My Journey - The "Movie of the Week" version
Born Rough: Chaos as a Kid
Life didn’t deal me a silver spoon—it chucked a rusty wrench my way and told me to figure it out. I crashed into the world in 1962, the third link in a chain forged from turmoil. My biological father, a wiry, hawk-eyed Cuban with a rap sheet that stretched back to Havana’s shadows, washed up in the U.S. in 1959, swept along in the wild tide of the Cuban Exodus after Castro’s revolution kicked Batista to the curb. He was part of that first wave—thugs, loyalists, and anyone with a pulse who saw the writing on the wall as Fidel’s firing squads started humming. My mother, a wide-eyed 14-year-old caught in his charisma and criminal orbit, gave birth to my sister Margarita in 1959, a tough little spark born as the island unraveled. Then came my brother Julio, the firstborn son, tethered to our father’s grip by Cuban tradition. I showed up last, the late ember of their stormy collision. By the time our mother broke free at 18, battered but fierce, she dragged Margarita and me into the unknown, leaving Julio behind—a pawn to custom and a crook’s ego.
Alabama was a sweaty hellhole,’ Margarita said, her voice rough with years when she finally told me the story. It was 1992—I was 30, and she’d hunted me down after the winds of fate had blown us apart back in ’65. ‘Pines and red clay everywhere, the air so heavy it stuck to your skin. I was almost 8, old enough to know we were in deep. Mom, still a kid at 18, dragged us to live with Ed—a hulking drunk who reeked of stale beer and bad choices. She thought he’d be our anchor; he was a damn hurricane instead. They had Virginia, this frail little thing, born into that mess. One night, Ed snapped—guzzling rotgut whiskey till his eyes turned to fire. He grabbed an axe, and you—you were just 3, all bony legs and wide eyes—took off running through that cramped, stinking house. I was frozen, heart pounding, watching his boots thunder after you, shaking the floor. The lights buzzed and flickered, throwing shadows everywhere, and that axe blade gleamed as he swung it. I yelled, ‘Move!’—my voice cracking—and it smashed into the doorframe, wood exploding inches from your head. That sound still echoes in me, like a bomb going off. Mom scooped us up—Virginia shrieking, her tiny body trembling—and shoved us into that beat-up Chevy. I clung to the seat, staring out the back as we tore off, Ed’s silhouette swallowed by the night, Alabama fading into a blur of dust and dread.’ That’s how she laid it out, her eyes locked on mine, bridging the years we’d lost after they scattered us to foster homes and beyond.
St. Louis, 1965. A single mom with three kids from two fathers was a walking scandal—eyes narrowed and whispers followed us like flies. We lived in a rusting station wagon parked behind the Esquire Theater, its neon glow buzzing faintly through the fogged-up windows. Mom waitressed across the street at the Parkmore Restaurant, her apron stained with grease and desperation, while I, barely three, rocked Virginia’s makeshift cradle—a cardboard box lined with a threadbare blanket. Margarita, fearless and scrappy, worked the street, her tiny hands outstretched for nickels and dimes, her dark eyes pleading with strangers who mostly looked away. We were ghosts in a city that didn’t care—until one day, Mom didn’t come back. No note, no warning, just gone. The police found us after a month of begging and crying, blue uniforms and stern faces scattering us like leaves. Foster homes, orphanages—I bounced through them, a ping-pong ball in a broken machine, until a couple took me in. Chaos could’ve swallowed me whole, but I clawed back, stubborn as hell.
The family that claimed me gave me roots; the man who adopted me—my real dad—gave me wings to rise. Born January 1924, one of eight kids packed into a St. Louis tenement, he grew up in the Great Depression’s chokehold, coal dust clogging the air and hunger a constant shadow. His father shoveled coal for a quarter a ton, back breaking under the strain, while the kids scrapped for every bite. Dad peddled papers on street corners, his shout piercing the streetcar clatter, until ’42, when word came that his brother Ted’s B-17 had been shot down over Europe, landing him in Stalag 13’s barbed-wire grip. At 19, he enlisted with the 9th Air Force, hell-bent on pulling Ted out of Hitler’s claws. He started as a waist gunner on a B-17 Flying Fortress, strapped into the frigid fuselage, squeezing off rounds from a .50-cal at swarming Focke-Wulfs—survival odds so thin you were half ghost before takeoff. But he wasn’t just cannon fodder; he hit the books hard, earned a commission, and transferred to the 8th Air Force as a Bombardier/Navigator on a B-26 Marauder. Over 65 missions as a “Bridge Buster,” he’d peer through the Norton Bomb Sight, hands steady amid bursting flak, dropping bombs with surgical calm to snap bridges like twigs—his crew banking on his every move. He’d recount those days later, not with chest-thumping, but a quiet weight, lessons of duty and honor forged in fire. Mom, his heart’s counterweight, was love untamed—fierce, warm, her hazel eyes spotting good where none seemed to live. She’d wrap me in tight hugs, voice a soft murmur, teaching me to feel others’ struggles, to fight for them. Together, they molded me—his unyielding steel, her blazing spirit.
