I came across a Sherdog thread that led me to this sad bit of news from Kodiak MMA favorite and former UFC middleweight champion Evan Tanner:
I haven't written in so long I'm not sure where to start. My stay in Oceanside has been one big misadventure. It's beautiful here. I have met some of the best people, but it is not my place for now. I've done nothing but get into trouble. I quit drinking for a while. I was doing so well. I thought I was in control of that vice. I went out with some friends and decided to have a beer. It's been downhill since. I'm drained of money. My friends are worn out with me. I've gotten tickets. I've spent thousands on the boat. I've been in fights, accidentally pushed police officers. I've met beautiful women and hurt their feelings, I sailed out on the ocean, I sank a boat, and I got into a fight with the woman who has been my best friend. She is losing faith in me. I hope we will find our peace soon.
My friend Jorge took care of me. He took time out of his work to build and engine for me, and he has a family to take care of. So much time and effort and mad scrambling, while I drank beer. The plan was to take her south to find a harbor for her. I had used up my time here. We didn't leave early enough. The swell was big. She started taking on water. The bilge pump went out. We were miles out, desparately bailing out water. We made it into Mission Bay as night fell. Being unfamiliar with the bay, and finding it diffucult to navigate in the dark, we ran aground. I stayed up all night, much of it spent down in the hold in the cold water trying to save her. I tried, but I couldn't do it. She was hurt too much. She lies there now, on her side in Mariners Cove in Mission Bay. I don't know what to do. I think I have pneumonia now. I've been staying on the couch at my friend Dan's house for the last week, too sick to take care of any business. Those in power are asking for more money than I have to pull her out, and it's a criminal offense if I don't do something with her soon. She's been there a week now. She is a classic, and I hate to have her cut up. I would sign her over to someone for free if they wanted to take here over, sails and hardware included. She is a beautiful boat.
I've been on the road for almost two years. I'm tired. I'm tired of drinking, I'm tired of living out of bags, I'm tired of not feeling home. And where is home? I imagine being in the gym again. I imagine stepping into the Octagon again, and in some strange way, those thoughts bring me comfort. That is my home. I know it's time to come home.
I have not been training at all, despite what the rumors say. I've signed no fights. I'm so far gone, living on the road, drinking myself into oblivion, that in moments of weakness, I wonder if I can make it back. It's going to be a long road. I started drinking heavily, long before fighting was even a thought in my head. There was a definite reason I began. There was a method to my madness with good purpose. I'll tell that story later.
I never wanted to be a fighter. I never dreamed of it. Those I most respected were men of peace. Despite what the general public thinks, I don't train full time or year round. I never have. Throughout my career, if you wish to call it that, I have been a heavy drinker. I've only trained for a month or two at a time when I sign a fight. Sometimes I've put down the alchohol, sometimes I haven't. I think the fights where I haven't are obvious.
I keep having this idea of what I could do, what I could be if I put put the vices aside and dedicated myself to the sport. I've been obsessed with the idea lately. It's funny. A friend told me I was doing Wing Chun in my sleep, lying there, working techniques. The next night I was throwing elbows and knees. I take it as a sign.
All that has been on my mind is getting back in the gym. As soon as I can take care of the boat, that is where I will be.
I haven't written in so long I'm not sure where to start. My stay in Oceanside has been one big misadventure. It's beautiful here. I have met some of the best people, but it is not my place for now. I've done nothing but get into trouble. I quit drinking for a while. I was doing so well. I thought I was in control of that vice. I went out with some friends and decided to have a beer. It's been downhill since. I'm drained of money. My friends are worn out with me. I've gotten tickets. I've spent thousands on the boat. I've been in fights, accidentally pushed police officers. I've met beautiful women and hurt their feelings, I sailed out on the ocean, I sank a boat, and I got into a fight with the woman who has been my best friend. She is losing faith in me. I hope we will find our peace soon.
My friend Jorge took care of me. He took time out of his work to build and engine for me, and he has a family to take care of. So much time and effort and mad scrambling, while I drank beer. The plan was to take her south to find a harbor for her. I had used up my time here. We didn't leave early enough. The swell was big. She started taking on water. The bilge pump went out. We were miles out, desparately bailing out water. We made it into Mission Bay as night fell. Being unfamiliar with the bay, and finding it diffucult to navigate in the dark, we ran aground. I stayed up all night, much of it spent down in the hold in the cold water trying to save her. I tried, but I couldn't do it. She was hurt too much. She lies there now, on her side in Mariners Cove in Mission Bay. I don't know what to do. I think I have pneumonia now. I've been staying on the couch at my friend Dan's house for the last week, too sick to take care of any business. Those in power are asking for more money than I have to pull her out, and it's a criminal offense if I don't do something with her soon. She's been there a week now. She is a classic, and I hate to have her cut up. I would sign her over to someone for free if they wanted to take here over, sails and hardware included. She is a beautiful boat.
I've been on the road for almost two years. I'm tired. I'm tired of drinking, I'm tired of living out of bags, I'm tired of not feeling home. And where is home? I imagine being in the gym again. I imagine stepping into the Octagon again, and in some strange way, those thoughts bring me comfort. That is my home. I know it's time to come home.
I have not been training at all, despite what the rumors say. I've signed no fights. I'm so far gone, living on the road, drinking myself into oblivion, that in moments of weakness, I wonder if I can make it back. It's going to be a long road. I started drinking heavily, long before fighting was even a thought in my head. There was a definite reason I began. There was a method to my madness with good purpose. I'll tell that story later.
I never wanted to be a fighter. I never dreamed of it. Those I most respected were men of peace. Despite what the general public thinks, I don't train full time or year round. I never have. Throughout my career, if you wish to call it that, I have been a heavy drinker. I've only trained for a month or two at a time when I sign a fight. Sometimes I've put down the alchohol, sometimes I haven't. I think the fights where I haven't are obvious.
I keep having this idea of what I could do, what I could be if I put put the vices aside and dedicated myself to the sport. I've been obsessed with the idea lately. It's funny. A friend told me I was doing Wing Chun in my sleep, lying there, working techniques. The next night I was throwing elbows and knees. I take it as a sign.
All that has been on my mind is getting back in the gym. As soon as I can take care of the boat, that is where I will be.
I hope so.
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