On Sept. 8, 2000, during the principal year the Santa Maria Sun was published, the first installment of the Man Overboard column was printed. That initial 1,000-word article set the stage for what the column would be for many years. The column was about my kids—who were 1 and 4 years old at the time—a few self-depreciating jokes about me being an idiot father, and my wife, whom I love, who always seems to be a bit wiser than me.
Over the years, that same narrative took me and my family through stories about vasectomies, breast augmentation, junior high makeup disasters, car crashes, puppy potty training, and how to try to get an entire turkey out of a garbage disposal on Thanksgiving Day. Now, after 18 1/2 years, with 453 columns about my wife, whom I love, being smarter than me, the Sun is setting on Man Overboard. It has been one hell of a journey.
I want to thank the staff at the Sun for working every single day to get the paper published and distributed around the coast. If it wasn’t for all of their hard work, Man Overboard would be nothing more than a few random sentences sitting on my laptop hard drive. Because of the dedicated, hardworking staff at the Sun, I was able to share intimate stories with thousands of people and try to make them laugh.
My goal for every Man Overboard story was to always be relatable to the average family guy. What I found over the years was that a lot of guys don’t read, and oddly the column was a huge hit with the female geriatric crowd. It threw me off in the early years that grandmas seemed to be the column’s biggest supporters, but then I realized grandmas have a sense of life accomplishment and wisdom that allows them to enjoy the true stories about a dumb-ass dad trying desperately to keep his house on its foundation while always on the hunt to get some intimacy from his wife. “Honey! I unclogged the toilet. Can I be rewarded with sex?” Short answer … nope.
I’m grateful to my denture-clad female fans—you helped make the column a success.
The column’s tenure wove its way through some pretty awful events in history: Columbine, 9/11, and other disasters (like a particular presidential election). Man Overboard never touched on any of those tragedies. I wanted the column to be a distraction to all of the ugliness in the world, and I wanted people to enjoy a small chuckle while sitting outside a taco joint somewhere near the beach.
I worked hard to be as apolitical as possible. You can read my stories and not know if I was a religious man, a Republican, a drag queen, or if I bred hairless cats and sold them on Craigslist. Full disclosure: I’m none of those things.
You can read through 453 stories and not know what I really do for a living. Writing is actually not my profession. Yes, dream-crusher information here for your aspiring writers: You can’t own a home by writing a small column every other week for a local newspaper. The column is just a side gig. It provides enough income to buy craft beer IPAs, which fuel further poor decision-making and great future stories (I’m going to start to build this huge desk from Ikea half an hour before my wife has company coming over—she won’t mind).
In actuality my day job is quite different from my not-job of writing funny stories about how much I hate Apple products. My actual profession: I’m a captain for the California Highway Patrol. This is a career I am immensely proud of, and I take great pride in wearing the tan uniform and providing safety, service, and security to people of this great state of California.
Then, after doing my part to save lives (Kids, do not text and drive!—I’m not joking here! Don’t do it!), when I go home at night, I fire up my laptop and write columns about our newest puppy (rescued from the freeway and adopted by my family) crapping on the carpet next to my side of the bed. Good morning, and there is something squishy between my toes. I think I may have to take the puppy back to the freeway.
About halfway through my adventures writing the Man Overboard column, I wrote a book called Cadet Blues about surviving the California Highway Patrol Academy. The crazy part is people actually buy the book, although I don’t know if they have ever read it (and don’t care since they already paid me for it—more IPA money).
After I graduated from the academy, the state of California sent me to work in Santa Barbara. We bought a house in Orcutt in 2000, the same year the Santa Maria Sun began, and I faxed in some funny stories to the editor (kids, ask your parents what a fax machine was). I walked in to the Sun a week later and told the editor who I was. She told me she didn’t have time for me and threw me out of the building.
Dejected but not beaten, I went home and faxed in more funny stories. A week later, I was hired as a freelance columnist, and Man Overboard was born. Now, 18 1/2 years later, Man Overboard will be laid to rest. Print media (like the fax machine) is struggling to survive in our digital world, and it’s understandable that changes have to be made. All good things must come to an end, and for me, this column was a really good thing.
Thank you, Central Coast, for years of taking the time to read Man Overboard, and thank you to my children and my wife, whom I love, about whom I was allowed to write embarrassing stories. Without you, there would be no stories to tell.
Peace, love, and take no prisoners.
Rob is currently on his beach cruiser heading to a taco shop. Check out his book, Cadet Blues on Amazon; it will make you laugh. To read more from Rob Krider or to contact him, go to robkrider.com.
This article appears in Apr 25 – May 2, 2019.