Bison Dele: Lost at Sea

An up-and-coming NBA star who had it all. The talent, the money, the fame, the women... but then he just walked away. And soon, he would vanish altogether. Learn about Brian Williams, who, after changing his name to Bison Dele, found that the NBA lifestyle was no longer for him. He bought a boat, reconnected with an old flame, and then reconnected with his brother. The last move may have cost him his life. 

A lost at sea mystery. 

Transcript

Copy Transcript Copied

 Brian Carson Williams was born on April 6th, 1969, in Fresno, California. He was the second son of Eugene “Geno” Williams, a musician who often toured with the famous 1960s group The Platters, and Patricia Phillips. His older brother, Kevin Williams, would later become a central figure in Brian’s story.

Brian had a complex childhood. His parents divorced when he was young, and he was raised primarily by his mother. While he later grew close to his father, he also spoke about feeling like a misfit growing up. He was highly intelligent and sensitive, with interests that went beyond sports—including music, poetry, and travel. As a child and teen, he struggled with the pressure of being exceptionally tall and athletic, often standing out uncomfortably.

Brian attended Bishop Gorman High School in Las Vegas, Nevada, for a time, before transferring to Saint Monica Catholic High School in Santa Monica, California. It was there that he began to show real promise on the court. At 6-foot-11, he had size, but what made him stand out was his agility, quick hands, and surprising athleticism for a big man.

Even then, though, Brian didn’t always love the game the way many star athletes did. He played because he was good at it—but his passion remained elsewhere. Coaches and recruiters noted his raw ability but also his sometimes detached attitude toward the game.

Williams began his college basketball career at the University of Maryland, but left the program after just one year, citing unhappiness with the environment and coaching staff. He transferred to the University of Arizona, and after sitting out the mandatory year,  played under legendary coach Lute Olson.

At Arizona, Williams began to blossom. He became a dominant force in the paint, averaging around 14 points and 7 rebounds per game during his junior season (1990–91). His performance helped solidify him as a top NBA prospect, earning him first-team All-Pac-10, even as whispers of him being "difficult" or "sensitive" followed him. Scouts respected his skill, but some worried about his commitment.

Despite those concerns, his raw talent was too great to ignore. The 1991 NBA Draft saw superstars like Larry Johnson, Kenny Anderson, Dikembe Mutombo, and Steve Smith drafted in the top five. Williams would go on to be selected with the 10th overall pick by the Orlando Magic. Over the next eight seasons, he played for five different teams. While being a solid player, he never seemed to live up to his potential. Fans, coaches, teammates, and owners alike waited but Williams never matched his ability with any drive. 

He stayed with the Orlando Magic from 1991 to 1993 until they traded him to the Denver Nuggets for two players and a draft pick. After two seasons with the Nuggets, Williams was traded to the Los Angeles Clippers. He’d be returning home, if only for one season. 

After the 1995-1996 season, Williams and his agent were asking for more money, too much money in most people’s eyes. He was coming off of knee surgery and the Clippers released him. No one would touch him and he missed a majority of the following season until the Chicago Bulls came calling with nine games left in the regular season. He went on to be an important backup player in the Bulls' run to their fifth championship.

In August of 1997, the Detroit Pistons stepped in and signed Williams to his largest contract yet. They believed in him and wanted to make him a permanent fixture in Detroit. Williams was brought on board for seven years and 44 million dollars. The 1997-1998 season was his best statistically. He averaged 16.2 points and 8.9 rebounds per game and played in all but four regular season games. 

During the offseason, Williams spent a majority of it in Bangladesh, a trip he was thrilled to make. It may have been during this trip that he decided to change his name. Combining his Cherokee and African ancestry, Brian Williams would now legally be known as Bison Dele. Interestingly enough, his brother Kevin had already had his name legally changed back in California. Kevin was now known as Miles Dabord. 

The Pistons changed all of their merchandise and the number eight “Dele” jersey was on sale and ready for the next season. Unfortunately, the NBA went through a lockout before the first game could be played. The Pistons finished a lockout-shortened season with a 29-21 record, placing them 3rd in the Central Division and 5th in the Eastern Conference. They qualified for the playoffs but were defeated in the first round by the Atlanta Hawks. 

The season revealed a much different Williams, not only in name. Dele played twelve minutes less per game, and saw his scoring and rebound averages dip drastically. 

The following off season saw Dele on more adventures to other countries, adventures that reportedly included a brief stint dating Madonna. At some point, right before training camp was set to begin for the 1999-2000 season, at what should have been the peak of his career, Dele announced his retirement. The 30-year-old was done with basketball, walking away from the last five years of his contract and $36 million dollars.  

His intelligence, charisma, and unique personality made him memorable to teammates and coaches alike—even as his passion for basketball remained inconsistent. He would later explain that he wanted to pursue a life that was more meaningful to him—traveling, playing music, exploring the world, and escaping the superficial nature of fame.

