Magnum: [narrates] When I write my book on how to be a world class private investigator, I'm going to include a chapter on listening to your little voice. Everybody has one, and mine was saying to stop Marcus and find out the real story behind his new car. Of course I didn't, which is another chapter, things I should have done, but didn't...

Magnum: [narrating] A cogent note about Walter Pidgeon, not the actor, my cousin Rainy's pet bird. One summer, Walter got out of the house, onto the deck. He would have flown away except there was a glass partition he couldn't get through. He kept trying and trying, but he kept hitting up against the glass. Now, two feet to the left, and two feet to the right, the partition ended, but he couldn't see the obvious, that there was a glass wall in front of him. The difference between me and Walter Pidgeon was I had finally seen the wall that Frank Foley had thrown up in front of me and I was taking two steps to the left to get around it ... [short time later] ... One last thought about Walter Pidgeon and the "glass wall". I'd always wondered what would have happened if "Old Walter" had gone around the partition and found his freedom. What would he have done with it? Maybe it was better that he never knew what was beyond the wall?

Magnum: [narrating] A few vital statistics that explain why paradise is called paradise: there are three-hundred and twenty-six days of sunshine each year, an annual average temperature of eighty-six degrees, billions and billions of gallons of blue Pacific, and one Orville 'Rick' Wright, who will bet on anything.

Magnum: [narrating] A person is what they throw away.

Magnum: [narrating] After the first time I was wounded in Vietnam, I'd noticed a weird series of reactions to being shot. I'd wondered if anybody had ever written them down like Elisabeth Kübler-Ross' "Stages of Death". First, there's denial. Then comes a giddy kind of relief, shock and surprise at still being alive. All the senses working together in Technicolor and Hi-Fi at the joy of actually having survived. And then, the paranoia sets in. If it's happened once, it can happen again. Suddenly, every sound is an approaching enemy, every smell a lethal gas, and no way of knowing whether it's a mind game, or a clear and present danger. And no way of stopping the heart racing, the palms sweating, until the paranoia stage has slipped into revenge.

Magnum: [narrating] After three days of surveillance, I was familiar with the rhythm of the street. At nine in the morning, those about to be sacrificed to the Hawaiian gods of sun, sea, and sand were making their ritualistic trek to the beach. I knew from experience that very few would return with their skin. At noon, the late risers and the serious souvenir hunters were prowling about, snatching up bargain buys on plastic hula skirts and cheap coral beads. At three-fifteen I got my afternoon treat. I called her Olga, for obvious reasons. The cops are pretty good about keeping hookers off the street during the day, but, I guess when you're as big as Olga, you can work any time you want. By sunset the last of the lobsters were returning from the beach, which meant my day was nearly over and all I had to show for it was a sore butt, and a case of heartburn.

Magnum: [narrating] Another cliché about getting information from bartenders is that no matter how sincere they sound, you know as soon as you're out the door, they're on the phone warning the guy you want to see. And this guy didn't strike me as being particularly different.

Magnum: [narrating] Did you ever commit to something you knew you weren't really committed to? Well, take my last game at Navy. We were playing Michigan, and we all knew there would be pro scouts there. Not that that mattered much to the Navy guys, because we were already "drafted" in a manner of speaking, and I guess I really knew that they wouldn't be scouting me, even if I was available. But that's the point. See, I was having one of those really good days--over 200 yards passing, two touchdowns, maybe one of my best games ever--and I started thinking, why shouldn't they be interested in me? You know, for the future. That's what happened to Staubach. Well, that was stupid, because I wasn't Staubach. I mean, there comes a time when you know how good you really are and I wasn't Staubach. So, time's running out, fourth down, we're trailing by 3 points, and my wide receivers are wide open in the end zone, and I missed him ... by 20 yards. Now, I hadn't missed anybody all day, so I don't know how I missed him by that much, but I think I know why. What if I'd had the best day a quarterback could ever have and nobody wanted to talk to me? That says something about commitment.

Magnum: [narrating] Dreams are supposed to represent your subconscious wishes and conflicts. It's sort of a private movie you write, produce and direct. Only you can't hide your eyes in your dreams, even when they are scaring you to death.

Magnum: [narrating] Even in the Hawaiian sunshine, football, to me, smelt like fall in New England. Some place there should be a prep band playing, pretty girls in short skirts, and I was 21 with an arm that could throw passes all afternoon.

Magnum: [narrating] Even on the red-eye it's wonderful flying into Honolulu for a vacation in paradise. But, it's not nearly so wonderful when you're a Private Investigator who's just spent two weeks in Bakersfield on a case and been stiffed by your client. And it's even worse when your ride from the airport didn't show up, and the cab driver's listening to the Orange Blossom Special.

Magnum: [narrating] Even when I was nine years old and my Grandpa took me to the carnival at the county fair, I found myself asking too many questions. Questions like, in the basketball shooting concession, "why was the ball so full of air that it would bounce off the too-small rim, and there goes your quarter?" Or, "why did the beautiful blond lady in the 'dollar-a-kiss' booth smell like a distillery from twenty feet away?" Or, "how come the biggest stuffed animals you could possibly win in the shooting gallery always had an inch of dust on them?" And now, a lot of years later, "who would want to make a murder out of a sideshow?"

Magnum: [narrating] Every day in the topics is part illusion; Rain clouds are actually rainbows ... the perfect wave breaks into a riptide ... conviction of immortality grows out of the endless summer. What I should have remembered is that illusion is always dangerous. But, on a perfect morning on the beach, who could remember fate?

Magnum: [narrating] Everybody, deep down inside thinks he, or she, is a private investigator. Jessica Fletcher was no exception. Despite her denials, I was sure she fancied herself as the consummate crime solver.

Magnum: [narrating] Failure is one of life's few absolutes. Success, on the other hand, is relative. For instance, there's this story of a guy who spent his entire childhood dreaming of becoming a fighter pilot. He joined up at 18, came out of flight school number one in his class, soloed like a pro, and was assigned to a top combat wing. A week before he was to fly his first mission there was a fire in his barracks. He pulled two guys from the flames and suffered third-degree burns to his hands in the process. He was a hero, and he wound up a General. But he was never able to fly again. Relative success and absolute failure.