John Wayne Shouted From His Yacht If You Can Ride It, It’s Yours— A Boy Broke Down in Tears

You see that boy in the photograph? The one doing his best to hold a military salute next to the biggest man in Hollywood? That’s Cody. He was 13 when that picture was taken. Today, >>  >> he’d be in his 70s. Right around the same age as many of you watching this. The year was 1965. The boat behind them is the Wild Goose, John Wayne’s personal yacht.

>>  >> And the story of how a 13-year-old kid with no father, no money, and a pair of torn-up shoes ended up standing on that dock next to the Duke, that’s what  I want to tell you today. Here is the story. Newport Beach, California, 1965. Cody is 13 years old. He lives with his mother Ruth in a small apartment 6 miles from the harbor.

His father died when Cody was 3. He doesn’t remember the man. The only proof his  father existed is a black-and-white photograph on the dresser. A young couple on their wedding day standing outside a church >>  >> squinting into the sun. Cody is an average student, not failing, not excelling. He goes to school because his mother tells him to.

He comes home because there’s nowhere else to go. What his mother doesn’t know, what Cody will never tell her, >>  >> is that three boys in his class have made his life a daily exercise in survival. They wait for him after the bell. They take his lunch. They shove him into the chain-link fence behind the gymnasium  and tell him things no 13-year-old should have to hear.

And every day, Cody walks home alone and says nothing. Because his mother works 10-hour shifts at a garment workshop across town, and the last thing she needs is another problem she can’t fix. By the way, where are you watching from? Lately, Texas has been leading the pack. Where else are you joining from? Let me know in the comments.

All right. Let’s get back to the story. One afternoon in March, Cody comes home from school with a bruise under his eye and dirt on his knees. He sits on the floor of the apartment for 20 minutes. Then he stands up, walks six blocks to the garment  workshop, and pushes open the door. His mother is at her sewing machine, needle going, >>  >> foot on the pedal.

She looks up, sees her son’s face. The needle stops. Cody tells her he’s done. He’s not going back. He can’t do it anymore. Ruth doesn’t take it  well. She’s tired. She’s scared. She does what exhausted mothers do. She raises her voice, and then her voice breaks, >>  >> and then she’s crying, and then they’re both standing in the middle of a workshop floor with fabric piled around them, and neither one of them knows what to say next.

From across the room, a man watches, Michael  Cavano, 51. He owns the workshop. He’s a quiet man with rough hands and kind eyes, the kind  of boss who remembers everybody’s birthday and pretends he doesn’t. He walks over, puts a hand on Ruth’s shoulder, looks at Cody. “Tell me what happened.” Cody tells him.

The school, the boys,  the fence, the bruise, all of it. Michael listens. When Cody finishes, Michael does something unexpected. He doesn’t tell the boy to toughen up. He doesn’t tell  him to go back and face it. He says, “If you’re not going to school, you need a job. Have you thought about what kind of work you’d want to do?” Cody hasn’t.

>>  >> He’s 13. He’s never worked a day in his life. “That’s all right,” Michael says. “Go home. Play. Be a kid for the rest of  today. But tomorrow morning, come to the shop with your mother. I’ll figure something  out.” The next morning, Cody shows up at the workshop expecting to sweep floors or sort buttons.

Instead,  Michael pulls up in his car, opens the passenger door, and says, “Get in.” They drive 20  minutes to Newport Beach Harbor. Cody has never been here. The marina stretches out in front of him, rows of boats, masts  rocking gently, the smell of salt and diesel fuel and old rope. Dozens of vessels, >>  >> sailboats, fishing boats, and at the far end, the big ones, the yachts.

Michael owns a small cabin cruiser. It needs cleaning. >>  >> A professional crew is already there scrubbing the hull and polishing the chrome. Michael’s not here for the boat. He’s here for the boy. “Watch them,” Michael says settling into a deck chair with a drink. “And if they need something from the store, you go get it.