Tech? They didn’t get it. I’d beg for a computer, and they’d blink at me like I’d asked for a spaceship. Frugal to a fault—Depression scars run deep—Dad finally caved and got me an Atari 400 in ’79. No disk, no storage, just a bare-bones CPU humming on our kitchen table. It was my lifeline. I’d hunch over it for hours, fingers flying across the keys, typing programs by hand. At school, I haunted the Teletype terminal, missing recess, its clacking keys a siren song, chasing every scrap of knowledge I could wrench from it. Life gave me crumbs; I built a ladder. That drive—Dad’s grit, Mom’s heart—propelled me forward. The Atari wasn’t just a toy—it was my ticket out. By 16, I was itching to turn tinkering into something real.
First Hustle: Lawn Boy to Tech Kid
Summer of ’78, I turned 16, all restless energy and big dreams. The Atari and Teletype had lit a fuse, but I wasn’t waiting for fate—I chased it. Took a gig as the lawn boy at Jefferson Savings and Loan, figuring I’d push mowers and pocket cash. First day, I’m sizing up the grass when a guy in a tie sprints across the parking lot, face red, yelling about striking electricians and a mainframe delivery teetering on the edge. “We need someone for the cabling plant—now!” Dad’s fearless spirit surged up—I thrust my hand skyward, “Pick me.” Inside, I’m thinking, What the hell’s an RS232 cable? But I dove in, sweaty and grinning, threading wires through a jungle of steel and dust. By week’s end, I’m neck-deep in the buildout, the hum of machines and the tang of solder in the air, loving every chaotic second. Tech wasn’t a game anymore—it was a world I could conquer.
That gig flung open doors. Builder’s Square hired me to tame their new computerized paint-mixing system—color matching by numbers, not some clerk’s eyeball guess. I cracked it, the whirr of the machine spitting out perfect shades like clockwork. Then they tapped me for the CAD system, designing kitchen cabinets with crisp lines and exact cuts. No degree, no silver platter—just a kid who’d figure it out, pay attention to the business and learn. Soon, I’m running the whole store at 18, calling shots, keeping the chaos in line, my voice steady over the hum of saws, price check pages and cash registers. Then, July of ’89—Saddam Hussein starts amassing tanks along the border of Kuwait. It hit me like a brick: duty wasn’t just Dad’s war stories; it was mine too. Retail had sharpened me, tech had armed me, but I needed more. I had to act.
So, I joined the Navy. Dad, ever the Air Force man, grumbled, “Son, Air Force—fly high.” I grinned, leaning against the kitchen counter, “Dad, I don’t run, can’t flap my arms, but I swim like a damn fish.” He laughed, a deep rumble, clapped my shoulder, and said, “Be the best sailor they’ve ever seen.” He was right about one thing—I’d make it count. At 20, late to the game, I enlisted, hungry and ready.
Boot Camp Grit: Leading Quiet
October ’90, Great Lakes, Illinois—Navy boot camp, Company 947. I’m 27, older than most, with just a smattering of School of the Ozarks and Meramec Community College credits and a chip on my shoulder. No officer bars, just an undesignated sailor starting from zero. Day one, the commander—a Chief Petty Officer who was running recruits before he went to Warrant Officer School, eyes like steel—pulls me aside. “What’s your story, recruit?” I spill it: lawn boy to store manager, chaos to hustle. He nods, offers me Recruit Petty Officer in Charge. I counter, “Sir, I’d rather lead quiet, from the ranks—not barking, just doing.” He smirks, puts me in charge of the company’s finances and the Ward Room, where we prepped for visiting brass during graduations.