When Bison Dele walked away from the NBA in 1999, many were stunned. At the peak of his career and with tens of millions still on the table, he didn’t just retire—he vanished from public life.

But for Dele, the decision made perfect sense. He was never comfortable in the world of celebrity athletes. You can look back at post game interviews and see it in his eyes. He saw basketball as something he could do—not who he was. After retiring, he set out to experience life on his own terms.

Dele traveled extensively across the globe, immersing himself in cultures and philosophies far from the American spotlight. He reportedly spent time in places like Lebanon, India, New Zealand, and the South Pacific. He spent time in Australia, diving coral reefs. He wandered Southeast Asia with a backpack and a camera. In Africa, he studied his roots and gave quietly to causes that mattered to him.

He also took up new hobbies that reflected his free spirit. He played saxophone, wrote poetry, and practiced photography. He kept journals and sketched. Friends described him as deep, philosophical, and sometimes restless, always looking for something more meaningful than material success.

In 2001, Dele reunited with an old friend and former girlfriend, Serena Karlan, a spirited and adventurous woman who shared his passion for travel and self-discovery. Their relationship was intense—often romantic and affectionate, but occasionally stormy.

Dele and Karlan traveled the world together, eventually deciding to sail across the South Pacific aboard a catamaran he had purchased and renamed “Hakuna Matata”. This wasn’t just a vacation—it was part of Dele’s grand plan to disappear from the pressures of Western life. Friends said Dele had never seemed more at peace. He had shed the NBA identity, embraced a minimalist lifestyle, and focused on freedom, adventure, and introspection.

At the same time, his connection to family grew more complicated. He had a strained and unpredictable relationship with his older brother, Kevin… or Miles Dabord. 

According to their mother, Patricia Phillips, Kevin was a complicated individual. He read incessantly but was bored with schoolwork and never finished college. Like his younger brother, he was tall and athletic but slowed by asthma. He sprouted new ‘get rich quick’ entrepreneurial ideas that more often than not, failed. 

Whenever an idea failed, Kevin turned to alcohol or marijuana to ease his pain. Bison would always be there to help him out of the hole he’d put himself into. Once back on his feet, pockets flush with Bison’s cash, he’d disappear for a while. It was a vicious cycle. He’d also been prescribed steroids to help with his asthma, the steroids could alter his mood quickly, sending him into fits of anger.

There was understandable jealousy between the brothers as well. As Bison, then Brian, was entering his senior year of high school, being recruited by various colleges, Miles, then Kevin, was working as a clerk at a wallpaper store and parking cars at a nearby casino. Kevin eventually stopped having a relationship with their mother, Patricia, after she failed to alert him of an aunt’s passing. Brian and Patricia had been by her bed side as she passed away, Kevin felt hurt that Brian wouldn’t have offered to fly him in to be by her side as well.    

But underneath that calm exterior, tensions lingered—with his brother, with money, and with the past. The brothers’ relationship was always complex. Some described it as close but combustible. Others said it was built on tension—a slow rivalry that only grew more intense as Bison’s fame rose. They were competitive, physically and emotionally. One always trying to outdo the other.

Over the years, they would go long stretches without speaking. Arguments flared over money, over trust, over their very different paths in life. Kevin struggled with his identity. While Bison traveled the world and embraced a spiritual, nomadic lifestyle, the older brother remained stuck—battling addiction, financial instability, and the shadow of his brother’s success.

In the early summer of 2002, Bison Dele was exactly where he wanted to be—off the grid, out at sea, and surrounded by turquoise water.

He had arrived in Tahiti, part of the French Polynesian islands, with his girlfriend Serena Karlan. Their plan was simple: explore the South Pacific aboard their 55-foot catamaran, Hakuna Matata. It was freedom, plain and pure. No cameras. No schedules. No spotlight.

Just the open ocean.

They weren’t alone. Joining them was Bertrand Saldo, a seasoned sailor from France, hired to help guide the boat safely through the islands. Together, the three set out to island-hop, drifting between coral atolls and volcanic peaks—far from the noise of the outside world.

But in early July, everything changed.

Despite past friction, Dele tried to reconnect with him in 2002, inviting him to join the voyage while they were stopped in Tahiti. Some said it was a peace offering, others believed it was a mistake. Kevin, or Miles, brought on board with him a sense of chaos, jealousy, paranoia, and something much darker.

And just like that, the mood on board began to shift.

The last confirmed communication from the Hakuna Matata came on July 6th, 2002, less than a week since Miles Dabord had joined them. Bison made a satellite phone call back to shore. He sounded fine. Calm. Possibly making arrangements to dock in the coming days.

After that? Silence.

No radio calls. No satellite messages. No marina check-ins. The boat—and everyone on it—vanished into the endless blue. Weeks passed.

Then, sometime in late July, the Hakuna Matata was spotted limping into port near Taravao, a quiet area on the southeast peninsula of Tahiti. Locals noticed the man at the helm seemed nervous. Clumsy. Unfamiliar with the boat. That man was Miles Dabord. He was alone.

