ACTOR'S ARRIVAL in Vancouver a week ago was relaxed scene at international airport. Errol Flynn and protege Beverley Aadland (centre) were welcomed by West Vancouver hosts, Mr. and Mrs. George Caldough. Caldough and Flynn negotiated sale of star's yacht.—Deni Eagland photo
— David DeWitt
'BOY PROMOTER'
from THE PROVINCE Newspaper – Friday, October 16, 1959
George Caldough, 30, host to Errol Flynn during the last days of his life is a self-styled “boy promoter.”
“Just call me an entrepreneur,” said the dapper, likeable West Vancouver resident who has a penchant for continental suits and bowler hats.
A resident of West Vancouver for the past three years, he lives in a sprawling ranch home on Eyremount Drive in the British Properties. His parents are Mr. and Mrs. Wallace Caldough, 3751 Cypress.
“No, I'm definitely not a millionaire. In fact I'm far from it.
“I'm in the promotional business—in mining and oil. I have an interest in some companies in the Yukon.”
His Vancouver interests include real estate. He is sales manager of Mt. Baker Investments and is associated with Derek M. Gunderson in Centennial Holdings Ltd., a firm that bought nearly 100 acres of Crown land near Whytecliff at $95 an acre.
His biggest interest just now is taking over Flynn's yacht and hiring it out for charter. He signed a contract with Flynn a few days before the actor died.
The yacht, now moored at Majorca, near Gibraltar, is to be offered for charter in the West Indies. Flynn sold the 116-foot craft reportedly because he needed the money.
Newspaper company logos and mastheads are under copyright. Article text published without a copyright symbol is within the Public Domain.
— David DeWitt
But he grabbed a million dollars worth of free publicity when he rode to glory by holding on to Fidel Castro's Beard.
from HUSH-HUSH Magazine – July 1959
By JEFF O'BRIAN
When swashbuckling Errol Flynn swaggered onto Click to EnlargeJack Paar's TV show recently he fizzled with all the effectiveness of a damp firecracker. He tried to present himself as a hero but a worse performance he has never given. As one columnist remarked, he “looked pretty silly.”
Flynn, the “reckless rebel” who cashed in on Fidel Castro's Cuban conquest, strode before the TV cameras with a cane in his hand a flag of Cuba draped around his neck. He followed this piece of horseplay with a confused account of his dashing exploits with the Cuban rebels. But all he managed to convey to his awestruck (he hoped) audience was the impression that his daring deeds in Cuba were so much ballyhoo.
Even before his touted appearance on the Paar show, rumours were rife that eloquent Errol's version of his valor should be taken with a grain of salt. And the TV fiasco confirmed these rumours.
Flynn arily passed around “exclusive” Batista cigars-but even Errol ought to know that, for a year before the wrappers were removed,Click to Enlarge those cigars were selling on New York's Eighth Avenue at two-for-a-quarter.
Now, without the wrappers, they're the only 5¢ cigars.
Perhaps audacious Errol is himself beginning to believe the fantastic stories he tells about his dare-devil exploits in Cuba. But there is one particularly amusing contradiction in the saga of Flynn, as related by Errol.
FAIR WEATHER FRIEND
In the first instalment of his widely syndicated, first-person memoirs entitled “I Fought with Castro,” Flynn refers to the “five day period” he spent with the rebel leader.
But HUSH-HUSH has another story by Lee Besler, staffwriter of the Los Angeles Mirror-News, headlined: Errol Flynn Views Cuban Rebel Battle”
This article begins: “Swashbuckling Errol Flynn told the Mirror News by telephone today from Havana that he has been with Fidel Castro and his rebel troops for two months.”
This statement was made in December 1958—but the Flynn memoirs were published in January 1959.
How come Mr. Errol Flynn suddenly changed his story? Or was it just a slip of the memory that reduced his stay with Castro from a boastful two months to a timid five days?
Since he's been palsy with Castro, the errant Errol doesn't want to be reminded that once he was also very palsy with the deposed Cuban dictator Fulencio Batista.
The other day Broadway columnist Lee Mortimer asked this significant question:
“Isn't Errol Flynn's East 57th Street apartment (in New York) full of autographed photos of Batista, whom he overthrew single-handed? (It is.)”
