Bob Cramer's Blog

As memory serves, about 16 years ago, I went deep sea fishing in a 24-foot catamaran out into the Gulf of Mexico.  While I don’t consider myself a boat person, I did grow up on an island and all my life I’ve been around tugboats, cruise liners, and the little camp sail boat I got stuck in irons (a sailing term) for hours..  Heck, I even went on the largest privately owned yacht in the world one time, but that is a name-dropping story for another time.

The fishing trip in question was with some of my dearest friends, and included my oldest son, Ben. He was just a freshman or sophomore in high school and I think the trip had such an impact that he included the word, sea, in his band name.  Now he might deny that but whatever.  

Anyway, as I’m prone to do, I wrote up a little synopsis of our fishing journey and shared it with the participants and a few others.  However, as these were the days before free cloud storage and active blogging, the little write-up slowly disappeared from computer screens everywhere, including my own, never to be found again.

Until last week. 

While it is not important how it was found, it is the substance that matters.  So I decided to publish it for my loyal reader(s), as I’m too lazy to write something from scratch and at least I won’t lose this fun little ditty again.  So here it is, “A Fish Tale” from many years ago:

A faint warning was the only clue: “it might be a little rough when we get into the channel” said our captain, a 46-year Florida transplant well versed in the art of understatement. His passengers, excluding his semi-seasoned first mate, were hunched together in the backseat, impaling their hands on the metal handrail, sinking deeper into their seat with every corresponding wave pounding, questioning what they were doing in a 24-foot World Cat fishing boat at 4:45 in the morning, pitch black, with 70 miles to go and no relief in sight. 

Every once in a while a small grunt was heard from the passengers, like a female tennis player unloading on a forehand. These grunts usually occurred when one’s spine was condensed because the seas provided little cushion when the twin Yamaha 225, four stroke engines launched our little ship airborne. The inevitable, “what comes up must come down” applies here, and there were no soft landing, no sea of glass this fateful early morning as we ventured West in search of gold, no I mean goldfish, no, fish that we could turn into gold or gold plated memories or some of all of the above. 

The passenger roster included two Cramers, two Gryboskis, and one captain named Howe who lived up to his name telling us the how’s and why’s of fishing strategy, technique and etiquette such as when peeing from the boat it doesn’t really matter if you get most of it outside the boat or on the rail or in the boat, nobody cares; drinking beer at 5am was actually in the sailor’s manual of the US Navy and cured motion sickness, frayed nerves and fear of touching fish or bait; no complaining of any kind was allowed and if evident, one would join to ranks of previous passengers (a particular lawyer and nephew come to mind) who had dared to wish they were home with their Mommas or anywhere else on earth but 76 miles out in the middle of the Gulf, puking their guts out, getting baked by the sun or simply wiped out from reeling in a 45-pound jump-in-boat amberjack. 

Our 13-hour pleasure cruise was just three hours old when our Captain throttled back on he controls thereby announcing we had arrived at our first fishing hole. To this passenger, this water looked identical to the billions of gallons of water we had just passed, naively leading to the question why we were stopping here and not just over there, or for that matter, 25 miles back closer to shore. But a stop was a stop and that meant no more pounding, and with the sun rising to the east, the water blue and clear, things were looking bright. However, fisherman optimism quickly turned to cold hard reality: our first casts of the morning yielded a fish that had in fact eaten our bait but on the way up from the bottom of the 200-foot sea had transformed itself into bait and was eaten by a shark. We caught a mangled, half-eaten fish! Yippee! And to make matter worse, for 20 minutes, that is all we caught. We wondered aloud the words of the late great Doc Gryboski who once had a bad fishing start, “is this a bad omen for the rest of the day?” 

The fishing gods however were smiling upon us this Sunday morning. A few expert moves from our Captain properly positioned us to start reeling in fish the way we expected to. As the seas calmed and the heat soared, Captain Howe made sure the entire crew learned the proper reel-in technique. This passenger learned the hard way, first putting the pole into his ribs instead under his arm. A 40-pound Red Fish on the line helped correct the poor positioning otherwise I’m sure I would have punctured my anatomy. 

The atmosphere on the boat improved dramatically. Fish were flying into the boat: my son, Ben, hooked a tuna that was neck and neck to either pull Ben overboard or become prized sushi. For awhile it was a draw, but Ben called for reinforcements and his muscle￾bound Dad (me) with his new improved fishing technique backed by Bill, Dan and David and the full power of the boat’s twin, outboard engines were able to apprehend this Starkist can filler and deliver our Charlie the tuna squarely into our hands. 

Oh, by the way, one nearly fatal (slight overstatement) blunder in this exquisitely planned Giligan-style, fishing tour was a discernible shortage of Nachos chips. Can you believe our Captain only bought one stinking bag! There we were, adrift in the Gulf of Mexico, the sun beating us down, beers, fish remains, probably even urine that didn’t quite make it overboard, hooks flying, an ice cooler of the finest assortment of dead fish you have ever seen, and we had one stinking bag of chips for 5 tired, sunburnt, starving guys. It is a good thing we didn’t have a mutiny right there and then. We could have tied our illustrious captain to the side of the boat and hightailed it back to the closest 7-11 we could find. There has to be some kind of convenience store somewhere out here in the Gulf, right? 