No Bison.

No Serena.

No Captain Saldo.

Miles docked briefly, then disappeared into the island. When authorities later boarded the vessel, they found signs that someone had tried to cover their tracks—the boat’s name had been removed, and serial numbers were filed off. It was as if someone wanted Hakuna Matata to be forgotten. But the questions were only just beginning.

By August, Dabord was back in the U.S.. He flew from Tahiti to Los Angeles and then to Sky Harbor Airport in Phoenix, Arizona.

Once in Phoenix, he walked into a gold dealership and attempted to purchase $500,000 worth of gold bars—using Bison Dele’s passport and signature. The signature didn’t match. The passport photo looked… suspicious. The dealer stalled. Authorities were alerted. And just like that, the man once known as Kevin Williams was now the FBI’s main person of interest in a missing persons case that was quietly spiraling into a likely triple homicide.

That was the moment the walls began to close in. 

The manhunt began. Investigators found the abandoned catamaran, stripped of identifiers. They searched ports and islands for the missing trio. But with no bodies, no crime scene, and no official confession—there were no answers.

Just a trail of whispers and an ocean of doubt. Whatever happened out there—on that boat, in the middle of the South Pacific—it happened between July 6th and the day Miles Dabord came back to shore… alone. The sea, as it often does, kept its secrets.

But the investigation was just beginning. And Miles… He wouldn’t be running much longer.

The FBI moved quickly. They raided Miles' apartment in Long Beach, California. Inside, they found evidence linking him to Bison’s identity theft—documents, forged signatures, and contact with financial institutions under Bison’s name.

But they found something more chilling. In conversations with investigators—and later with his girlfriend—Miles admitted something dark. He said there had been a struggle on the boat.

A fight that turned deadly. According to what little he shared, Bison had struck Serena during an argument, and in retaliation, Miles says he hit Bison. Hard. Too hard.

The blow may have killed his brother. Panicked, Captain Bertrand Saldo allegedly threatened to report the incident. So Miles claimed he killed him too. And then Serena. No witnesses. No loose ends.

And just like that, three lives disappeared beneath the waves. But these weren’t courtroom confessions. They weren’t signed. They weren’t sworn.

They were shaky admissions made to a scared girlfriend—desperate phone calls from a man cornered by guilt, grief, or something far darker.

Then, in early September 2002, authorities tracked him down. Miles was found in Tijuana, Mexico, possibly trying to escape further south. They found him on the beach, nearly naked, and comatose. 

Not from violence—but from an intentional overdose of insulin. He had attempted to kill himself. Eventually he would succeed. He would never wake up. Miles Dabord died on September 28, 2002.

He left no formal confession. No detailed account. Only mystery, speculation, and the haunting emptiness of the sea. To this day, Bison Dele, Serena Karlan, and Captain Bertrand Saldo have never been found. The only person who knew anything was now dead.

Since then, more than 20 years later, there have been no remains. No confirmed sightings. No closure for family and friends. .

Just a boat…And a mystery as deep and unforgiving as the Pacific itself. 

Bison Dele’s story doesn’t end neatly. There’s no courtroom justice. No final chapter written in ink and law. Only the churn of the ocean, and a silence that has never been filled.

What we do know is this: Brian Carson Williams—later Bison Dele—was more than an NBA star. He was more than the sum of his stats, his championships, or his sudden disappearance.

He was a man who broke free. He walked away from the lights. He refused to be defined by wealth. He chased freedom on a catamaran in the South Pacific. And maybe, for a little while, he truly found it.

Those who knew him say he was kind but guarded. Deeply intelligent, sometimes restless. He played the saxophone. Read philosophy. Traveled to Africa. Fell in love on his own terms.

He didn’t just leave the NBA—he left the entire system that tried to claim his identity.

He renamed himself. Reinvented himself. And then—he vanished.

As for his brother, Miles Dabord… That part of the story stings in ways words can't quite hold.

Two brothers, once inseparable. Kevin and Brian. Then Miles and Bison. What happened on that boat—the Hakuna Matata—may never be fully known. Jealousy? Rage? A moment of panic followed by irreversible decisions?

Or… was there something more? There are theories, of course. Whispers that Serena and Bison were planning to cut Miles out of their lives for good. That mental illness played a role.

But no matter the details, three people set sail… and never returned.

Yet in the space he left behind, Bison Dele has become something larger. A symbol. A cautionary tale. An unfinished song. To some, he is the athlete who threw it all away.

To others, he is a modern-day wanderer, a soul too big for the boundaries of courts and contracts.

Maybe that’s why the story sticks with us. Not because of the mystery—but because of the man.

Because deep down, we understand the yearning to disappear. To start over. To find peace somewhere far from the noise. In the end, maybe Bison Dele found what he was looking for, if only briefly—a world of open water, endless stars, and a name that truly belonged to him.

Or maybe the waves claimed him before he ever had the chance. Either way, his story hasn’t sunk. It drifts—quietly, eternally—on the tide of what might have been.