IN 1969 I FINISHED RE-EDITING The Last of the Ski Bums, enlarging it from a 16- to a 35-millimeter format so I could release it as a theatrical movie. I envisioned following in the footsteps of my Dana Point neighbor and surf companion, Bruce Brown. Bruce had just finished his long run with The Endless Summer.

I was sitting in the lobby of a Manhattan screening room I’d rented for the critics showing of Ski Bums. A group of New York critics, who had just viewed the film, were interviewing Ron Funk and Mike Zuetell. Ron and Mike starred in the film and had flown out from California to be on hand for the New York opening scheduled a week later at the Murray Hill Theater.

One of the critics came over to me and asked me a question for which I was not prepared.

“Mr. Barrymore, why did you make this film?”

It might have been the hostile tone of his voice, or the fact that his review could make or break me, which caused me to be at a loss for words.

As the producer, I had expected questions such as “How could you have made this film on just $12,000?” I expected questions about the difficulties of filming on skis, or even the standard inquiry, “Do you also ski?” Instead, he wanted to know the primary motivation for making the film.

I stammered and stuttered as my mind raced for a clever answer.

I had made nine 90-minute films and personally narrated those movies to hundreds of thousands of people in hundreds of theaters and had never been asked that question. Did I really need a reason to make a ski movie? Hadn’t this guy ever heard of John Jay or Warren Miller? Would he have asked John Huston why he made The Treasure of Sierra Madre?

Later, when it made little difference, I thought of a good answer. “I like to ski and I also enjoy entertaining people. I made this film to entertain skiers. I’m opening here in New York to see if non-skiers as well as skiers would be entertained.”

The only line I could think of at the time was, “I don’t know.”

The critic just looked at me, then made a few notes on a little piece of folded paper and walked out. I didn’t even know which critic it was or which newspaper he represented, but I was sure he had not looked favorably at my work.

My film received some good reviews, even some outstanding reviews, and some reviews that I would like to forget.

Now I sit in a thatched-roof bungalow at the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula in Mexico, pounding out more pages of material to add to the stack of memoirs that I have spent five years writing. Every now and then, when it looks like I’m getting closer to finishing, I stop and think about that critic who is waiting for me with a pencil, a little folded piece of paper, and the big question “Mr. Barrymore, why did you write this book?”

Would they ask Elizabeth Taylor or Donald Trump that question? Successful people don’t need a reason to write about themselves. People who started out with nothing and ended up listed in Fortune 500 do not need a reason. Readers want to know how they did it.

People enjoy reading about movie stars. Scientists write books to pass on information. A novelist writes so readers can escape into fiction.

I fall into none of those categories. I never got rich making ski films, just the opposite. I was usually in debt and hanging by my fingernails from a small financial ledge while my friends and creditors looked up and yelled, “Hang on, Dick, you make great ski movies.”

My only justification for spending thirty years in the ski movie business was that I loved skiing. I traveled the globe with a camera and skied with the world’s best skiers.

I had wine, women, song, and skiing, but my bank statements rarely balanced in the black.

I may have stumbled onto one of life’s secrets: “Forget becoming a millionaire — just live like one!”

I have lived an exciting life, but that doesn’t qualify me to write a book about success. I’ve never seen a Johnny Carson show that began with “Tonight on our show we have a guest who started with nothing and never made a nickel — please welcome”

Last week, while I was driving north two-and-a-half hours to La Paz to buy some fiberglass to patch my surfboard, I thought once again about the “Why did you write this book” question. I’d already typed eighty six chapters and just received a letter from my friend, Terry Spragg, urging me to finish the damn thing before it became thicker than War and Peace.

Spragg spent the last twenty years developing a world wide freshwater delivery system that consisted of towing giant bags of water across oceans. He just finished his book about his efforts and he was now pushing me to finish mine. I also think he wanted to see if I had written anything derogatory about him when he was working for me as a salesman.

I stopped in the little mountain village of San Bartolo and picked up three empanadas to eat on the road. I think better when I’m eating. I thought about my life.

I always loved telling stories and making people laugh. I also loved the sport of skiing. In 1959 I combined those minor talents and took up an unusual profession: a skiing storyteller — with film.

I bought a movie camera and some film and took a short vacation from the Los Angeles Fire Department to try my hand at making a documentary movie about skiing.

My plan was to keep the major part of the information accurate but fudge a little on the facts to get a few laughs. I would sell myself and my show to ski clubs for live performances; it wasn’t an original idea, John Jay and Warren Miller had been doing it for years. I figured I could do as well, and maybe even better.

Soon I was living my dream — skiing, telling stories, making people laugh, and getting paid for it.

Thirty years later, in 1990, I hung up my camera. It wasn’t that I was tired of skiing or telling stories. It had just become too tough to break even financially. The business end of my one man show was getting its butt kicked while the mouth end was enjoying the little fame that came with the job. I made a decision. I had some land in Mexico that I wanted to develop into a little windsurfing and fishing resort. It would be a fresh new challenge.

I entered into another business that I knew absolutely nothing about.

Life in the tiny village of Cabo Pulmo, on the Sea of Cortes, was perfect. Instead of working in the mountains and going to the sea for vacations, I was working at the beach and going to the mountains for ski vacations.

The thing lacking in my life was an audience. It was lonely on the beach and I needed an outlet for my thoughts. I decided to sit down and write about my life’s adventures, the ski business, skiing, surfing, and anything else that came to mind.

As far as the answer to the “Why did you write this book?” question — it’s simple: I like to tell stories. This book is about my life as a storyteller. Here goes....