The Battle Within: Skydiving, Cow Shit, and My First Failed Escape from Scientology ('76-'80)

An Introspective Dive Into Leaving Scientology and the Sea Org

This is Part 1 of a special series within Scientology in Retrospect, where I’m not just telling stories — I’m unpacking my own mind. I’m revisiting the thoughts, beliefs, and rationalizations that kept me in Scientology and the Sea Org for 28 years.

I’m writing this in real-time, reflecting as I go — to understand how it happened, why I stayed, and how I finally got out. If sharing this helps even one person recognize the invisible chains before they tighten — it’ll be worth it.

I’ve been asked from time to time to tell my “escape” story — from Scientology, from the Sea Org, from the Hole.

But the truth is, my escape wasn’t like that. Not like so many others’ stories. It wasn’t in the middle of the night. It wasn’t in the back of a car. I didn’t sneak out. I didn’t run. No one chased me down.

Not that I didn’t consider it a couple of times. But I couldn’t. I’d seen too much. And by the time I left, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Maybe it was because I didn’t have anything left to lose. Maybe it was because I was angry.

Deep down, I knew no one could — or would — physically restrain me. Sure, there were plenty of reasons to believe I was trapped. Plenty of moments that felt like prison. But for me, it was always more of a mindset than a locked door.

I think David Miscavige made me see it that way — which is exactly why I walked out in broad daylight. I wanted to break the chains he thought he had on me — to show him I knew the prison wasn’t the fences. It was “all in the state of mind”.

But because I’m looking at all this in retrospect, I wanted to take the time — for myself and anyone reading this — to dig deep, feel those emotions, review my thoughts then and now, and ask the questions I never asked back then. Maybe, years later, I can answer them without the bias I carried at the time.

If nothing else, I can settle it for myself. And maybe, in doing that, I’ll help answer a few questions others still have too.

But to fully understand how Scientology captured my mind, I need to take you back to the beginning—to childhood, before the chains were visible.

Let me start here…

Stepping Into Scientology (1974/75/76)

In the beginning, it felt like exactly that — a new beginning. A fresh start from a hectic life where I watched my mother suffer more than she ever said out loud. I liked that this new subject seemed to make her happy. In an earlier story, I’ve already written about the apparently positive effects on my siblings.

For me, at 11/12, it was an adventure. I liked being treated like an adult. I liked the responsibility. I’m not sure I missed being a kid — if I’m honest, I’m not sure I knew what I was missing.

Responsibility gave me more than tasks — it gave me purpose. It made me feel like I mattered. Like I could actually make a difference. There was a structure to it. I was no longer viewed as a kid and I had meaning - I was actually part of something bigger than me, bigger than my family. It felt like a relief from my personal concerns and concerns for my mother. Was that just part of the indoctrination? Maybe. Probably.

And then there was the drive. From early on, my mind locked onto climbing the ladder, leading, making a difference. It was more than being a mere altar boy. I don’t know who planted that seed, but once it took root, it grew fast — and wild.

I also believed. Sadly — but sincerely. Before Scientology, I’d had these strange out-of-body experiences — moments where I felt detached, watching myself from somewhere else. So when they told me we were spiritual beings, separate from the flesh, it made sense. Maybe it explained why I felt... different. Whether it was comfort — or more indoctrination — I was surrounded by people who claimed they understood.

There was also the fact that... before Scientology… we were a bit of an Addams Family. We used the Ouija board — not for fun, but to talk to ancestors. Friday nights were often spent flashing signals into the sky, hoping UFOs would come for us. My mother held séances where we’d ask spirits to “show us a sign” — which usually meant my brother or I would light a match and spray Raid! across the flame for special effects. We’d chat with spirits like they were old friends.

We had two hand-painted black-and-white portraits of our great-great-great uncle and aunt — the kind where their eyes followed you across the room — and we just knew they were haunted. We loved inviting people over just to show them off and scare the hell out of our friends.

And Halloween? That was our Super Bowl. We had black cats, black lights, white curtains billowing from hidden fans, and "Twenty Minute Jam" by Steppenwolf blasting through the windows. We each had a role to play, and if we made someone scream, cry, or avoid our house entirely — we considered it a job well done.

Our favorite TV shows? The Outer Limits, The Twilight Zone, and Saturday afternoons with Creature Feature hosted by Dr. Paul Bearer. We watched them like it was our religion.

It was all in good fun — but who knows? Maybe I was doomed either way, with or without Scientology. Maybe it was just a match made in heaven. Or hell.

Keep in mind — as I often have to remind myself — I was eleven, maybe twelve. My testicles hadn’t even dropped yet.

In retrospect, I probably wasn’t qualified to decide what cereal to eat in the morning, let alone who I wanted to be — or why.

My First Authorized “Leave of Absence”

In 1980, I took a leave of absence — we were allowed two weeks off a year. This was one of maybe two leaves I took in the 28 years I was in. I was sixteen. I flew to Belgium with my 21-year-old brother, Dirk, to see my dad — who I didn’t really know.