If they need an extra hand, >>  >> you give it.” Cody spends the day running errands, carrying supplies, fetching sandwiches, holding a bucket while a man twice his size scrubs the waterline. By the end of the day, his shirt is soaked  and his arms ache. One of the cleaning crew hands him a $5 bill. >>  >> Cody stares at it like it’s made of gold. Michael watches the boy’s face.

Then he makes  a deal. “You keep going to school during the week. Weekends and some afternoons, you come here. There’s always a boat  that needs something. You work, you get paid. Deal?” Cody shakes his hand before the sentence is finished. Weeks pass,  then months.

Cody becomes a fixture at the marina. He learns fast, >>  >> deck scrubbing, hull washing, waxing, running to the marine supply shop for rope  and polish and paint. He makes himself useful to everyone, crew members, boat owners,  dock workers. He’s always there, always available, a whistle away. He learns how to coil a line properly, how to tie a bowline, how to sand teak without scratching it.

His hands get calloused.  His confidence grows. The harbor becomes the only classroom that ever made sense to him. And every single day, he walks past the same boat, the Wild  Goose, 136 ft, a converted Navy minesweeper turned private yacht, the biggest vessel in the marina, owned by John Wayne. Cody knows whose boat it is.

Every kid in Newport Beach does. He looks at it every time he passes. Sometimes he slows down >>  >> hoping to see the man himself on deck. Most days, the boat sits quiet.  On the rare occasions Wayne is aboard, Cody sees him from a distance, >>  >> a huge figure moving on the upper deck, coffee in hand, and his legs lock.

He doesn’t have the nerve to walk up to a movie star and introduce himself. So, he just looks and keeps walking.  One Thursday afternoon, Cody is making his usual rounds at the marina when a voice calls out from the Wild Goose. >>  >> “Hey, kid. Come here.” It’s one of Wayne’s crew, a deckhand named Bert Minchell.

>>  >> He’s seen Cody around the harbor for weeks. “I need a few things from the store. You know where Hadley’s is?” >>  >> Cody nods. Bert hands him a list and some cash. Cody takes off running. >>  >> He comes back 15 minutes later, bag in hand, and climbs the gangway to hand over the supplies.

That’s when he sees him. John Wayne is sitting in a deck chair near the stern,  a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching his crew prep the boat for an afternoon run. He’s alone today, no guests,  no family, just Wayne, the water, and whatever he’s trying to leave behind on shore. Wayne notices the kid standing at the top of the gangway holding a paper bag frozen stiff.

Bert  takes the bag. Wayne reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bill, holds it out. “Thanks, son.” Cody’s  hand is trembling when he takes it. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s standing 6 ft from John Wayne, and his  brain has stopped working. Wayne sees it.

He’s seen it a thousand times, the wide eyes, the locked jaw, the vibrating excitement of someone  who can’t believe who they’re looking at. But this kid isn’t asking for an autograph. He isn’t asking for anything. He’s just trying to breathe. Wayne smiles, leans back. “You work around here?” Cody manages a nod. “Good.

You eat lunch yet?” Cody shakes his head. Wayne turns toward the galley and calls out, >>  >> “Hey, set another plate. We’ve got a guest.” They cruise for  3 hours, out past the breakwater, along the coast, the Pacific stretching flat and silver to the horizon. Cody sits across from Wayne at the small table on the aft deck. They eat steak.

Wayne drinks whiskey. Cody drinks a Coca-Cola. And slowly, one  question at a time, Wayne draws the boy out. Cody tells him everything,  his mother, the workshop, the harbor, the school he stopped caring about, the father he never knew, the photograph on the dresser. Wayne listens  the way he always does, without interrupting, without advice, just listening.

When they dock, Wayne shakes the boy’s hand. “You’re all right, kid.” That’s all he says. But the way he says  it, the weight of it, lands on Cody’s chest like a medal. After that day, Wayne’s crew starts calling Cody  whenever they need an extra pair of hands. Bert, the cook, the first mate. Wayne doesn’t arrange it, or at  least, he never says he does, but the calls keep coming.

One afternoon a few weeks later, >>  >> Wayne is on deck when Cody arrives. He watches the boy climb the gangway, same jeans as last time, same shirt, same shoes, canvas sneakers frayed at the  toe, the sole separating from the left one. Wayne doesn’t say anything, not right away. An hour later,  he calls Cody over, hands him a $20 bill.