That gig forged me like steel. I drilled with Company 947 through the biting Lake Michigan wind—boots pounding asphalt, rifles snapping to shoulders—freezing but sweating alongside the guys, watching how they moved, talked, clicked, or clashed during marches and classwork. I’d catch the little things: a fumbled step, a grumbled curse, where the rhythm broke. Then came the Ward Room, our collective grind—we polished tables, crisp linens, every detail dialed in—and there, I was the one calling shots. When the company rotated in, they answered and looked to me. I didn’t bark orders or preach; I rolled up my sleeves and showed them how it’s done—using my experience, what I had seen out there, and what the room demanded, guiding them through action, not words. If a guy struggled with timing, I’d set the pace myself; if nerves frayed, I’d steady the vibe with a quiet nod. Dad’s honor ran through it—lead steady, no showboating. Mom’s heart too—spot their stumbles, pull them up. That subtle nudge worked fast; the team locked in, gelled tight, and we turned heads. 947 stacked up honors, the kind of reviews that rang out like thunder long after we marched off.
My recruiter had sold me a half-truth—age and credits left me undesignated, no Officer Candidate School in sight. But the Ward Room hustle flipped that bad break, earning me “A” school as a Data Processing Technician. First day, the instructor dangles the prize: “Top of the class picks their post—anywhere in the world.” My new bullseye. I dug in, graduated top, and landed on the Commander-in-Chief of the Pacific Fleet (CINCPACFLT) team in Pearl Harbor, ’93. Boot camp tested me; CINCPACFLT would forge me.
Navy Forge: Duty Over Desk
CINCPACFLT plunged me into the World-Wide Military Command and Control System (WWMCCS), where I immediately went heads down to rise to Senior Operator in a few months. I landed the gig of Lead Petty Officer (LPO) in charge of a Deployable Joint Task Force Augmentation Cell (DJTFAC). We’d roll into theater—setting up Deployable Rapid Assembly Shelters (DRASH), enduring the JP5 and diesel fumes—hauling PCs, and dumb terminals (pre-mobile days) with screens glowing green. I’d set up data centers under canvas, tying field ops to mainframes, the clatter of keys drowned by choppers overhead. I would match Time phased force deployment data (TPFDD), adversarial troop movement, weather and terrain data and match it all against the Joint Operations Planning and Execution System (JOPES). This would sort out a short list of viable battle plans. On one deployment I was tasked to take a look the “Orange Book” security rules—stiff, outdated—pushing for something that bent with real-world chaos. Not taking credit, but soon after, the Navy started eyeing looser frameworks. I saw the cracks first hand; I just wanted it to work, like Dad’s missions taught me. Next stop: Whidbey Island, NAS Washington, ’94, attached to VA-165 “The Boomers”—the “Flight of the Intruder” squadron. Data processing was slow, so I pulled Shore Patrol shifts, and worked with the Naval Security Force (NSF). Went undercover, sniffed out an LSD ring on a carrier—Led the NSF detail with local law enforcement for a sting operation—we broke it clean, no fuss.
Then the call: Dad had a heart attack, gone at 70. I was gutted, picturing him in his armchair, quiet stories silenced. Tried transferring to Scott AFB near St. Louis, but no Navy slots. Mom was alone—old-school, adrift without him steering the ship. Duty pivoted me—I took an honorable discharge and went home. The funeral was a blur—Mom’s sobs, the weight of his flag in my hands. Landed at NetCom Inc., pulling miles of Cat 5 and Coax, the familiar ache of labor steadying me. The crews—salt-of-the-earth guys with callused hands—kept me grounded. But the Navy had sharpened my edge; I knew the technologies, I read people, built trust. That got me off the field and into Client Executive, winning bids with incentive programs that clicked. Still a doer, not a talker, I caught the eye of Armstrong Teasdale Schlafly and Davis, a law firm in St. Louis’ MetLife Building. They recruited me in ’97 as Manager of Information Systems—MIS, pre-CIO days. From cables to corner office, I was building again, bigger stakes.
