Sgt. Robert Joseph Harrison

Harrison, Jr., sister, Florence Harrison Emley; sister, Ellen Harrison Pagliarulo and brother, Henry Harrison. He passed away peacefully on April 11, 2024.

He attended Richmond Hill H.S. but left at the age of 16 to join the United States Merchant Marine during WW II, because he was too young to enter "military" service. He participated in Atlantic convoys and also served in the Pacific theater. Of note between 1939 and 1945, 9,521 merchant mariners lost their lives, a higher proportion than those killed in any military branch. Following the war he continued to serve as merchant seaman/quartermaster for a few more years. In 1988, the Merchant Marine of WW II was officially granted military veterans' status. He was issued a discharge from the United States Coast Guard, dated August of 1945. Subsequently, he became a proud member of the American Legion Post in Port Jefferson, NY. He also was a frequent visitor at the Post in East Hampton, NY when visiting his daughter's family there in Amagansett during the summer months.

In 1950 he married NYC girl, Nora Harrison who he met at Gildea's Tavern on 103* Street in the "Irish Riviera" of Rockaway Beach. Together they had 3 children, Robert Wayne Harrison, Lynn Ellen Harrison (Cappelli) and David Michael Harrison. He worked in a variety of jobs including as a police officer with the Pennsylvania Railroad for a couple of years before joining the NYPD in 1957 from which he ultimately retired in 1981 as a sergeant. During his time with the NYPD "Blue" he served as a beat cop, was part of the original tactical patrol force (TPF) which was assigned to highest crime areas. He also worked in plain clothes, highway (motorcycles) and a few times with the harbor patrol, an assignment he tried to get permanent, without success as he continued throughout his life to love time spent on the water. For a couple of decades, he greatly enjoyed sailing his boat, Guinevere on Long Island Sound.

After retiring from the NYPD, he worked for a time supervising security at JFK Airport for DHL, Corp. until he sustained an injury on the job which prompted him to retire from that position as well. The time with DHL afforded him the opportunity to fly on the Concorde a few times! Of note he also soloed as a pilot himself, at the age of 16!

He travelled frequently to California to visit with his sons, Bob and Dave and their families, eventually moving to San Diego in 2014. Even before re-locating to California, he became a member of the FSOSP San Diego and frequently attended the annual black-tie dinner and proudly marched in the St. Patrick's Day parade.

In retirement his artistic side and talent flourished as he created numerous paintings which now are proudly displayed in the homes of his offspring and others. He also enjoyed playing the harmonica, particularly when surrounded by his grandchildren and great grandchildren.

He is survived by his brother, Bill; sister, Ellen; his children, Bob (Debbie), Lynn, David (Jackie); grandchildren, Tyler Trowbridge, Colin Harrison (Christen), Bryan Cappelli, Jennifer Hoffman (Ross), Caroline Cappelli (Graham) Michael Harrison and David J. Harrison; and his great-grandchildren, Aidan Harrison, Liam Harrison, Connor Trowbridge, Harper Harrison, Carter Trowbridge, Audrey Cappelli, Harry Hoffman, Everly Hoffman and Reese Dugoni.

A funeral Mass will be offered for the repose of his soul on Tuesday, May 21, 2024 at 10:00 am at All Hallows Catholic Church, La Jolla, CA. He will then be interred at Miramar National Cemetery at 12:30 pm. A celebration of his life will follow at the home of David and Jackie Harrison (15562 Via La Ventana, San Diego, CA 92131) commencing at 2:00 pm.

My old patrol boots, pictured here, despite looking beat-up hold some strong memories for me. The white and dark dust spots on them are the ashes of people who died in the fiery crash of American Airlines Flt. # 1 on March 1, 1962, Boeing 707 from NY Idlewild Airport (later JFK) to Los Angeles when I was with the Tactical Patrol Force (TPF). They were also soaked in ankle deep blood at a riot on Gun Hill Road in the South Bronx. They stopped me from falling off a roof on Davidson Avenue when I was searching for a perp and slipped in a pile of dog crap. They were soaked in the urine of a dying naked female heroin addict I carried out of a walk-up apartment on Valentine Avenue to an ambulance. They were burnt when a homeless man in Harlem was set on fire with gasoline by armed thugs, and I put the flames out with my hands and my coat and drove him to the hospital because he couldn't live long enough to wait for an ambulance. They kicked in a door on Marion Avenue and stopped an evil man from continuing to beat his wife with a pipe and they steadied me when I held a 60 lb. ram and so many times helped my team take out crack houses full of merciless bandits who preyed on their own communities' most vulnerable.

I am now with the dust on my boots. So be it. But then the faith carried on my boots is certainly not mine alone. It is that of every cop, every firefighter and every medic who did the same and so much more than me, and in some cases died in the line of duty. That article of faith is that neither I nor anyone I knew ever considered a person's race, ethnicity, gender, religion or orientation in carrying out our duty. In the end we will all go to the same place. Every life was, is and will be worthy of saving. No other factors matter. These are not mere words. My boots and those of every first responder in every jurisdiction tell the truth of the matter.