Run to Hadley’s. I need a box of matches. Cody looks at the bill. >>  >> A box of matches costs 15 cents. Mr. Wayne, this is too much. I don’t think I can break. Don’t break it. Wayne reaches into his pocket again, pulls out another 20, >>  >> puts it on top of the first. That’s your shoe money. And whatever’s left, get yourself something  decent to wear.

You look like you’ve been sleeping in a boat shed. Cody stares at the money. His face goes  red. He opens his mouth to argue. Wayne raises an eyebrow. The eyebrow that has ended arguments on 50 film sets. Cody closes his mouth, takes the money, walks  away. Later that evening, while Cody is still on the dock, Wayne calls Bert to the bridge.

The kid, he walks home from here every day? Yes, sir. Mile and a half, maybe two, after dark most nights. Wayne is quiet for a moment. Buy a bicycle, a good one. Don’t tell him it’s from me. Just have it here by Friday. >>  >> Friday comes. Wayne returns from a late afternoon cruise. The sun is low over the harbor.

>>  >> He steps off the boat and sees Cody 50 yards down the dock, coiling  rope by someone else’s boat. Wayne cups his hands around his mouth. Hey, Cody, come here. Cody jogs over. >>  >> Wayne points to a bicycle leaning against a dock post. Brand new, blue  frame, chrome handlebars catching the last of the daylight.

Get on, Wayne  says. Let’s see if you can ride that thing. Cody looks at the bicycle, >>  >> looks at Wayne, looks back at the bicycle. Is that Get on. Cody climbs onto the seat. >>  >> His feet find the pedals. He rides it 20 yards down the dock, wobbles once, steadies  himself, and rides back.

Wayne is standing on the Wild Goose’s gangway, arms crossed, grinning. If you can ride it, it’s yours.  Cody brakes, puts his feet down, stares up at the giant man on the gangway. >>  >> And then the tears come. Not sadness, not pain, >>  >> something else, something that doesn’t have a clean name.

The feeling of being  seen by someone who doesn’t have to look. The feeling of a door opening in a wall you thought was  solid. Wayne walks down the gangway, puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder, then pulls him into a hug, a real one,  the kind a father gives. You’re one of the toughest kids I’ve ever seen, Wayne says,  quiet, close.

You’re going to be just fine. I can  tell. He holds the boy for a moment, then straightens up, calls to his crew. Somebody bring me the camera. They stand on the dock side by side, the Wild Goose behind them, the harbor glowing orange in the last light. Cody, skinny,  red-eyed, grinning, throws up a military salute, the kind a 13-year-old gives when he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Wayne stands beside him, hands at his sides, looking straight at the camera, a faint smile. >>  >> Click. Wayne takes the photograph when it develops, writes something on the back, hands it to Cody. For your dresser,  he says, next to the other one. After that, >>  >> Cody rode that blue bicycle to the harbor every afternoon and every weekend, mile and a half each way.

He never walked again. He finished  middle school, didn’t go to high school. He didn’t need to. The harbor had already given him an education that no classroom could match. He worked his way up from dock boy to deckhand,  from deckhand to crew, from crew to the wheelhouse. By his  mid-20s, Cody held a captain’s license.

He spent the rest of his working life piloting small and mid-size vessels along the Southern California coast, the same water he first crossed  on a stolen afternoon aboard the Wild Goose, eating steak across from a man who saw something in him that he hadn’t  yet seen in himself. John Wayne had a way of doing that.

Small things. A plate of food, a pair of shoes, a bicycle, a photograph. Not grand gestures, >>  >> just the quiet act of noticing someone who needed to be noticed. And sometimes,  that’s all it takes. If you’re new to the channel, welcome. There are plenty more stories like this one waiting for you. Take a look around.

And if you’ve been here a while, thank  you for sticking with me. Don’t forget to hit that subscribe button and drop a like.  It really does help. As you know, they don’t make men like John Wayne anymore.