We flew on Air Berlin an airline that popped up just for the summer. I think we had to bring our own food and drinks. You could still see the glue marks where the old TWA signs had been inside the jet. The outside looked like it had been spray-painted over. But hey — it was cheap.

In Belgium, I saw a connection between my brother and my dad that I didn’t have. My mother took us away when I was four and a half (for the better, I’m sure). Dirk had stayed with my dad for a while and visited often — while I was locked away in the Sea Org.

My dad — who I couldn’t really speak to anymore since I only knew English by then — wasn’t thrilled I was in Scientology. He couldn’t understand why I worked so many hours. He called Scientology a “cult” — a word I’d never heard before, but I figured it wasn’t a compliment.

For two weeks, I had beer for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We’d stop by a bar before every meal, too — and sometimes after. I was slightly drunk the entire time, I think. And my dad just kept going on about Scientology and how I was wasting my life. I started wondering if he had a point.

What really got me thinking was the idea of money — being able to buy what I wanted, when I wanted. Having my own stuff. Maybe even having time for things like skydiving — like my dad and brother, who’d logged a few hundred jumps each.

That was to be my initiation into their world — my dad, my brother, and me. Time to get on the team and do my first dives.

Skydiving, for my dad, symbolized everything Scientology wasn't—freedom, individuality, risk. It was his version of ‘breaking chains. In 2023 my dad told me he let my mother leave home from Belgium and go to her sister’s in Florida (I was 4.5 years old) because he prioritized skydiving over family, over his kids. And honestly, he wasn’t apologetic about it in the least..

Back then, there was no tandem jumping. No professional strapped to you with fancy gear. Nope — you went through sixteen hours of training, and then you jumped solo. I learned how to unpack, pack, and prep an old green French army parachute. No frills. Round canopy, barely steerable, and it dropped you at about 25–30 miles an hour. The trick was to roll when you hit — onto your side and around to the other side — to avoid breaking something. Plenty of people didn’t.

And at the end of the day? You packed your own chute. So you’d better get it right.

There was a reserve chute, but that wasn’t much comfort. If your main chute failed, you had seconds to cut it loose and deploy the reserve — or go splat.

The next morning was my first jump. Two others, a bit older than me, had trained with me and were ready too.

Then I got some bad news. I was small — barely 100 pounds, thanks to the Sea Org’s fine dining. The pilot of the Cessna was worried I was too light for the static line to pull my chute out.

You see, these old French army chutes had a static line — like a shoelace — attached inside the plane. After you jumped, it would pull your chute out at about 20 feet, snap off, and you’d float down. That’s how it was supposed to work.

But for me?

“There’s a chance the static line won’t pull your chute,” they told me. “You may be too light. If that happens, and you don’t follow instructions, you could pull the plane — and everyone in it — down with you.”

This I understood — The Greatest Good. If I messed up, it wasn’t just me hitting the ground — it was everyone going down with me. I wasn’t going to let that happen, even if it killed me.

No pressure!

My final briefing before boarding:

• If you find yourself dangling behind the plane, don’t panic.

• Tap your right hand on your helmet to signal you're okay.

• We’ll cut the static line.

• DO NOT pull your reserve before we cut you loose — or we all die.

• Once we cut, you’ve got four seconds to deploy your reserve.

• You’ll come down fast and hard. Expect broken bones. Roll like we taught you and hope for the best.

“Got it!?”

I really didn’t want to do this. But I felt like I owed it to my dad and brother — or maybe I was just too embarrassed to admit I was scared shitless.

By the way, the motto at this training camp — and my dad’s favorite saying:

“You don’t have to be crazy, but it helps!”

We’d only be going up to 5,000 feet. I’d be told exactly when to step onto the little platform over the wheel and push off — timing was everything, or I’d miss the landing zone.

I was first to jump. I sat next to the pilot’s seat and the wide-open door I was supposed to jump out of.

Before we hit 5,000 feet, my hand locked under the pilot’s seat. Frozen. The engine was screaming, wind howling. My dad and brother — who came along as moral support — were laughing hysterically at me and the look on my face. Little did they know I’d already left skid marks in my underwear.

“You don’t have to be crazy, but it helps,” I kept repeating, wishing I was a little crazier than I felt at the moment.

It’s time! My hand wouldn’t let go. Seconds passed. My dad was getting annoyed. My brother was crying from laughter.

I finally let go. My dad, ever helpful, reminded me to tap my head if the chute didn’t open and I was dangling — just what I needed to hear.

I stepped out.
Wind: 100 miles an hour in my face.
Engine: roaring.
Thoughts: I’m fucking nuts!
I got the tap — push off!

I released.

I didn’t just drop — the wind took me away. The plane shot upward — or was I going downward? I didn’t seem to be dragging behind it, and then I felt a hard tug. My head jerked downward.