Surely Errol, the Robin Hood of the movie screen, doesn't belong to that unsavory group of people who jump on a bandwagon for their own advantage?
Seemingly he does, for while he now hysterically eulogizes Castro, he has only mocking remarks for his former pal, Batista. For instance, in his memoirs Flynn mocks:
“I remember the strictly ridiculous instance of having seen the former dictator at his home very bare-skinned in an unruly bath towel. I got a shock. Because you expect to see a be-medaled dictator in all his uniforms, and there he was, with his towel a little too short, and it kept getting loose, and he didn't look like a dictator then at all—and he doesn't now.”
Come, come, Errol, that wasn't a nice thing to say about the guy whose autographed photos, dedicated to you, are still hanging on your walls!
But nobody takes Errol's antics seriously—it just happens that the Cuban episode coincides with a time when his movie career has reached an all-time low. Conveniently, his brief encounter with revolution has brought the name of fightin' Flynn to the fore again.
The truth, however, is that even Fidel Castro is fed up with Flynn.
GIN FRIEND IN HOCK
Errol may deny it, but HUSH-HUSH can reveal that Castro was furious when a story spread that Flynn had been wounded. It was a phony rumour—spread by Errol himself! But since Castro had taken every precaution to see that the movie star didn't get hurt, that irresponsible story put a chill on Castro's friendship with Flynn. The only shot Errol had at the rebels' headquarters was out of a bottle.
Those who know the truth about Errol's Cuban capers suggest that if he ever does make that much-boosted movie it should be the untold story of his amorous antics in Havana. It should, of course, be a light comedy and one of the highlights should be the episodeClick to Enlarge which two American businessmen, Bob and John Keljakan, reported when they returned from Havana.
When Flynn left the Hotel Nacional on December 26 to join Castro he owed the hotel a $2,000 tab—which he couldn't pay! So the ever resourceful star left his curvy blonde girl friend, Beverly Wood, as security!
This was not much fun for Beverly, who was hard pressed for cash herself—and ham sandwiches in Havana during that troubled period cost $2 apiece.
Flynn, of course, has not boasted about that seamier side of his Cuban epic.
Not long ago, Flynn, in a jocular mood, said: “My attitude toward money is simple. I care nothing for it provided I have plenty of it.”
That is the real Flynn philosophy—it also obviously applies to his attitude toward publicity. He cares nothing about it so long as he gets plenty of it.
But flippant Flynn should try in the future to tell his tall tales more consistently—be consistent—even if they're consistently phony.
Newspaper company logos and mastheads are under copyright. Article text published without a copyright symbol is within the Public Domain.
— David DeWitt
from PHOTOPLAY Magazine – January 1960By SARA HAMILTON
He lived and died—just as he pleased. Errol Flynn, the last of the swashbucklers, marks the end of an era epitomized by the late Jack Barrymore, Errol's friend, and by so many other colorful individuals. Errol was the Don Juan of romance, of high
He was one of the handsomest men ever to hit Hollywood. His brown hair, blue eyes, patrician profile, the handsomest legs ever seen on a male, his more than six-feet of height, his beautiful accent, soft voice, quiet manner, magnetic charm, made him a target for women. And for hecklers and tourists anxious to prove themselves heroes by picking on the great Flynn. He knew this. He once said to an actor, a quiet young man of breeding, “No, Bobby, I won't join you all at Mocambo tonight. You see, wherever I go, trouble follows and I don't want you to share this problem with me.”
A few nights later, at this same nightclub, an out-of-town heckler—for no reason at all—heaved an egg at Flynn, who was quietly minding his own business, and once again the headlines blared.
His adventures, before he ever hit Hollywood as a young man, surpassed anything he ever did on the screen. Born in Hobart, Tasmania, the island south of Australia, he very early began trading with the natives of New Guinea, traveling up rivers on a boat. There was something very amusing about the way he acquired this boat, and something very comical about his deals, but the details, as he told them to me, escape me now. Anyway, they'll all be revealed in his forthcoming book, “My Wicked, Wicked Life.”
His rare good looks brought advice to become an actor so, as a British subject, he took off for England and the stage. His first role was that of a free-talking, slangy American. He shuddered when he told me about this. Other roles followed and at last he tried Hollywood. His first part was that of a corpse lying flat on the floor for the movie “The Case of the Curious Bride.” One of his early pictures, “Captain Blood,” made him world famous as a hero who conquered all enemies single-handed.