John Wayne Shouted From His Yacht If You Can Ride It, It’s Yours— A Boy Broke Down in Tears – YouTube

Transcripts:

You see that boy in the photograph? The one doing his best to hold a military salute next to the biggest man in Hollywood? That’s Cody. He was 13 when that picture was taken. Today, >>  >> he’d be in his 70s. Right around the same age as many of you watching this. The year was 1965. The boat behind them is the Wild Goose, John Wayne’s personal yacht.

>>  >> And the story of how a 13-year-old kid with no father, no money, and a pair of torn-up shoes ended up standing on that dock next to the Duke, that’s what  I want to tell you today. Here is the story. Newport Beach, California, 1965. Cody is 13 years old. He lives with his mother Ruth in a small apartment 6 miles from the harbor.

His father died when Cody was 3. He doesn’t remember the man. The only proof his  father existed is a black-and-white photograph on the dresser. A young couple on their wedding day standing outside a church >>  >> squinting into the sun. Cody is an average student, not failing, not excelling. He goes to school because his mother tells him to.

He comes home because there’s nowhere else to go. What his mother doesn’t know, what Cody will never tell her, >>  >> is that three boys in his class have made his life a daily exercise in survival. They wait for him after the bell. They take his lunch. They shove him into the chain-link fence behind the gymnasium  and tell him things no 13-year-old should have to hear.

And every day, Cody walks home alone and says nothing. Because his mother works 10-hour shifts at a garment workshop across town, and the last thing she needs is another problem she can’t fix. By the way, where are you watching from? Lately, Texas has been leading the pack. Where else are you joining from? Let me know in the comments.

All right. Let’s get back to the story. One afternoon in March, Cody comes home from school with a bruise under his eye and dirt on his knees. He sits on the floor of the apartment for 20 minutes. Then he stands up, walks six blocks to the garment  workshop, and pushes open the door. His mother is at her sewing machine, needle going, >>  >> foot on the pedal.

She looks up, sees her son’s face. The needle stops. Cody tells her he’s done. He’s not going back. He can’t do it anymore. Ruth doesn’t take it  well. She’s tired. She’s scared. She does what exhausted mothers do. She raises her voice, and then her voice breaks, >>  >> and then she’s crying, and then they’re both standing in the middle of a workshop floor with fabric piled around them, and neither one of them knows what to say next.

From across the room, a man watches, Michael  Cavano, 51. He owns the workshop. He’s a quiet man with rough hands and kind eyes, the kind  of boss who remembers everybody’s birthday and pretends he doesn’t. He walks over, puts a hand on Ruth’s shoulder, looks at Cody. “Tell me what happened.” Cody tells him.

The school, the boys,  the fence, the bruise, all of it. Michael listens. When Cody finishes, Michael does something unexpected. He doesn’t tell the boy to toughen up. He doesn’t tell  him to go back and face it. He says, “If you’re not going to school, you need a job. Have you thought about what kind of work you’d want to do?” Cody hasn’t.

>>  >> He’s 13. He’s never worked a day in his life. “That’s all right,” Michael says. “Go home. Play. Be a kid for the rest of  today. But tomorrow morning, come to the shop with your mother. I’ll figure something  out.” The next morning, Cody shows up at the workshop expecting to sweep floors or sort buttons.

Instead,  Michael pulls up in his car, opens the passenger door, and says, “Get in.” They drive 20  minutes to Newport Beach Harbor. Cody has never been here. The marina stretches out in front of him, rows of boats, masts  rocking gently, the smell of salt and diesel fuel and old rope. Dozens of vessels, >>  >> sailboats, fishing boats, and at the far end, the big ones, the yachts.

Michael owns a small cabin cruiser. It needs cleaning. >>  >> A professional crew is already there scrubbing the hull and polishing the chrome. Michael’s not here for the boat. He’s here for the boy. “Watch them,” Michael says settling into a deck chair with a drink. “And if they need something from the store, you go get it.

If they need an extra hand, >>  >> you give it.” Cody spends the day running errands, carrying supplies, fetching sandwiches, holding a bucket while a man twice his size scrubs the waterline. By the end of the day, his shirt is soaked  and his arms ache. One of the cleaning crew hands him a $5 bill. >>  >> Cody stares at it like it’s made of gold. Michael watches the boy’s face.

