Posted by Mike Rowe on Facebook:
Mike Rowe
Agent #9
A great man has died, who happened to be my friend.
https://bit.ly/41snBzg His name was Clint Hill, and if you knew of him, it’s probably because you’ve seen him on television. Clint was Agent #9—the now-famous Secret Service agent who chased down the convertible and threw himself over Jackie Kennedy moments after her husband was assassinated in Dallas, way back in 1963. Clint’s courage under fire was preserved for posterity by Abraham Zapruder, who just happened to be pointing his 8-millimeter Bell & Howell camera at the presidential motorcade on that fateful day. The rest, as they say, is history.
For the unassuming patriot from North Dakota, the resulting celebrity was a heavy burden. Clint had vowed to give his life protecting the people under his protection and took the death of President Kennedy as a personal failure. He shared this with me on my podcast several years ago and talked with surprising candor about the day the PTSD nearly beat him. The day he walked into the ocean, fully clothed, determined to end the pain and guilt he couldn’t shake. The terrible day he swore he would never discuss with anyone.
Of all the great things for which this man will be remembered, nothing, in my opinion, will top the courage he exhibited when he changed his mind sixty years later and decided to talk publicly about the moment he tried to take his own life. I know how hard that was for a man like Clint. But I also know that sharing his story saved the lives of countless men and women suffering in a similar way. I know this because I have heard from those men and women personally. And I know that Clint has heard from them, too. And so, I’m sharing our conversation again because I believe that doing so will save the lives of others. I hope you will pass it on, too.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZx0oYIYVvgFriends of this page know that I met Clint in a local watering hole back in 2019. It was the night before President’s Day, and I had no idea who he was. All I knew on that particular evening was that a man about my father’s age was trying to order a beverage from a bartender who had never heard of the drink in question. I watched in bemusement as this older gentleman removed a business card from the pocket of his blazer and handed it to the bartender. On the business card was a photo of a drink. The drink was called “The Clint.” Below the photo were specific instructions on how to make it.
I was intrigued. What kind of man walks around with instructions on how to make his drink of choice? I asked that very question and got my answer, which I shared with several million people.
https://bit.ly/434NfLP We introduced ourselves and began to chat. In the conversation that followed, Clint learned that I ran a foundation inspired by my grandfather that aimed to reward hard work and skilled labor. And I learned that Clint had dedicated his life to the Secret Service and spent the bulk of his professional career guarding five presidents. We kept the conversation going, and several years later, I gave the toast at his wedding when he finally married Lisa McCubbin, the dogged journalist who pulled him out of the shadows and convinced him to share his remarkable story with the world in a series of books that will live on for generations.
I saw Clint for the last time just a few days ago, on my way home from a long and sweaty ruck. I had stopped by their house for coffee and had a pleasant chat about nothing in particular. I was happy to see his beloved dog, Dazzle, who shares the code name that Clint’s fellow agents bestowed upon him many years ago. (Clint Hill was code-named Dazzle? I mean, come on. How great is that?) At one point, Clint asked me about my mother, as he always does.
“When’s her next book coming out? That woman is amazing!”
I had introduced the two of them several years ago when my parents came out for a visit. Mom had just finished her second book, and Lisa had arranged for a meeting at their home with a writer at People Magazine who wanted to write an article about the mother of the Dirty Jobs Guy, the unlikely author who started cranking out bestsellers at the tender age of 80. It was raining when we left their home, and Clint insisted on walking my mother to the car.
“He took my arm,” Mom later wrote, “and held the umbrella over my head. Not his head, my head. When we came to a puddle on the sidewalk, he paused before carefully guiding me around it. For a moment, I thought he was going to remove his jacket, lay it over the puddle, and walk me over it!”
It wouldn’t have surprised me. Clint Hill was a man of manners. A courtly man who deplored bad language, always stood when a woman entered the room, and dedicated his life to the service of others. A private man who was loathe to talk about himself but eventually did so with the help of a woman who loved him. A courageous man who guarded five presidents, risked his life every day for two decades, overcame the kind of darkness that many cannot, and carried in his pocket a business card that spelled out the proper way to make the drink he preferred. A legend in the Secret Service, who was, in the words of Robert Frost, “A man acquainted with the night. A man who walked out in rain and back in rain. A man who out-walked the furthest city light…”
What a man. What a life.
Godspeed, Clint Hill.