I can't remember exactly how or where I met Errol. I didn't know him at the time of his first marriage to Lili Damita, who won a million or thereabouts in alimony. They met on shipboard when Lili was on her way to Hollywood for the first time and whamie!—she took one look and flipped for Flynn. It wasn't a happy marriage. They had one son, Sean, a handsome boy, now eighteen.
I came to know him well and love him as a friend shortly after he married Nora Eddington. He met Nora in the courthouse during that dreadful ordeal when a 17-year-old girl accused Errol of rape on a boat he owned at the time. Nora, the daughter of a Los Angles deputy sheriff, was working behind the counter of the courthouse cigar store. Errol was acquitted by the jury.
He was a good friend. Actors and actresses, Panamanian rebels, notables, riff-raff, writers, artists all loved him.
His charm, his ability to see the humor in everything, no matter how threatening to his own security, was delightful. Only once, did he let down the mask with me. We were driving home from Palm Springs through a mean section of Los Angeles, when Errol pointed out a dilapidated old hotel, and said, “Ever know what it is to live in a hole like that, old girl?” Something in the way he said it, revealed to me that Errol had gone through much he never talked about. No one ever guessed that hurt and humiliation cut him deeply. No one.
One thing the world doesn't seem to realize is that Errol was a gentleman and something of a scholar. When I first knew Errol, his gentle father, a zoology professor, was teaching at Queens University in Belfast, Ireland. Errol himself became interested in marine zoology, and launched many expeditions with professors at Scripps College in California. They respected and loved Errol. His father visited Errol in Hollywood, often for several months at a time.
Errol was a rogue and a schemer. He'd go to any lengths to frustrate law enforcers, tax men, process servers. Not that he objected to them, personally, but it gave him a terrific kick to outwit legal-beagles.
He used to stop by my apartment on Olympic Boulevard on his way home from M-G-M, when he was making a movie with Greer Garson (I think it was “That Forsyte Woman”), to regale me with the elaborate schemes he'd concocted to outwit some legal action of some sort. I once said, “Wouldn't it be simpler, Errol, just to face it and get it over with?” He looked at me as if I'd lost my mind. “Old girl, what would be the fun of that?”
I remember, I had an interview scheduled with actor Richard Basehart one evening around six at my home, when who should burst in unannounced, but Flynn. “Mind if I take a bath, Sara me darling?” he said, and was off to the bathroom before I could open my mouth. In the meantime, Basehart, who had played a small part in one of Errol's pictures, arrived and there was Errol, wrapped in a towel, flitting from telephone to tub, making long distance calls and finally settling down for a drink. Basehart told me afterwards, it was the most wonderful, delightful evening he had ever spent. That was Flynn for you!
He had fallen in love with Jamaica and had his new yacht, the Zaca, brought from California to Port Antonio in Jamaica, where it was docked next to a private island owned entirely by Flynn. It was called Navy Island, and on its highest hill, still stood the old guns that had withstood pirates years before.
Errol insisted I fly with him and Nora to Jamaica to be his guest on the yacht. They were making personal appearances in Denver, at the time, and I was to meet them there. I remember my plane was late, held up along the way, and it was about two in the morning when I arrived. Flynn's agent was at the airport to meet me and under my hotel door was a note of welcome.
Next day, Errol insisted I make a hospital tour with him and Nora in Denver and the next day we took off, stopping in Miami for dinner.
Those weeks on the Zaca were unbelievable. It was moored in port because of litigation of some kind (wouldn't you know?), which delighted me, for I'm a poor sailor. Errol was a wonderful sailor.
We visited the banana boats that put in from England, toured the island in Flynn's car (I can't remember how it got there), swam in the unbelievably blue lagoons near the island, and Flynn even made a movie while there on his island. I acted in it. We all did. He directed it. I later saw it as a travelog and it wasn't bad. Thank heavens my walk-on was cut out.
We dined by candlelight on deck and, for some reason—it delighted Errol—the calypso singers all referred to me as “Miss Sara T.” A few years later, Errol brought me from Paris a suede notebook initialed in gold, “Miss Sara T.”