Then he makes  a deal. “You keep going to school during the week. Weekends and some afternoons, you come here. There’s always a boat  that needs something. You work, you get paid. Deal?” Cody shakes his hand before the sentence is finished. Weeks pass,  then months.

Cody becomes a fixture at the marina. He learns fast, >>  >> deck scrubbing, hull washing, waxing, running to the marine supply shop for rope  and polish and paint. He makes himself useful to everyone, crew members, boat owners,  dock workers. He’s always there, always available, a whistle away. He learns how to coil a line properly, how to tie a bowline, how to sand teak without scratching it.

His hands get calloused.  His confidence grows. The harbor becomes the only classroom that ever made sense to him. And every single day, he walks past the same boat, the Wild  Goose, 136 ft, a converted Navy minesweeper turned private yacht, the biggest vessel in the marina, owned by John Wayne. Cody knows whose boat it is.

Every kid in Newport Beach does. He looks at it every time he passes. Sometimes he slows down >>  >> hoping to see the man himself on deck. Most days, the boat sits quiet.  On the rare occasions Wayne is aboard, Cody sees him from a distance, >>  >> a huge figure moving on the upper deck, coffee in hand, and his legs lock.

He doesn’t have the nerve to walk up to a movie star and introduce himself. So, he just looks and keeps walking.  One Thursday afternoon, Cody is making his usual rounds at the marina when a voice calls out from the Wild Goose. >>  >> “Hey, kid. Come here.” It’s one of Wayne’s crew, a deckhand named Bert Minchell.

>>  >> He’s seen Cody around the harbor for weeks. “I need a few things from the store. You know where Hadley’s is?” >>  >> Cody nods. Bert hands him a list and some cash. Cody takes off running. >>  >> He comes back 15 minutes later, bag in hand, and climbs the gangway to hand over the supplies.

That’s when he sees him. John Wayne is sitting in a deck chair near the stern,  a glass of whiskey in his hand, watching his crew prep the boat for an afternoon run. He’s alone today, no guests,  no family, just Wayne, the water, and whatever he’s trying to leave behind on shore. Wayne notices the kid standing at the top of the gangway holding a paper bag frozen stiff.

Bert  takes the bag. Wayne reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bill, holds it out. “Thanks, son.” Cody’s  hand is trembling when he takes it. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He’s standing 6 ft from John Wayne, and his  brain has stopped working. Wayne sees it.

He’s seen it a thousand times, the wide eyes, the locked jaw, the vibrating excitement of someone  who can’t believe who they’re looking at. But this kid isn’t asking for an autograph. He isn’t asking for anything. He’s just trying to breathe. Wayne smiles, leans back. “You work around here?” Cody manages a nod. “Good.

You eat lunch yet?” Cody shakes his head. Wayne turns toward the galley and calls out, >>  >> “Hey, set another plate. We’ve got a guest.” They cruise for  3 hours, out past the breakwater, along the coast, the Pacific stretching flat and silver to the horizon. Cody sits across from Wayne at the small table on the aft deck. They eat steak.

Wayne drinks whiskey. Cody drinks a Coca-Cola. And slowly, one  question at a time, Wayne draws the boy out. Cody tells him everything,  his mother, the workshop, the harbor, the school he stopped caring about, the father he never knew, the photograph on the dresser. Wayne listens  the way he always does, without interrupting, without advice, just listening.

When they dock, Wayne shakes the boy’s hand. “You’re all right, kid.” That’s all he says. But the way he says  it, the weight of it, lands on Cody’s chest like a medal. After that day, Wayne’s crew starts calling Cody  whenever they need an extra pair of hands. Bert, the cook, the first mate. Wayne doesn’t arrange it, or at  least, he never says he does, but the calls keep coming.

One afternoon a few weeks later, >>  >> Wayne is on deck when Cody arrives. He watches the boy climb the gangway, same jeans as last time, same shirt, same shoes, canvas sneakers frayed at the  toe, the sole separating from the left one. Wayne doesn’t say anything, not right away. An hour later,  he calls Cody over, hands him a $20 bill.

