I was lucky that the first boss I ever had (at age 13) had much to teach at a point when I had much to learn. Chris M. was a brilliant but illiterate Italian immigrant and fisherman who had built a landmark restaurant and marina on the bay in Ocean City, New Jersey. That was my first lesson: You don’t have to be book-smart to be smart.

I was a kid looking for my first summer job and using my brother’s social security card and name because I wasn’t yet legally old enough to work. I walked into the seafood market next to the dining room and asked a man behind the counter if they needed any summer help.

“Go see that guy,” he said, pointing to Chris, who was standing on the dock talking to a couple of older gentlemen who were peeling shrimp. Chris, a fit, swarthy 60-something, smiled at my offer to work for him, and asked, “How old are you?” I lied, and I think he knew it, but he didn’t press. “Can you paint?” he asked. I lied again, and within an hour I was standing on the roof of the fish market with a brush, a roller, and a 5-gallon can of oil-base silver paint.

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