He lived and died—just as he pleased… believing: “After the first death, there is no other…”
I met Noel Coward through Errol in the Myrtlebank Hotel in Kingston. Our table in the dining room was always the mecca for visiting celebrities and tourists. I remember some Australian lads, who had arrived in port on a small boat, were broke and discouraged. They got in touch with Errol, who set them up with a party right on the dock, had them over to the yacht in Port Antonio for the day and gave them money to get them going.
Errol bought a pineapple plantation near Port Antonio that had a house of sorts on it. He and Nora and I went over it together, suggesting alterations and repairs, and here, some months later, he installed his parents. They later went back to Ireland, where Professor Flynn resumed his teaching job.
Later, back home, Errol and Nora invited me to be their guest for a weekend in Palm Springs, and in all my life, I've never had as much fun nor laughed as much. From the time we arrived at the Racquet Club, Clark Gable and his girl of the moment joined us. We were the envy of everyone there. It was just one of those weekends when everything happened. We played practical jokes and had a ball. Clark hated to see us go on Sunday evening. I remember, Errol and Nora and I stopped at a Chinese restaurant in some little town on the way home, and we telephoned back to Clark with some more crazy nonsense. Clark and Errol called each other “old Dad.” I never did know why.
I was having dinner at Clark's home one evening, some months later, when Clark told me he'd heard on the radio, Errol had an operation. I telephoned his home immediately. There he was—all alone. (I don't know where the family was.) So the next morning, early, I went up and stayed the day with him. I saw to it that he ate something.
Wherever he went, trouble followed. One of the funniest brawls he ever got into, was the time he kicked a New York cop in the shin and was promptly arrested. Humphrey Bogart, who was with him, tried to explain it wasn't all Errol's fault—but to no avail. He quarreled with his old pal Bruce Cabot in Rome, was constantly being sued by women for rape and assault. But he came up smiling. And what a smile.
In his dressing room, out at Warners, the wine flowed from 4 o'clock on and yet he never missed a scene. He was always on time and made no trouble on sets. Jack Warner loved him. Everyone did. You couldn't help it. He met Patrice Wymore, when she came out here to make movies, at Warners. Nora had divorced him and married Dick Haymes. Errol went back to Kansas (I've forgotten exactly where) to meet Pat's family and get married. They had one daughter, Arnella.
Errol slowly shed the Hollywood scene, after marriage to Pat, and went to Europe. But, when he came back to sign for “The Sun Also Rises” at Warners, he saw that across the way “Marjorie Morningstar” was being filmed.
In that picture, was a girl called Beverly Aadland, who had a small dancing role. She caught Errol's eye and 'tis said that, when Errol went to Mexico for “The Sun Also Rises” (he was absolutely marvelous in it), Pat heard that Beverly went along.
When Errol returned to Hollywood recently, for a Red Skelton TV show, Nora invited all his old friends to a party. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend, though I wanted to see Errol. Nora said he was disappointed. Anyway, it seems that at the party, Beverly made a remark Nora resented and the fur flew. Flynn went home, taking Beverly with him. She later returned alone. Nora said the fracas took place in the parking lot and the reporters picked it up and exaggerated the story.
Beverly gave each of Errol's and Nora's children, Deirdre, 14 and Rory, 13, a pair of their father's cuff-links as a memento, and returned to Nora an expensive pencil she had once given Errol, marked “To E.F. from N.F.” Errol's women never forgot him. I believe Pat Wymore still loves him, too.
Deirdre always called her father The Baron. He was devoted to his children, and they loved him, too.
Recently, he was on TV with Bette Davis in an old movie, “Elizabeth and Essex,” and he was so handsome, you could hardly think of him as ever growing old. Olivia de Havilland, Bette Davis, Ann Sheridan and all his other leading ladies, were his friends. So were Greer Garson, Pat O'Brien, Jack Oakie. And I am very proud to say that Errol was my friend, too.
I went to Errol's funeral with his daughters, Deirdre and Rory. As I stood there, with tears in my eyes, I remembered the words he'd written in a recent letter to me: “…I'll wager, Sara me darling, you knew better than anyone. I never gave a damn what was said of me, rightly or wrongly. When I was a somewhat notorious, resentful one 'round town, I figured I deserved all the brickbats that came my way; all the knocks, the lampoons, the festoons, the harpoons; but it was nobody's business—and what the hell could I do about it anyway? 'Better never deny, never protest, never counterattack.'”