Tech Takeoff: Overhauling the Old
Armstrong was a tech fossil—IBM heavy iron, AS400s humming in a Halon protected server room, Token Ring cables snaking through to the Media Access Unit (MAU), OS/2 Warp and Lotus 1-2-3 on desks like it was still ’89. They wanted modern; I delivered. Led their first overhaul: sized up Novell versus Windows NT4, ripped out Token Ring for Ethernet, swapped AS400 bulk for lean PCs we sourced ourselves. Added litigation tools—OCR, barcoded docs—stuff that made jaws drop in ’98. It wasn’t a tweak; it was a rebirth. Ajilon Consulting noticed, tapped me in ‘99 to overhaul other shops and build IT Security consulting with Jason Taule, a sharp mind and now longtime friend. We mapped BS17799 to CMM before it was cool, hitting local giants—Maritz, Anheuser-Busch, Purina—then I took it to Boston at Manulife Financial in ’00. Consulting was my groove: roll in, fix it, roll out—same hustle, bigger stage.
Rising Fast: From Tech to Top
Manulife was ballooning—snagged North American Security Life’s annuity arm, and I stitched it tight. Systems linked, processes smoothed, ITIL and security bolted on where NASL had none. Leaner teams, bigger bang—IDS tech, vuln scans, the works. Security was orphaned; I pushed it upstairs to Toronto’s mothership. They said, “You do it.” I did. Nimda struck in ’01—3 a.m. call, chaos everywhere, but our systems held. Reported, slept, woke up to a promotion: global IT security lead, pre-CISO days. Then Manulife bought John Hancock in ’03—big fish, bigger integration. My Distributed Security Management—officers across 17 divisions—outran their centralized stumble. We fused mainframes and apps into one customer view, seamless.
In ’02, the Navy War College called for Gartner’s “Digital Pearl Harbor” war game. Cyberattacks on grids, banks—I repped residential financial services. We left rattled; coordinated hits could cripple everything. That lens stuck—critical infrastructure became my north star. Computer Sciences Corporation (CSC) saw my Manulife run, pulled me in ’04.
Big Leagues: Locking Down the Stakes
CSC threw me into oil and gas, building Sarbanes-Oxley 404 controls for Shell Oil—financial reporting locked tight, every system audited. Months of grit, but we nailed it. Then CFATS dropped in ’07; I led teams across global DuPont sites—plants humming with pipes and steam—assessing risks, writing security plans plant by plant. Grew a crew that thrived under pressure. Climbed to Managing Partner of Cybersecurity Professional Services at CSC—dozens of consultants, eight global SOCs, managed services, even marketing. Full throttle, till the HP merger loomed in ’16. I jumped to Unisys, built nine SOCs from scratch, ran cybersecurity for Super Bowl 50 with buddy Robert Sutton—Navy reservist, now Lieutenant Commander. His ConOps template, my stakeholder sync, made it a blueprint for big events.
Unisys meant global travel—too much time from my wife, my rock. Charter Communications called in ’17—bold, fast. Ran Application Rationalization, cut $30M in redundancies with bow tie risk maps. But the culture couldn’t see the risk and chaos piling up; I bailed pre-SolarWinds, landed at Hexagon.
OT Edge: Tools for Tomorrow
Hexagon ALI had an engineering tool pulling asset data into digital twins—DCS vendors, one view. They wanted it “cybersecurity relevant”; I saw gold. At DuPont, we’d slogged through as-built drawings for CFATS gear—slow, brutal. This tool grabbed configs fast, blending physical process context with network data. OT security’s future, right there. Created the Cyber Alliance function, leveraged 30 years of contacts—Dragos, ServiceNow—built a partner program for MSSPs, recurring revenue locked in. Funding dried when Hexagon split my division. In ’19 I’d started Yoink Industries LLC while at Charter; post-Hexagon, I grew it into OT SOC Options—OT cyber pros hardening operational tech, teaming with MSSPs globally. Hexagon’s split forced my hand—I own my path.
Lasting Impact: From Grind to Guide
While running OT SOC Options and volunteering time to the Security Advisor Alliance and the GHECC, I teach Efficient and Effective Cybersecurity Operations at Washington University, St. Louis, and soon Cybersecurity Infrastructures at Webster University. No degree at first—just drive. Later, a bachelor’s in business management, master’s in IT (Information Assurance and Security) by ’11, the degrees only showed I had sought the answers, payed attention and had the best teacher - life. Tools evolve, but the fire’s yours to stoke. See your path, chase it—I’m still pushing IT/OT security, guarding critical infrastructure.
Hit me up if you're onboard to secure our world or want a hand with the heavy lift.