Life doesn't plan everything out

When I was young, my father told me repeatedly never to become a winemaker.

Because my grandfather and great-grandfather both made a living at the local winery and could barely get by on their meager salaries. He doesn't want me anywhere near a keg.

In accordance with my father's wishes, I studied hard and got into Harvard University with excellent grades.

In 1971, I became a graduate student and studied law and business at the same time.

In my second year of graduate school, it dawned on me. I didn't do anything at all except study. A pressure forced me to think about my career. The future is closing in on me much sooner than I expected.

So at 24, I dropped out of school. My parents couldn't understand what I was doing. But I feel strongly that you can't wait until you're 65 to pursue your dreams. You have to fight now.

I packed my bags and boarded a caravan bound for Colorado. There, I became an outward bound instructor.

This job suits me well. With a lot of climbing and climbing to do, I've followed everything from the cliffs outside Seattle to the volcanoes of Mexico.

I never regret taking the time to "find myself." If a man can spare some time from his life to consider the way he wants to go, then his life will be different. Otherwise, we can only be swayed by the opinions of others.

After three and a half years as a coach, I returned to Harvard to finish my studies.

After graduation, I got a high-paying job at the Boston Consulting Group. It was a reputable think tank, but after five years I was confused. Is this what I'm going to do until I'm 50?

I remember not long ago when my father was cleaning out the attic and came across some yellowed pieces of paper containing several old beer recipes. "Beer today is basically water with a frothy surface," he said.

I agree with my father. Americans who don't like domestic beer are paying through the nose for inferior foreign beer. Why can't Americans make their own good beer?

I decided to quit my job and become a winemaker. When I broke the news to my father, I hoped he would tear up with joy at the revival of traditional beer.

But my father said, "That's the stupidest decision I've ever heard."

Finally, my dad threw his weight behind me: when I started the Boston Beer Company, he gave me $40,000. With my own savings and the help of my friends, I finally became a brewer. The feeling is like rock climbing, free, exciting, and nervous.

But as soon as the beer was made, I faced a big problem: how to get it to market?

"Your beer is too expensive and not well known," wholesalers say.

So I thought about creating a new breed: artisanal American beer. I struggled to find a bold and elegant name.

In the end, I adopted the name of Samuel Adams, the brewer and patriot who orchestrated the Boston Tea Party.

I realized that the only way to make a brand a household name is to sell it live. I changed into designer clothes, filled my briefcase with beer and ice packs, and went from bar to bar.

Most of the bar staff think I'm from the IRS. But as soon as I opened my briefcase, they were interested.

As I told my story, I offered them a taste. When I heard the comment, "Your story is good, the beer is better", my heart swelled with joy.

Six weeks later, Samuel Adams beer won the top prize at beer festivals across America. The rest is history as we know it. I never saw myself going down this path, but I did become a winemaker.

My advice to young people is simple: Life is long, don't make decisions in a hurry. Life doesn't plan everything out.