And he ended the letter, “Do you think I might become a pillar of society?”
I knew the answer, even as I paid him my last respects. “No, Errol, you couldn't. Because if you had settled down, you wouldn't have been you.” And you, Errol, were something special.
Newspaper company logos and mastheads are under copyright. Article text published without a copyright symbol is within the Public Domain.
— David DeWitt
He Picked It Out Himself—
'A Wonderful Place to Die'
from THE VANCOUVER SUN Newspaper – Friday, October 16, 1959
By PAUL KING, Sun Entertainment Writer
“Vancouver would be a wonderful place to die.”
In the last newspaper interview before he died, Errol Flynn leaned across a smoky table in a Vancouver nightclub and uttered these prophetic words.
Two nights later he was dead.
The nightclub jaunt at The Cave Supper Club was the last “on the town fling” for the 50-year-old former pearl fisher who skyrocketed to the heights of Hollywood fame during the last quarter century by flashing a sword and a scintillating smile.
Flynn sat at the table with his good friends, Click to EnlargeGeorge and Dorothy Caldough, and his 17-year-old “protégé,” Beverley Aadland. He wore a grey suit and a crumpled blue tie.
“I love this town,” he said.
“The people, the mountains, the sea. I've travelled a lot, and I've lived,”—and he grinned, “and loved a lot—that's what I'm expected to say isn't it?—but I've seldom found a country as magnificent as this. It would be a wonderful place to die.”
Flynn smiled at the people who crowded his table for autographs.
His Little Game Netted Him Pens
“It's my pleasure,” he beamed at the women that shoved menus and folded napkins under his nose for him to sign. And he seemed to mean it.
Carefully adjusting the pens that the pack handed him he scrawled each autograph—”MY DARLING—FROM ERROL.”
“Excuse me for not rising honey,” he murmured to many. “My back isn't well.”
It wasn't. For the last two days a slipped disc at the base of his spine had caused excruciating pain whenever he walked.
To compensate for “my lack of manners,” he lifted the out-thrust female hands and kissed them. Many of them walked away without retrieving the pens they had given him. Errol slipped one in his pocket.
“It's my little game,” he laughed.
He talked of many things—movies, his past, his future, and Beverley.
Beverley: “I call her Woodsey—she reminds me of a little wood nymph.”
“And how do you know what a wood nymph looks like,” I asked.
Some Are More Than Some Are
“Ah-h my boy,” he murmured. “They all are—only some are more woodsey than others.”
“Woodsey” nudged him playfully. “Now Errol, that isn't…”
“I know honey, I know,” he nodded smilingly. Then his face grew serious as he stroked her shoulder length blonde hair.
“You're my ONLY Woodsey.”
He looked at me. “She's been so sweet for me. She's been in my last three pictures, you know. She makes me feel so alive again. For the first time in ages I've really wanted to live.”
Woodsey bent over and kissed his cheek.
“You will Errol,” she said softly, “you will.”
The band was crying in the background. Woodsey asked him to dance. He put his hands to his back and shook his head slowly. “Sorry baby… you know…”
As she waltzed off to the crowded dance floor with the Caldoughs', his face grew serious.
“I don't think I'll be taking Burma singlehanded anymore.”
He enjoyed my appreciation of his not-so-subtle joke.
Real Sweet Guy Jammed Things
But it was his invasion of Cuba (almost singlehanded) that captured the conversation next.
“I was one of the first down there,” he said quietly, reminiscing.
“I got to know Castro very well. I was writing about the revolution and helping out the other newsguys that came down.”
He suddenly looked up and pointed East.
“One of them was a reporter from Toronto, Bruce West, of the Globe and Mail. A real sweet guy. I found him sitting alone in a little bar one night—dejected and upset. He told me he'd tried everything, but couldn't get through the rebel lines.
“I made an effort to help him. Bruce got some good stories from then on, but when they appeared, Castro got mad—at me. I don't know exactly what his reasons were, but after that he wouldn't speak to me again.”
He waved his arms as if to dismiss the memory.
“It's probably just as well. Castro's become the top American heavy recently. Yesterday's hero—today's target.”