Run to Hadley’s. I need a box of matches. Cody looks at the bill. >>  >> A box of matches costs 15 cents. Mr. Wayne, this is too much. I don’t think I can break. Don’t break it. Wayne reaches into his pocket again, pulls out another 20, >>  >> puts it on top of the first. That’s your shoe money. And whatever’s left, get yourself something  decent to wear.

You look like you’ve been sleeping in a boat shed. Cody stares at the money. His face goes  red. He opens his mouth to argue. Wayne raises an eyebrow. The eyebrow that has ended arguments on 50 film sets. Cody closes his mouth, takes the money, walks  away. Later that evening, while Cody is still on the dock, Wayne calls Bert to the bridge.

The kid, he walks home from here every day? Yes, sir. Mile and a half, maybe two, after dark most nights. Wayne is quiet for a moment. Buy a bicycle, a good one. Don’t tell him it’s from me. Just have it here by Friday. >>  >> Friday comes. Wayne returns from a late afternoon cruise. The sun is low over the harbor.

>>  >> He steps off the boat and sees Cody 50 yards down the dock, coiling  rope by someone else’s boat. Wayne cups his hands around his mouth. Hey, Cody, come here. Cody jogs over. >>  >> Wayne points to a bicycle leaning against a dock post. Brand new, blue  frame, chrome handlebars catching the last of the daylight.

Get on, Wayne  says. Let’s see if you can ride that thing. Cody looks at the bicycle, >>  >> looks at Wayne, looks back at the bicycle. Is that Get on. Cody climbs onto the seat. >>  >> His feet find the pedals. He rides it 20 yards down the dock, wobbles once, steadies  himself, and rides back.

Wayne is standing on the Wild Goose’s gangway, arms crossed, grinning. If you can ride it, it’s yours.  Cody brakes, puts his feet down, stares up at the giant man on the gangway. >>  >> And then the tears come. Not sadness, not pain, >>  >> something else, something that doesn’t have a clean name.

The feeling of being  seen by someone who doesn’t have to look. The feeling of a door opening in a wall you thought was  solid. Wayne walks down the gangway, puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder, then pulls him into a hug, a real one,  the kind a father gives. You’re one of the toughest kids I’ve ever seen, Wayne says,  quiet, close.

You’re going to be just fine. I can  tell. He holds the boy for a moment, then straightens up, calls to his crew. Somebody bring me the camera. They stand on the dock side by side, the Wild Goose behind them, the harbor glowing orange in the last light. Cody, skinny,  red-eyed, grinning, throws up a military salute, the kind a 13-year-old gives when he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands.

Wayne stands beside him, hands at his sides, looking straight at the camera, a faint smile. >>  >> Click. Wayne takes the photograph when it develops, writes something on the back, hands it to Cody. For your dresser,  he says, next to the other one. After that, >>  >> Cody rode that blue bicycle to the harbor every afternoon and every weekend, mile and a half each way.

He never walked again. He finished  middle school, didn’t go to high school. He didn’t need to. The harbor had already given him an education that no classroom could match. He worked his way up from dock boy to deckhand,  from deckhand to crew, from crew to the wheelhouse. By his  mid-20s, Cody held a captain’s license.

He spent the rest of his working life piloting small and mid-size vessels along the Southern California coast, the same water he first crossed  on a stolen afternoon aboard the Wild Goose, eating steak across from a man who saw something in him that he hadn’t  yet seen in himself. John Wayne had a way of doing that.

Small things. A plate of food, a pair of shoes, a bicycle, a photograph. Not grand gestures, >>  >> just the quiet act of noticing someone who needed to be noticed. And sometimes,  that’s all it takes. If you’re new to the channel, welcome. There are plenty more stories like this one waiting for you. Take a look around.

And if you’ve been here a while, thank  you for sticking with me. Don’t forget to hit that subscribe button and drop a like.  It really does help. As you know, they don’t make men like John Wayne anymore.