Brazilians do not eat the same breakfasts as Americans.
My friend Chatty… Chatty GPT (I know, it’s a strange name, but she is very smart) tells me that a typical American breakfast consists of eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns, and coffee. Not my breakfast. I usually have coffee and maybe a piece of toast. (But I don’t think anyone who knows me would consider me typical.)
A typical Brazilian breakfast—or at least the one we eat at home—is a roll, fruit (either mango or papaya), and perhaps some cheese. My wife often has a tapioca crepe filled with cheese.
But Americans and Brazilians alike are complaining about breakfast these days.
Brazilians are frustrated because the price of coffee has gone up over 80% in the last year. Brazilians drink coffee all day long—it is as much a part of their national identity as samba or football. So, you can only imagine the political fracas over the cost of coffee, with each of the 28 political parties not in power attacking the one that currently resides in the presidential mansion. This, despite the fact that global warming and a series of storms destroyed a large portion of the coffee crop—factors that have nothing to do with politics.
Americans, on the other hand, are complaining about eggs. (That is no yolk—sorry, I have a disorder.) The price of eggs has nearly doubled to $7.09 from $3.70 last February. Of course, our national yolk is blaming the Democrats, despite claiming he would bring down egg prices on day one. The problem, much like the rest of the Yolk’s national agenda, is based on a big lie. The real reason egg prices have skyrocketed is avian flu, which is running rampant across the U.S.—but we can no longer measure it because Yolk won’t allow us to see that data.
The difference between our countries’ breakfast issues is that Brazil’s coffee crisis has an end in sight. New coffee plants will be planted, prices will come down, and there will be no ripple effect. The U.S. problem, however, will not go away. We have a government that does not believe in science, refuses to share data, and won’t fund the research necessary to prevent future crises. This means the situation will continue unabated for the foreseeable future. Worse, the ripple effect will hit everything made with eggs—which is, well, just about everything. And of course, the price of poultry will rise, because fewer and more expensive eggs mean more expensive chickens.
Which brings us to the Yolk-in-Chief’s platform of lower grocery prices—and, stand by for the big reveal—it was a lie. Shocking, I know. Even less shocking—though far more frightening—is that his followers will believe him when he inevitably blames DEI, the scientific elite, and the far left for the high price of eggs.
Sadly, the yolk’s on us for electing him.
My favorite author’s favorite catchphrase is:“There ain’t no such thing as a free lunch.” When you elect a fool you get what you have paid for.
Sadly, we are about to be reminded of that every time we sit down to breakfast.
Not only is the temperature consistently above 90 degrees, even in the darkest hours of the night (thanks, global warming—oh right, that doesn’t exist because Donald Trump signed an executive order declaring it so…), but the mood of the Brazilian people is heated as well. They are angry at the U.S.
Last night, one of the leading stories on the nightly news was the return of undocumented Brazilians from the U.S. back to Brazil. The condemnation wasn’t about the repatriation itself but rather the callous manner in which the U.S. handled it. Returning Brazilians reported being handcuffed and denied food, water, or bathroom breaks for up to 12 hours. You wouldn’t treat animals that way.
It’s not that Brazilians dislike the USA or its citizens. I know a highly educated, beautiful Brasileira who actually married an American and seems happy—most days. But they are deeply suspicious of Trump because he reminds them of their own Trump wannabe, Bolsonaro. You remember him. He was President for a while, and then, after losing the election, he attempted the same coup as Trump by encouraging an invasion of the capital. Here’s the difference: almost immediately, Bolsonaro was convicted of election crimes and is now barred from running for office.
Brazilians love democracy. They fought for it for decades and have strict laws and a separate court system to ensure elections remain fair and that no one colors outside the lines. They see Donald Trump as an existential threat to their democracy. Let that sink in for a moment—a U.S. President is considered an existential threat to another country’s democracy. There is a lot of historical context behind that, including the CIA’s role in helping sustain Brazil’s former dictatorship, but weren’t we supposed to be the white hats, not the black hats?
The unintended consequences of this are multifaceted. Brazilians are now hesitant to travel to the U.S., meaning Disney World will never be the same. Because of cuts to U.S. aid, the Amazon—the lungs of the world—will likely face increased exploitation, giving the planet a metaphorical case of emphysema. And, in the name of “Make America Great Again” and defeating China in the global economy, we’ve effectively cleared the playing field for them. China is heavily invested in Brazil, with multiple initiatives, not the least of which includes a $690 billion loan.
