Remembering Blackaller

September 7, 2009 marks the 20th Anniversary of the passing of our friend, Tom Blackaller

While many famous people have left the room since Tom, few have left as many smiles and memorable stories as our Tommy-boy Blackaller. 

We have created this space as a memorial to one of the most colorful friends to have touched our lives. 

Photo: O'Daniels

Please feel free to share your stories, comments and links to other sites here.  To share your photos, send them along with a caption and associated stories to: 

pix@rememberingblackaller.com

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With San Francisco's first campaign for America's Cup, the 1987 Golden Gate Challenge, Tom and I felt we had come closer to success than many realized.  In the fall of 1989, amidst the controversy and prolonged legal battle of the catamaran defense of 1988, we decided to mount another challenge for the Cup.  Tom, Jim Michael and I gathered at a breakfast meeting on Wednesday September 6, 1989 at The Peppermill (now Max's) Restaurant in Marin County, on the west side of US 101 in Corte Madera, for what we hoped would be an historic kick-off discussion.

The three of us were deep into outlining options, obstacles and next steps, when a young waitress finally came to our corner booth.  Jim ordered a regular breakfast and I ordered my usual power breakfast of steak and three eggs.  When it was his turn, Tom barked loudly, "Oatmeal and skim milk!"  He was adamant about the "skim" because Christine, Tom's bride of just two years, had been all over Tom for weeks about his high cholesterol levels.  The stunned waitress stared at Tom like the waitress who starred at Jack Nicholson in Five Easy Pieces. Tom studied her silence, turned his head and with a wry smile said, "Now let's see, this is a restaurant.  And you do a brisk breakfast business.  So, you probably have... oatmeal!  But, I see in your eyes that you can't fill my order.  So, it's probably... the skim milk!  You don't have skim milk, do you?"  As the waitress blushed red, Tom's staccato inquiry intensified.  "That's it, you don't have skim milk, do you?"  The waitress blushed and shook her head, "Yes sir.  I mean, no sir.  Yes sir, we don't have skim milk, sir."  "Well..." Tom drew out the pause, scowling at her.  Then, he broke into laughter and his winning smile, "That's all right. You can just bring me oatmeal and regular milk."  In a trademark instant, Tom had switched from the disarming smart alec to the hero, rescuing a maiden in distress.  

Twenty-six hours later, Tom suffered a massive heart attack and died in 10 seconds, doing something he loved, test driving his race car at Sear's Point Raceway, 20 miles north of the restaurant.   

Since 1959, following the Big Boat Series at the Cityfront, St. Francis Yacht Club has held their annual Stag Cruise about 10 miles Northwest of Stockton, in the California Delta, at the club's outstation, Tinsley Island.

During the 1982 Stag, Tom and I had just dropped off Gary Jobson at Uncle Bobby's resort and began motoring from the dock in my Ski Nautique.  We were about 100 yards from the drop-off spot, cruising up the slough at about 10 MPH, when we saw a sign facing the other way that read, "5 MPH - No Wake."  Realizing that we were going about twice that, we gave each other an "oops" look, then quickly looked back over the transom. In that second, we heard a police siren and saw one of the local sheriffs standing at the dock next to his camouflage green patrol boat, pumping his arms at us to turn around and return to the dock. As driver, I turned to Tom and said, "What should I do?" Tom screamed in that high shrill he used when excited, "What a dumb f-ing question, Young. Punch it!!!!" Without looking back, I immediately jammed the throttle forward and went up to top speed, about 50 MPH.  As we flew up the winding slough and out of sight, Tom laughed uproariously as he kept screeching, "And, I thought you were smart.  What an absolutely dumb f-ing question!"

We turned right at the Stockton Main Channel and grinned our way into the meandering river system north of Tinsley, with Tom's high-pitched cackle competing with the engine's roar for volume.