I looked up — slow motion — a big, round, green parachute was opening. Instinct kicked in: I started climbing the ropes toward it. Toward safety, it felt like. Bad idea. The chute began to collapse. I let go and let it stabilize.

Relief. The chute was open. I wasn’t falling to my death. But I wasn’t celebrating either.

The parachute rocked back and forth, dropping fast. All I could think about now was sticking the roll so I didn’t snap my legs like twigs.

The ground rushed up. I’m pretty sure I left another mark in my shorts.

I hit. I rolled — perfectly.

No time to think — it was time for the second jump. Which would be worse.

Why worse? Because the second time, you know what to expect. You know what can go wrong. And you know you’re about to jump out of an airplane, thousands of feet off the ground, moving at 100 miles per hour. And knowing made it clear — I really was nuts to be doing this again.

Long story short — I hesitated to get out again, screamed loud enough for everyone on the ground to hear me, and didn’t land anywhere near the landing zone.

In fact, I landed in a cow pasture. Pulled off another perfect roll — this time, though, I rolled in cow manure. Covered head to toe. As I walked back to the camp, they were all laughing at me because they’d heard me scream. By the time they saw what I was covered in, they were rolling in the grass.

But hey — I was alive!
And more importantly — I hadn’t taken the plane and everyone else down with me.

My First “Escape” Fell Flat

I didn’t exactly live up to my dad’s expectations that day. I was a wimp compared to my brother Dirk. (For context — the two of them would go on to rack up over 1,500 jumps between them, both landing spots in world records for skydiving.)

My successful failure just became more proof, in my dad’s eyes, of why I needed to get away from Scientology and live a different life. Experience more. Do more. Skydive more.

The thing was — I didn’t get why skydiving was supposed to be it. I’d done things I thought were way more important. I’d moved an Org into Times Square, for god’s sake. We were “saving the planet” (though I hadn’t yet thought to ask, “Saving it from what?”).

On the flight back to Tampa, my brother talked about girlfriends, his souped-up Firebird, and how much fun he was having — and how much fun I could be having.

Girls, I thought.

When we landed, I told him I wasn’t going back. I’d stay with him. See how it went. Maybe meet some girls.

It wasn’t about running away — it was about chasing what I didn’t have. What seemed normal to my dad and older brother. A different kind of fun than I was having.

Dirk was hesitant but agreed. But we’d need to talk to my mother.

I called in the day after I was supposed to be back. Nettie Alcock, the HCO Chief (Ethics Officer), answered. I told her I wasn’t coming back. She was eerily sympathetic — uncomfortably so. It was sorta weird. Made my head spin a little — and then hurt.

She asked if anyone had talked to me about leaving. I explained my dad had. I didn’t consider it bad that my dad tried to talk me out of it — seemed like a fatherly thing to do, actually. He seemed legitimately concerned.

Nettie told me I was “PTS” — a term I wasn’t too familiar with yet and didn’t care to pay much attention to. Apparently, I wasn’t at fault for wanting to leave — it was my dad’s fault, or something like that. My head pounded more. Plus, I missed my mom. I didn’t like the idea of not being able to see her or be there for her — she was more important than what I wanted or felt I needed. She was part of the “greater good,” too, after all.

An hour later, my mom called. Nettie was already on her way to pick me up.

“Come back with her so we can talk,” she said.

So I did.

You’d maybe think that going back was like the second jump out of an airplane — but it wasn’t. I knew exactly what I was going back into, and I was okay with it.

It wasn’t fear of punishment that brought me back — it was that old tune playing in my head: “The Greatest Good.”

Somehow, staying in felt noble. Leaving felt selfish.

Choosing to return felt noble because it meant choosing family, choosing duty—proving to myself that I wasn’t selfish.

Even covered in cow shit, with a head full of beer and a glimpse of what freedom could look like — I still thought the right thing to do was to go back. Not because anyone chained me, but because I was convinced that sacrificing myself was a virtue.

It would take years—and a lot more mental jumps—before I finally realized that the ‘greatest good’ wasn’t staying in. It was getting out. But back then, that thought was nowhere near my radar.

It was getting out.

In 1980, I had been in the Sea Org for approximately 3 years.

Another 25 years to go.

P.S.

Funny thing — I didn’t end up being declared “PTS.”

Nope. The reason I blew, they determined, was because I’d gone “Out Int.”
(No pun intended.)

For those who don’t speak Scientologese, Out Int is when your thetan (You as a spiritual being, not the body) gets stuck inside the body — or more specifically, the head. It’s considered a dangerous spiritual condition. Symptoms? Headaches. Feeling trapped, anxious, restless—and the urge to blow—all of which, I was told, I had.

Apparently, skydiving had snapped me into my head — like whiplash — so hard that I just needed to get out. Simple. A little processing, and I was “unstuck.”

Best of all? No ethics conditions required.

One. Mind. Fuck. After. Another.