In any event, finally after a dozen more fish—we’d get one on the line and no one wanted to bring it in–our relentless Captain Dan acquiesced and announce it was time to head on in. No finer words were ever uttered, not the Gettysburg address, not “Tear down this wall, Mr. Gorbachev”, not “one small step for man, one giant step for mankind”, “Pack it up” was all we needed to hear; hatches were buttoned down (except for the one fishing rod that somehow got loose and flew into the water never to be seen again, but that was just bad luck and I wasn’t really looking and thank goodness it wasn’t MY fault),. We quickly assume the travel position (that was Captain Dan and first mate David in the plush, heavily padded drivers’ seats with all the fancy, schmancy equipment and us, the lowly crew, on this tiny bare bench in the back where all bumps were accentuated to drive your spine right into your brain). Anyway, any physical pain could easily be tolerated with the knowledge we were headed back to dry land, with a cooler filled with fish, fish stories that could be told for years to come, and an experience to be remembered. And, I kid you not, we were escorted back to land by a school of dolphins, swimming, jumping, and I think just thanking us for coming out. 

After a frenetic few years, dark clouds of doubt and deepening despair now descend down on our nice and tidy Atlanta startup community, causing most industry participants to just be happy moving forward, perhaps driving at the speed limit but with no more racing in the streets.

Like Interstate 285, no one knows where they, their companies, and this fickle economy are going exactly.  But the sheen is off the tires, the optimistic spring flowers, doused by strong storms, lay strewn on the sidewalk, and bitcoin and our bank accounts wilt away on a daily basis. 

You can hear all of this reflected in some of the talk: glad we got out when we did, glad we took money off the table, glad we got a chair when the music finally stopped.  Ask the folks at popular Atlanta startups like Salesloft, Terminus, and OneTrust about timing:  Salesloft nailed it perfectly, selling for $2.3 billion to Vista Equity moments before the tide went out on fast-growing but profitless SaaS companies.  The other two great companies, while also major beneficiaries of the 20/21 tech boom, didn’t fare quite so well, leading to large scale layoffs with a desire to button down the hatches, conserve cash, and live to fight another day.

These are higher profile stories, but these same themes echo across the landscape like the violent thunderstorms that have recently rumbled through the evening skies, driving investors and our dogs scouring for safety.  But while our pets can find at least some comfort on the bathroom floor or wedged into an open closet, it is harder for investors right now, with no place to run, little solace, and no thunder vests or blankets to calm shaky nerves.

So we soldier on, back to the basics, looking to strengthen what we already have, and cast a more cold and calculated glance at new opportunities. Just like public market investors, we ask for better prices, more involvement, and we say no more often.  We take sober assessments of burn rates, not knowing exactly where the next proverbial funding meals will come from, and we stay away from people selling bridges, either the one in Brooklyn or the ones that lead to nowhere.

But today is Father’s Day, so let’s shake off the gloom, remember what is really important, and spend time with those we love.  Enjoy!!!

Bob Cramer is a Partner at Johnson Venture Partners and Founder of Chairman Partners, a startup advisory and consulting firm.

It is 5AM on a Wednesday, just a few days before New Year’s. As Covid has raised its ugly head again, I look back on 2021 both from a personal perspective and as a world citizen with a renewed understanding that health really is our greatest asset. This year proves once again that we can never take it for granted.

I feel most fortunate and thankful to modern medicine for all it has given me: a summer bout with a breakthrough COVID infection was totally manageable thanks to vaccines; a spring muscular back flare-up was treated like a champ with steroids; and this fall’s hip replacement surgery has left me with a major new piece of hardware, a new addition to Team Cramer that my body welcomes with open arms and slightly hip-restricted legs.

One funny story stands out among this serious stuff. The day before my hip surgery, a Sunday, I was hanging out at my fancy- schmancy country club trying to get some last minute encouragement. I was questioning a friend of mine who has had both hips replaced when a young man walked by, overhearing our conversation. He informed us that he was an anesthesiologist and he inquired about the surgery, the doctor, and the practice I was using, etc.

He said that his medical group does the anesthesia for my surgeon, and he asked if I wanted to know who would be working on me. Begrudgingly, I said yes, and he immediately went on his phone to see which one of his partners was scheduled in the morning. Meanwhile, he was also having a conversation with another guy about fantasy football while a Packers and Chiefs game blared in the background.

So as he talked and piddled on his phone, I began to question whether I really wanted advanced notice who was going to put me to sleep and hopefully wake me up, my life in their hands. But it was too late as my new doctor friend continued to search his physician database while simultaneously discussing his fantasy players.

Finally, the verdict was rendered. “Oh, he is highly inconsistent,” the young doctor pronounced.

No anesthesia necessary, I fainted right on the spot.