Bravest, Loveliest Women He Met
Did he feel the same way about his film career? “No, it's been on an upswing again since The Sun Also Rises. Darryl (Zanuck) gave me a chance to play myself. I loved it. I think the public did, too.”
As for his famous bullfighting scene with a cheque for a cape in the film, “That was my idea. Eddie Albert and I got horsing around and we did the bit just for fun. They shot the scene and as you know, it became sort of a classic.”
Beverley returned to the table. Another warm kiss on Flynn's cheek.
“She's starring in my last film,” he said, again stroking her hair.
And as I started to speak, he shook his head as if anticipating my question.
“No, I'm not in it—I produced and directed it. It's called Cuban Girl Rebels. I started thinking about it when I was in Cuba, and it's not about Fidel.
“It's my tribute to the girls who fought so bravely in the revolution. They were some of the bravest, loveliest women I've met. I hope I've done them justice.”
Was this his first directing job?
“Not at all—but my other efforts behind the camera were never given screen credits.”
Well, Don't Die, Take Some Air
And his future plans?
“I'm doing a CBS special on Nov. 5 with Irene Dunne, Pearl Bailey and Gypsy Rose Lee on Big Party.” He smiled, “it's one party I don't want to miss.”
As he spoke, his head suddenly flopped to his arms. “I'm sorry old boy—I don't feel well. Would you mind if we got some air?”
He put his hands over his ears to drown out the screams of the band, and rose slowly to his feet. He walked quickly from the room, oblivious to the curious eyes following his flight.
Softly he murmured, “I feel very strange all of a sudden.”
“Well, don't die just yet,” I replied. “Take some strong gulps of fresh air.”
He did—then wheeled into a nearby parking lot where he crouched by a wall and was painfully sick at his stomach.
The Caldoughs were waiting in the car when he came back. Errol climbed into the front seat beside George.
He was smiling again—that broad, eye-twinkling smile that has flashed from every cinema screen in the world for 25 years—Captain Blood, Robin Hood, Master of Ballantrae—and held out his hand. “Goodbye old boy. We'll see you soon.”
But he never did.
Newspaper company logos and mastheads are under copyright. Article text published without a copyright symbol is within the Public Domain.
— David DeWitt
This blog is dedicated to studying the Mystery & Mystique of the late film actor Errol Flynn who was much more complicated than most people who knew and worked with him realized—more, perhaps, than he realized himself… With someone as unique as Errol, there is much to express and discuss, to discover, to think about, and reveal…
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— David DeWitt
Who was Errol Flynn?
He it was who fought the evil-doers up there on the big screen when I was a kid growing up along the banks of the Snohomish River circa 1959. I was ten years old when the great swashbuckler died, and clearly remember the day he died because I distinctly recall saying aloud… Oh, I liked him! when I saw his picture in my father’s newspaper and read that he had died in Vancouver, B.C. the day before. Vancouver was in British Columbia, Canada–less than two hours drive north from where we lived in a little logging community that surrounded a tiny lumber mill resting on the edge of the Snohomish River, near Everett, Washington. Not far to the south was the big city of Seattle–farther south, somewhere, was Hollywood where Flynn lived, I thought then…
All Movie Stars lived in Hollywood, I thought.
Where else would they live?
As a ten year old kid, my friends and I would play Robin Hood in the marsh between our houses. This area was about an acre of tall grass with a layer of mud and water under it. In the center of it was a tall tree with willowy branches. Nearby this tree was a cement block that was part of the foundation of a house or building long vanished from sight.
This cement block was a perfect place to swing on a rope from the tree, and land Flynn-like on the cement block, saying loudly “…Welcome to Sherwood, Milady!” as the other kids stood watching.
We created bows and arrows from tree branches (long bows) and shot at cardboard targets in a Tournament–and went about robbing the rich to give to the poor…
There were terrific battles between the Normans and the Saxons–in cardboard armor. We had long stick swords with handles that consisted of a short block of wood nailed across the end of the stick where are hands took up these sharply pointed “swords”. It is amazing that nobody lost an eye or was impaled when we whacked each other’s cardboard armor to pieces but we all survived major injury.
It was disconcerting, however, to see the pointed end of a stick come tearing through your head armor (a small cardboard box with eye slits cut in it) and see the sharp tip whiz past your face… We were the Merry Men of Sherwood until dark and our Mothers called out our names to come home for dinner.
