The first thing I noticed after swishing my truck through high weeds and walking toward a trailer piled high with kayaks on Oct. 19 was the quiet. Birdsong. Water lapping at the lakeshore.
The organization I had come to visit hosts most of its events far from traffic and city noises. Heroes On the Water (HOW) is a nonprofit that provides community support for a demographic that needs tranquility more than most — veterans and first responders, many of whom may be dealing with post-traumatic stress and other issues.
When I reached the clump of cars and kayaks on the shore of a small private lake near Farmersville, George Chrisman extended a firm handshake and pegged me right away as the journalist he had traded emails with the week before, come to offer some publicity for his organization because it struck me as a worthy cause and, if I’m honest, a good excuse to go fishing. Before long, he and fellow HOW leader Bruce Fry were telling me about lives that have been changed atop a kayak.
HOW’s service model is simple: provide equipment and locations for fishing and kayaking in a community of other veterans, first responders and their families. The program uses kayaks only — no engines on the water, not even a trolling motor. HOW chooses private lakes to avoid noisy public campgrounds, jet-skis and other racket often found on Saturdays at public lakes. Boats, paddles, life vests and fishing tackle are all provided. Since it’s on private water, no fishing licenses are required. Chrisman’s team of volunteers handles everything, right down to getting their feet wet at the launch point so participants don’t have to. And once they’re launched, HOW takes the bold step of leaving the vets alone.
“You get a sunny day, calm — all at once you may see three or four guys all huddled up together and they’re talking. And that’s the best thing we’ve got,” Chrisman said. “They will share with each other.”
Chrisman, the D-FW chapter organizer for HOW, said a close friend once asked to come along and offer counseling to the vets.
“I said, ‘You’re not coming. You’re not allowed. We don’t do that,’” Chrisman said. The HOW model is to allow therapeutic conversations to happen organically, often out on the lake away from everything.
“It’s almost like magnets,” Fry said. “I mean they start fishing as individuals and then it just starts to pull together.”
Out on the lake, two kayaks had drifted alongside each other just as Chrisman and Fry were explaining that. From the chuckles echoing our direction, the conversation seemed to be more about fishing than healing. But that’s welcome too. Every conversation doesn’t have to be a deep one. And, as anyone who has spoken to a therapist knows, human connection is often a bit like angling anyway — casting a line, waiting for someone to bite, and maybe struggle.
“We were at this lake several years ago,” Chrisman motioned in the direction I was looking. “We did an event for Bonham VA and it was about this time of year and it was 39 degrees. Stephen, my right-hand man … and one vet sat in that corner over there for almost three hours, talking.”
Once Chrisman and Fry get going, the stories come fast and staccato — snippets of scenes. One vet named Ray told Chrisman, “This program — you — saved my life.” When he came to HOW, Ray was on 17 prescription drugs, Chrisman said. With the help of his doctor and the support of HOW, he weaned that down to four, after which he went on to a degree from the University of Texas at Arlington and a job in teaching.
Ray’s assessment wasn’t hyperbole; each of these stories is likely a life saved. According to the veterans organization Mission Roll Call, upwards of 24 U.S. veterans die by suicide every day. And the veteran suicide rate (33.9 per 100,000) is more than twice the rate of non-veterans (16.7 per 100,000), according to the Department of Veterans Affairs’ “2023 National Veteran Suicide Prevention Annual Report.”
HOW helps families too. Chrisman remembered a husband and wife with three young children who came to an event. The husband took the kids to fish while his wife watched.
“And all at once I saw her crying,” Chrisman said. “And so I went up to see what’s going on. She said, ‘This is the first time in a month that I’ve had time by myself.’”
Chrisman is not a veteran himself — just a civilian who wants to say thanks.
“George is — man, he’s an angel for all the time he puts into this,” Fry, a Vietnam-era Army veteran, said when Chrisman was out of earshot.
Chrisman took over leadership of the chapter from a friend who was a veteran, shortly after it launched 14 years ago. Their largest event to date attracted 75 people. On Oct. 19, there were 12.
That included non-veteran volunteers like Joseph Germain who pushed my kayak over a muddy launch so I could get the full experience. Germain, 42, said he got into trouble and was assigned community service. He chose to work with HOW. His community service is over now, but he keeps volunteering.
“I’m probably hooked for life,” he said.
There are 58 HOW chapters scattered about the country, two in North Texas. According to HOW spokesperson Faeda Elliott, the organization has served more than 64,000 veterans and first responders as well as 16,000 family members. An internal impact report found that 93% of participants reported that HOW programs helped them be more mindful. Each chapter is financially self-sufficient. National meetings are infrequent and leadership is diffuse.
At the chapter level, the whole operation feels very homemade, from the plywood cabinets on the kayak trailer Chrisman constructed himself, to the email list of almost 400 names built mostly by word of mouth.
That’s how Erik Chacon, 30, heard about the group. He separated from the Army three years ago and now lives in Garland. He brings his 5-year-old daughter, Isabella, to HOW events. Isabella wisely avoided answering questions from a journalist but confirmed with a smile that she caught a bigger fish than her dad that day.
Chacon acknowledged that there are lots of veterans groups — more than 45,000 of them, according to NonProfit PRO — many of them small and isolated like HOW. He wants to create a hub of sorts to connect vets to activities that fit their interests, as well as mental health resources. Remarkably, the Department of Veterans Affairs doesn’t offer such a registry, Chacon said. But the Defense Health Agency maintains a related database called the National Resource Directory. As of Oct. 20, it didn’t include HOW.
Just before lunch, I took my leave of the group, which had beached the boats and gathered around some snacks. They didn’t need me listening to their conversations any more. On the drive home, I realized one more haunting reason it’s so quiet at HOW events, and more vets aren’t out on the water.
Too many of them didn’t survive to get the invitation.
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