Part II: John McCain: A Maverick’s Life
The Man They Couldn’t Break: From War Hero to Political Titan
“He was a man. Take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again.” (Hamlet)
The Skyhawk Rises
When John McCain stepped onto American soil in March 1973, he was not the same man who had fallen into Trúc Bạch Lake five and a half years earlier. His spirit had been reforged in pain, his body battered, his vision tempered by the ordeal of survival.
Hỏa Lò Prison had left him with permanent souvenirs — mementos he carried for the rest of his life. He walked with a limp from his shattered knee, his arms stiffened by years of torture. But if you asked him, he never dwelled on the suffering.
Despite the temptation from the media and his supporters, McCain never cast himself as a hero. He once said of his captors, “When they pull you out for interrogation, don’t expect them to serve you tea.” That was as much sentimentality as he would allow.
More than anything, it was the contrast — the darkness of captivity and the light of liberation — that defined his next chapter. After experiencing the worst of humanity — and then the best of it, he learned something very special. He had witnessed unspeakable cruelty, but also the unbreakable bond of men who refused to let each other fall. Survival was not mere endurance; it was about fighting for something greater than oneself.
The rebellious midshipman who once scoffed at authority had come to understand a deeper truth: democracy thrives not on blind obedience, but on duty — honor over comfort, and loyalty to the country. And if that country was America, it was worth every risk.
Now, a new battle awaited.
This time, the enemy wasn’t a foreign captor. It was Washington — the dysfunction, the bloated spending, the pettiness of partisanship, the inertia of a government too often driven by expediency over principle.
And just as he had in Hanoi, McCain would take the fight head-on.
An Unlikely Kind of Thrive Zone
Finding a Thrive Zone within the brutal confines of a POW camp seems improbable — certainly not in the way Collioure sparked Matisse’s genius or Omaha shaped Warren Buffett’s empire. And yet, history proves otherwise.
Time and again, when people are cast aside — rejected, dejected, crushed by the tyranny of a powerful adversary, or trapped as a powerless minority in a world that respects only the majority — sanctuaries emerge in the unlikeliest places. It’s humanity’s story in miniature: a group lost in the wilderness, forging resilience not through comfort, but through something deeper.
This is the work of the Five Affirmations.
When these five forces align, they create the conditions where even the most broken can endure, adapt, and emerge stronger. For McCain, that Thrive Zone took root in the last place anyone would expect: within the dark confines of Hỏa Lò Prison.
He and his fellow prisoners were isolated, beaten, and stripped of everything — except each other. When they couldn’t speak aloud for fear of retribution, they found another way. A tap code — simple knocks against the walls of their cells — became their lifeline. A single tap meant I’m still here. A sequence spelled out, Stay strong.
In the silence of captivity, a Thrive Zone didn’t just exist — it gave them a voice.
• Mentorship — His father’s leadership and Naval Academy training became his ancestral anchor in captivity.
• Mateship — As mentors inspire success, mates encourage it. The unbreakable loyalty of his fellow POWs kept his spirit alive.
• Methods — Survival techniques, tap codes, and resisting interrogation became second nature.
• Mantras — His code of honor: never accept special treatment, never break rank, never betray fellow prisoners.
• Metrics — The goal was simple but unwavering: survive one more day. No matter how long it took, a great life was still ahead of him.
From Fighter Pilot to Senator
In many ways, McCain embodied the true definition of a Maverick — a term originally coined for Samuel Maverick, a 19th-century Texas rancher who refused to brand his cattle, letting them roam free. Hus fellow ranchers got to calling them ‘mavericks.’ The label followed McCain for life, sometimes as a compliment, sometimes as a dig.
But for him, being a Maverick wasn’t about defiance for its own sake. It meant acting on principle, even when it cost him. The habit wasn’t ideological as much as it was anti-bureaucratic. He reflexively veered away from the herd, just like a maverick. The instinct seems to have been bred into him at every stage of his life.