The day I read of Errol Flynn’s death in my Dad’s evening newspaper was a sad one for me and for the Men of Sherwood. But soon, I forgot all about him–and moved on to other childhood adventures. We built a two-by-four wide bridge across the swamp from the cement block to the edge of the sawdust pile–a distance of about a half block, for example. It was rickety, held up by posts driven into the soft swamp ground. We scavenged everything we needed from the sawmill nearby. It had tons of discarded stuff to use for our scientific and engineering feats.
The days moved by quickly during those hot summer days of 1959–we climbed the Willow tree, and jumped off–catching branches to break our fall into the swamp’s knee high muck. We sent expeditions into the surrounding swamp of green scrub, sticker bushes, and thick-limbed trees to bring back scientific samples of flora and fauna. This was Stink Weed and Dandelions, and all manner of growing weeds. We boiled this up in Terry Sullivan’s mother’s pressure cooker in their kitchen and went out to play on the rooftop of the Sullivan’s garage. When we heard the explosion, it was nearly dark and Terry’s parents weren’t home, yet…
The mess was all over the kitchen walls, and their kitchen stank for a week. We got a real hiding for that one!
Other days were spent riding our bicycles round the two roads that came down into the Mill area–my brother never could stop that heavy framed bike with its oversized tires, so he just crashed into the grass or alongside Dad’s car–or time was spent making tree houses. We had crewcuts in summer, collected bubble gum cards and seven up bottlecaps (to go to the movies when you turned them in) and wore blue jeans all the time with a t-shirt. You could put a playing card held with a wooden clothesline clip onto the wheel of your bike to make it sound like a motorcylce as the card fanned against the spokes!
TV was a little black-and-white set with an arial on the roof of the house. There may have been seven channels including the Canadian channels. Sundays, it seems to me, there were sci-fi movies like the BLOB with Steve McQueen in a starring role. And there were Errol Flynn movies like Robin Hood, The Charge of the Light Brigade, and Dodge City. Red Skeleton was on, and Milton Berle…
I remember seeing Errol on The Red Skeleton Show. He played a bum and held up the remains of his yacht–a porthole!
Errol had a huge effect on young boys of my generation. He was the swashbuckling hero we all wanted to be! He sailed the Seas, he found Adventure and Treasure, and love–that part we could do without. He was always kissing GIRLS!
But he sure could swordfight! He could shoot arrow-after-arrow like you’d pull the trigger on a gun! And every one found its mark!
As the years passed I forgot about Errol Flynn.
I was in my twenties before he became interesting to me again. I had been reading some biographies of various people–adventurous people like Jack London, Frank Buck, Robb White, and Martin & Osa Johnson. Hemingway fascinated me. It was while reading about Hemingway that Errol’s name came up. Errol Flynn! There was a reference to something Flynn said in a book called “My Wicked, Wicked Ways”. I wonder if I could find that book anywhere, I thought.
It turned out that it was still very much in print and there was a paperback copy of it at my local bookstore. Then began some of best reading I have ever come across in an autobiography. This story had it all… intrigue, mystery, adventure, laughs, tears… and it was all true!
Wasn’t it?
Well… What wasn’t true made a hellova story, and what was true was not always just a colorful story. You might read “My Wicked, Wicked Ways” as a terrific novel–or a tall tale, yet, here is a legendary character that captures the spirit of adventure in the hearts of all young people who share the feelings of a young man who takes on more than he can chew at times but has his fill nonetheless of what life has to offer… he drank his fill both literally and figuratively of everything most others only dreamed of or read about in glossy magazines. He was kind, cruel–generous, mean, unpredictable, tormented, creative, foolish, brave, gullible, and had a genius for living larger than life. He was intelligent, self-educated–a businesman, an internationally recognised actor, a writer, an explorer, a raconteur, a drunk, an addict. His life was a Shakespearean drama…
He was a lot of things to many people and he was less to himself than should have been. He was and is the quintessential bad boy–but he wasn’t nearly as wicked as he was thought to be by those who didn’t understand him, or those who envied him. He was dangerous. He was cultured, he was a joker, he was… curious.
He was a scientist, of sorts… that is, he knew the real world and wanted to understand it. To experience it. All of it.
And for nearly fifty years, he did.
— David DeWitt
