was steering a 54-foot sloop in thick fog south of Newport, Rhode Island. In the distance we could hear a foghorn. Every two minutes it seemed to get closer. We were racing and did not alter course. It was rare in those days to race with radar. Suddenly, out of the mist, a tugboat crossed our bow at close range, maybe 30 yards. Out of the corner of my eye I noticed a huge hawser line trailing off the tug’s transom.
Without hesitation I tacked our sloop 180 degrees to avoid the tug, and the barge I thought must be behind her. The crew was confused by my action. The sails were “all ahoo,” as Captain Jack Aubrey in Patrick O’Brian’s sea novels would have described the scene. About 60 seconds passed before a barge stacked with containers sliced by at close range. My action saved the day, but it was a close call.
Later, while reviewing the incident after the race, I wondered if we should have stopped sailing, changed course, and lowered our sails or followed through as we did. I determined we should have taken better bearings as we heard the foghorn, and should have made a dramatic alteration of course much earlier. This is a story I tell frequently to corporate groups, college students, and aspiring long-distance sailors. My racing experience and knowledge about ships helped me react, but the quest to win the race kept me from being prudent as a potential problem developed. I hope my stories are helpful to other sailors who head to sea. I am convinced that experiences under way are the most valuable.
I had a happier experience on board the USS William R. Rush (DD-714). The ship was based at Fort Schuyler. One day we made the short passage down the East River for an overhaul at the Brooklyn Navy Yard. The captain decided it would be a good day for all the young officers on board to practice docking maneuvers. It was a blustery January day. The flood tide was at its peak. The junior officers in line ahead of me had a lot of trouble maneuvering the destroyer into the berth. In a way, it was comical but no one laughed. We each were going to have a turn.
Finally, I was given the conn. I’d been racing dinghies and driving small vessels for years. Bringing in the ship I used my long-learned lessons of never yell, keep the vessel moving, and calculate the effects of the current and the wind, and I brought the destroyer in for a perfect docking. Applause broke out on the bridge.
In 1992, I was on board the USS Abraham Lincoln (CVN-72) off San Diego. One time during night operations a young pilot serving as the landing safety officer was surprised to see me. He told me he had met me several years earlier when I spoke at his high school. Apparently I inspired him to apply to the U.S. Naval Academy. The pilot said he felt badly that he never got around to thanking me. At that moment, I realized the impact we have as mentors to young people.
In 2003 I was diagnosed with lymphoma, a cancer that would put me down for nearly two years. After six rounds of chemotherapy and a bone-marrow transplant, I became mighty depressed when I was stricken again. By then one full year had passed. I had a bad feeling that this might be the end of the line. But I’m still here. What saved me was thinking back to my sailing career. The lessons I learned during my early years on the water came in handy during my time of need.
While I was in my hospital bed, I started thinking about sailing. I thought about the lesson of having a goal, and then only worrying about one thing at a time, not the final outcome. It dawned on me that if somehow I could overcome my disease, I could inspire others that they, too, could overcome cancer. My life lessons on the water saved the day for me during my time of distress.