Just ask anyone who ever met Dr. Jim Beaty–the men he mentored at the Peachtree-Pine shelter, the English majors he taught at the local college, or the high-powered businessmen he corralled to support his non-profit–and they would all marvel at Jim’s smarts, his smile, his presence, and his determination to help others.

While Jim was many things: a husband, a father, a minister, a teacher, a drinking partner, a Gamecocks fan, a community leader, he would lovingly acknowledge his special role as the first gentleman, the yin if you will, to his dear wife Anita’s yang.  One of Atlanta’s most impactful and important couples, Jim and Anita Beaty, together, created a 40-year movement that changed the ark and plight of homeless people in our community.  

Anita, their family, and all dear friends and colleagues lost Jim Beaty last week.  While our hearts hurt from the news, we reflect joyfully on such a fine and most-interesting man. Trained in the Bible, he turned verses into actions, delivering hope and joy to all those around him, with a smile, a laugh, a soft touch, and a big heart.  In his later years, with his graying beard, white hair, and tall stature, Jim could pass for an everyday Santa Claus–complete with gifts of wisdom, positivity, and joy wherever his travels would take him.

I met Jim and Anita in 1986 after reading a newspaper article about their pioneering work with Atlanta’s growing homeless population.  I called them up and for the next 35 years they became family to me.  

In the early days, Jim would tell the story about after having lunch, he’d come up to my incredibly messy high-rise apartment so I could give him a check to support their work.  In the ensuing years, I was honored to join their board and eventually serve for 15 years as Board Chairman of the organization they founded, The Metro-Atlanta Task Force for the Homeless.

When Sally and I got married, we asked Jim to help officiate at our wedding.  He played the role of the unofficial Rabbi.  When asked by some of the older ladies attending the wedding how long he had been a Rabbi, Jim gleefully responded, “My entire life!!!”.

Jim, Anita, and I stood shoulder to shoulder as we fought many battles to assist the homeless.  Homeless advocacy is a contact sport, especially here in Atlanta during that time frame. When we successfully acquired the 95,000 square foot Peachtree-Pine building on the famed Peachtree Street in 1997, the heat just intensified but we rarely lost our way and we soldiered on.  

In between, Jim coordinated some fundraising golf tournaments, one at  East Lake and one at a lesser course where the goal was to play as many holes as possible and have people donate per hole.  There we were, 100 holes later in 100 degree temperature, in desperate need of Advil and a cold beer.

At the office, first at the Atlanta Food Bank, then on Georgia Avenue, and finally Peachtree-Pine, Jim, Anita and I had monthly Board meetings together for 20+ years. We would make pilgrimages to the Fulton County courthouse as our lawsuit against the City and CAP dragged on.  We would bring people on tours of Peachtree-Pine, and we would find money to pay our water bill when the City threatened to shut down our shelter. 

On a personal level, Jim and Anita would come over to celebrate my birthday; they would go to Ben’s early concerts and Sara’s dance events, and they were always a guiding light on how to live life with purpose and passion.

I was so fortunate to spend such quality time with Jim and Anita, and to learn from them.  Our community efforts together represent one of the most fulfilling and joyous times in my life.  I will always treasure the loving friendship and the bond that we established.

Jim, we miss you, and we thank you for your life’s work.

The NHL finally starts its season this month, while down on the farm, so to speak, play continues at NCAA Division 1 Hockey schools as all teams–pro or amateur–work feverishly to keep the COVID boogie man at bay.

Over at Notre Dame, eyes have shifted from a promising football season that came to a sudden halt to the stunning Compton Family Ice Arena, Notre Dame’s hallowed hall of hockey, where regular season play is hollowed out with no fans, little cheers, but just the crack of wooden sticks, creaky boards and the occasional curse or two fill the cold Indiana air.

There has been one constant for the past four years associated with Notre Dame Hockey, and that is a goalie who sits ready, willing and able.  He mostly occupies the far left side of the bench, out of the way to avoid the constant line changes, but arms length from his teammates and just feet from the ice.

Being a goalie requires a special layer of resilience. Merely getting suited up requires preparation and persistence, with the pads, the glove, the facemask, the chest and arm protectors, a 2021 gladiator ready to work.  

Just think of the number of practices this young goalie has dutifully donned his duds, occupied his net, and signal to some of the best young hockey players anywhere to let it fly.  Summer training, 10-hour road trips, missed Thanksgivings, and lots of laundry, this young goalie has become the team’s backstop, and for more than just pucks.

And therein lies the problem:  for some inexplicable reason, this young goalie, now a senior with a limited number of games left, has never played in an official game.

But please don’t mention this to the young goalie.  He would be aghast.  He just continues to work, a leader by example, no complaining, great attitude, appreciative of the opportunity, unselfish teammate, thoughtful mentor to younger student-athletes, and by all accounts, one damn good goalie.

Notre Dame now has a modern day “Rudy” moment on its hands.   It is time for them, head coach Jeff Jackson included, to create a storybook ending.