McCain’s father, Admiral John S. McCain Jr., urged him to stay in the Navy, where he was promoted to captain. But his injuries made life as a pilot impossible — he couldn’t even grip a jet’s control stick. The Skyhawk pilot that once cut through Hanoi’s skies had to hang up his wings.
But McCain wasn’t grounded. In 1977, he became the Navy’s liaison to the U.S. Senate, where he studied the game of politics up close.
By 1981, he retired from the Navy and moved to Arizona, his wife Cindy’s home state. A year later, he launched a campaign for Congress. Critics called him a carpetbagger, a war hero cashing in on his name. McCain captured his reasoning through a brutal reminder and a touch of self-deprecating humor:
“Listen, the longest place I’ve ever lived in my life is Hanoi.”
The quip disarmed his critics, and McCain won in a landslide. In 1986, he succeeded Barry Goldwater in the U.S. Senate, stepping into the shoes of a conservative icon — but forging his own path.
Humor and Hard Truths
McCain’s second-favorite pastime — right after confounding Washington’s power players — was bringing people together. He thrived on an audience and nowhere was that more evident than when he spoke to young people.
At an event at Arizona State University, he kicked things off with a story:
“Total stranger walks up to me at Sky Harbor Airport and asks, ‘Anyone ever tell you that you look like that guy McCain?’ I told him, ‘Yeah, I hear that a lot.’ And the guy says, ‘Don’t it make you mad as heck?’”
The room erupted. Self-deprecation was McCain’s signature, and he wielded it like a weapon. When a student asked about the worst thing he experienced in Vietnam, he didn’t talk about torture or isolation. Instead, he quipped, “My great piloting, which enabled me to intercept a surface-to-air missile with my wing.”
His comedic timing rivaled that of a seasoned stand-up:
• If he hadn’t seen you in a while, his go-to greeting was: “Where’ve you been? Betty Ford Clinic?”
• Introducing Senator Sheldon Whitehouse? “My Communist friend.”
• Poking fun at Bernie Sanders? “Bernie and I co-authored a bill for veterans’ medical care choice. This was before he started combing his hair.”
McCain understood the public’s cynicism about government, and he didn’t shy away from it. When Congress’s approval rating hit a dismal 14%, he remarked, “If anyone here thinks a 14% approval rating is good, I don’t want you driving an automobile — you are a danger to yourself.”
But beneath the one-liners was something more: an unshakable sense of duty.
It was classic McCain — self-deprecating, disarming, and refusing to let hardship define him.
The Warrior’s Goodbye
McCain had faced death before, but his final battle — against glioblastoma — was one even he couldn’t outmaneuver.
Yet, he fought it on his own terms.
In 2017, weeks after brain surgery, he returned to the Senate floor, walking with a fresh scar above his eye. Then, with one dramatic thumbs-down, the maverick Senator blocked his party’s attempt to repeal the Healthcare Act.
It was a moment that would define his legacy. He didn’t do it for spite. He did it out of his firm belief — which didn’t square with his Party — but that was McCain and everyone in the Senate Chamber knew it.
The Skyhawk’s Final Flight
At his Arizona ranch, McCain would gather a group of us each year to watch the same Black Hawk return every winter, circling high before once again it vanished toward Mexico. Stocky, broad-winged, with long legs and a short tail — it was a dead ringer for McCain.
Maybe it was the bird’s tenacity that drew him in. Or maybe he saw a kindred spirit — restless, defiant, quite impossible to pin down. Like his travel schedule, always taking off and finding its way back to Arizona.
On August 25, 2018, John McCain’s final flight ended. He was laid to rest at the U.S. Naval Academy Cemetery, beside his old friend Chuck Larson — a fellow midshipman who once challenged him for demerits with a grin.
His epitaph was simple: “I lived and died a proud American.”
And so the maverick flew on — beyond the constraints of war, politics, and party — a maverick to the last.