Making America great again has, in turn, made China great in Brazil—which would only be tolerable if it improved the quality of Chinese restaurants here in Rio. (Don’t ask. It’s awful.)
American exceptionalism—our place in the world—was built on our willingness to fight for democracy and uphold our ideals globally. We were willing to sacrifice our best and brightest so the world could be a better place for all its inhabitants. Donald Trump has dimmed that light so much that, from here, it’s hard to see it at all.
That morning twenty-three years ago began like so many others had for me. I rose early, conducted my morning ablutions, walked the dog and was in a cab heading to my office at the Sporting News before 7AM.
You could not help but notice that it was an extraordinarily beautiful day. The heat and humidity of summer had been replaced by clear blue skies and crisp fall like weather. The type of day my mother used to describe as being “positively Swiss.” It was so beautiful that I hesitated for a moment entering my building so I could enjoy it before putting my nose to the grindstone.
At 8:15 I was convinced that the most exceptional thing that was going to happen to me that day was that my assistant had actually arrived at the office on time and had kindly brought me my second cup of coffee. I thought it was going to be a good day even when I heard an airplane flying low and fast over our heads and casually remarked to her that the FAA didn’t take kindly to aircraft flying so low over the city.
That plane turned out to be the first plane which had lined itself up with the neighboring Empire State building and was flying down 5th Avenue at five hundred miles per hour. We found that out when someone came running in to my office to let us know that the Towers were on fire. We ran to the southern windows of our 27th floor office tower. It was from those windows that we watched in horror the moments that changed us forever.
We saw the second plane hit with a burst of orange flame. We watched first tower crumble and fall. And the second. We had no way of knowing or comprehending what we had just happened:
246 people who had bordered their flights minutes before had cruelly died when their planes had been converted to missiles.
2,606 innocently working at their desks had lost their lives in cloud of flame and dust.
343 firefighters ran into the Towers and never emerged.
60 police officers disappeared into the buildings never to be seen again.
8 paramedics went to save lives and lost theirs instead.
I had no way of knowing that my childhood friend and neighbor Todd Rancke , the first boy I had met when I moved to Summit was among the victims.
After making sure that my staff had a plan to get home, and my address in case they couldn’t I began my walk home. I remember seeing dust covered people, heads down, no doubt in shock, mechanically walking up town.
On Madison Avenue cars were lined up bumper to bumper but there were no horns indicating impatience of perceived slights, just the tramp of feet as pedestrians made their way home.
Cutting across the park, I saw groups of people huddled around boom boxes listening to broadcasts of the grim news of the day. Overhead, unbelievably, I heard the buzz of fighter jets patrolling the skies of my city. At the Imagine mosaic someone had already laid flowers. I remember thinking that the world of Lennon’s lyrics
.
Imagine there’s no countries It isn’t hard to do Nothing to kill or die for And no religion, too
Imagine all the people Livin’ life in peace You
You may say I’m a dreamer But I’m not the only one I hope someday you’ll join us And the world will be as one
Never seemed so far away.
I got money from an ATM because cash comes in handy in a disaster. I shopped at an empty Fairway knowing the city could be cut off from food for days as they shut down all access to the city. I went home and turned-on CNN and waited for the waylaid and the dispossessed to arrive. They came. They went. And we watched endless loops of the Towers crumbling.
I remember the frustration trying to reach my parents on the phone. The collapse of the towers had knocked out a major switching station for AT&T and the cell phone lines were jammed. Only my Blackberry worked.
I will never forget how good it felt when I finally got hold of them hours later and tell them I loved them.
The next morning, I rose early and went for a long run as I was training for the Chicago Marathon which was only weeks away. I ran south along the West Side Greenway. As I approached the Chelsea Piers, I could see the smoke rising from the pile and seeing the nearly mile long line up of Ambulances waiting to assist those who were beyond assistance. I felt I had to do something.
