Welcome to Santa Monica, California, home to over 87,000 privileged persons. My name is Michael Hammer and I was born here some eighteen years ago. I grew up in this coastal paradise in a small apartment that looked out over the scenic and historic Main Street. When I think back little images flash through my mind, images like my father sitting me in the backseat that he hitched to his bicycle or the memorabilia store that housed several artifacts from movies like Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back and Terminator. It wasn't long until our family grew from three to four, and space was no longer readily available in our establishment. We moved out in 1999 to a four bedroom, two bathroom house on Maple Street. 

The house we moved into was where I truly grew up and defined myself as a person, and it was everything my mother could have asked for. She loved the house whole-heartedly with every fiber of her being, from the front porch to the shingles on the roof. It would be the only home my brother would remember. Life went on as usual, learning how to ride a bicycle and other such nuances. Elementary school came and went, and then middle school threatened to take me for a ride. Looking back I can honestly say that my time at Santa Monica High School was much easier than my years at S.M.A.S.H. All in all, the past eighteen years have been pretty standard in terms of teenage life (parties, drugs, sex, etc.) But mixed in there at different intervals were little experiences that I will never forget. They inevitably defined who I have become.

On March 13, 2006, a Beech A36 experienced engine trouble as it began it's trip from Santa Monica to San Diego to pick up a passenger who was in need of treatment at the UCLA Medical Center. I was thirteen years old at the time, and I was with my science class at Lifeguard Station 26 (depicted above) to collect samples from the ocean in order to test the Ph levels. I gazed up into the sky and my eyes met the small plane as it glided closer and closer toward the ocean. I had immediately recognized that there was no engine noise and that the propeller was not spinning. What happened next is to be expected; the plane crashed nose first into the water directly in front of Station 26 and I stood their in shock as it sank beneath the waves. Nobody surfaced from the wreckage.

We began our return trip to the school which was only a fifteen minute walk away up Ocean Park boulevard, and we were met halfway by our principle. As soon as we got back to the school grounds we were herded into a classroom for us to talk, cry, and share our minds and feelings. I was sent home early along with a few other students, and I sat there at home in front of the T.V. watching the news for hours until around four o'clock there was a report. I found out that the pilot and co-pilot were both killed in the crash, and that SMPD was asking for witnesses to come forth at the Beach and give a statement. I rode my bicycle down to the beach right after the program was over, gave my statement, and tried to put that day well behind me. Unfortunately, the things that scare us tend to have a way of haunting you. In my case, for the next three years I refused to go to the beach and swim in the ocean, and the fear of not being able to act when I need to most grinds at my core.

I suppose that nagging feeling in my chest and the voice in my head that told me I'd always be too late to help anyone got the better of me, because two years ago I saved my older brother, Chris', life. For years he and I have gone on an annual trip with a Karate studio to the Sequoia National Park and camped out along the Kern river. Well, two years ago the camp director decided that we'd all go on a little hike up to a place where the mountain run-off had eroded natural water slides in the rock face. As the two most senior persons there we were tasked with checking out the "water slides" for safety before the little children were allowed to have a go. There were three slides that we had to look at, and we had already deemed the first "slide" safe and the second "slide" not really a slide. 

As we approached the top of the third slide I slipped and slid down the rock face and into the small pool at the bottom. It was a tiny "slide" but we figured it'd probably be better for kids younger than eight. The only problem with it was that I couldn't find a way out of the pool at the bottom because the rocks jutted outward and were slick all the way around the pool. Chris slid down and began to look for a way out with me. After a minute of searching I caught some movement in the corner of my eye and I heard a small yelp and a splash. I turned and looked suddenly and found my brother floating half-underwater unconscious. As I said, that nagging feeling got the better of me and I thrust myself into the freezing cold water after him. I grabbed him and pulled him out so that I was laying on the slab of rock on the side of the pool with him sprawled out on top of me facing upward.


Five hours later my Dad and I finally got him to the hospital where I had to sit in the waiting room for two hours while they diagnosed him and gave him medication. When the doctor finally came out he told me that my brother wanted to see me. I walked into the emergency room and stood by his bed where they told us that his collar bone was broken in two spots and he had suffered a major concussion. The doctor left to get him a sling and Chris looked up at me, obviously in a daze, and said, "Hey Mike." I turned to look him in the eye and he said, "Thanks for saving my life, man." That moment in time changed me forever, and would come to define me as a person.

And so it's now past midnight, and I should be off to bed. I leave this house at 6:30 AM tomorrow, and I won't be back for a long, long time. I guess I can't even really call it home anymore. I will update this blog as much as I can with my experiences and my observations, and maybe I'll even throw in a few opinion posts as well. My destination and new home is Missoula, Montana.


Godspeed, Santa Monica. I will miss you dearly.