After my run was complete, I went to the American Red Cross HQ near my home and waited for 16 hours to give blood that we hoped would be needed. When I emerged, the wind had shifted and the smell from ground zero now engulfed the city. It was like no other odor I had ever encountered. It was of death, fire and concrete dust and I wondered if this is the smell of hell.
I won’t lie. I didn’t go to bed that night thinking about the lessons we had learned in the last couple of days. At that point I was just grateful for the fact that most of those I loved and cared for were safe and sound. However, in the twenty years that have passed I have thought a lot about that day and what it has taught me.
Be grateful for everything. Every day is a precious day and that I need to do all I can do to savor it.
You don’t own a day you only rent it so you need to do your best and accept the stuff you cannot change.
I have learned to open my heart bigger, to love all, and to accept all for their gifts.
I have learned not to denigrate when I don’t understand someone or how they manifest themselves but instead to try to understand their journey.
Hold all those that I love close to me. They are hot house flowers and could disappear in a moment…love now.
Opportunities come in all forms. Be ready when the butterfly lands on your shoulder.
Prepare for the worst and hope for the best. And if the worst happens to look for the best in people even if they have not earned that trust.
My family, my wife, my sister, brother, brother-in-law nieces and nephews are my most precious gift. I do what I can everyday to make sure they know they are cherished.
Learn to love better every day. It is a skill that will never let you down.
I know we have not learned enough. The days of coming together to solve our common problems have seemed to have evaporated in fake news, invectives and mistrust.
I think about how together we felt as a country in the days that followed 9/11 and how it good felt when everyone had each other’s back. I lay much of the blame for that on our former President and his political allies who rallied to divide not to include. And to be blunt, I have grown intolerant of their bullshit. Last night’s performance of ad hominem attacks, weird tales of pet barbeques, and outright lies confirmed it.
September 11th should have taught us that we are all in this together. That you need to look out for your family, friends, and neighbors. That facts are facts. Cut the crap. Do your part and get over yourself. Ask your neighbor if they need help. Say a kind word to everyone you encounter. Smile at strangers. Every person who died on that horrible day twenty years ago would do anything to be in your shoes.
On Thursday, Donald Trump stated that the Congressional Medal of Honor, the highest military honor we bestow, is not as prestigious as the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
He said that the “Presidential Medal of Freedom is much better” because those who receive the Medal of Honor are often severely injured or deceased. He emphasized that recipients of the Medal of Honor are typically “in very bad shape because they’ve been hit so many times by bullets, or they’re dead,” contrasting this with recipients of the Presidential Medal of Freedom, whom he described as “healthy, beautiful” people.
To be awarded the Medal of Honor, a recipient must go through the following process:
Recommendation by chain of command.
Command review.Chain of command review.
Service Branch Review
Department of Defense Review
Presidential Review.
Congressional Notification.
To be awarded the President Medal of Freedom the only requirement is that the President decides to give it to you.
In other words, there is no comparison. The Medal of Honor is awarded to those who have taken an oath to serve this country and were willing to, or did, sacrifice their life for their country. It is not a political award like the Presidential Medal of Freedom.
Why would Donald Trump say such a completely senseless thing? The secret, I believe, lies in who he has given it to—one person in particular: Miriam Adelson, the billionaire Republican megadonor, whose political advisors were present at Trump’s press conference. He was reminding them that he had given her the most important honor the country can bestow, and she owed him.
Is it a surprise that, after the press conference, Adelson’s political aide Andy Abboud was overheard telling attendees at a campaign event at Trump’s golf club in Bedminster, New Jersey, on Thursday that whatever the GOP presidential nominee needs from Adelson, he’s going to get, according to Abboud and a person with direct knowledge of the matter?
This is what we have come to expect from Donald Trump—quid pro quo for his friends in the billionaire class, with little regard for what his words mean to those who fought and died for our country. They don’t matter.
Allowing a man as base, shallow, and transactional as him to be Commander-in-Chief would be a disservice to anyone who ever fought for this country.
I wake up late in the afternoon and the room is dappled with light and shadow. I make no effort to get up. I have no place to be and where I am seems as good a place to think as any, perhaps even nap a little longer. But then I think of Fennie. She has not been walked since early this morning and she is not averse to leaving me messages I would have to clean up later if her walking schedule is not kept. I look around the room. Fenway, good girl that she is, is laying on the sofa directly opposite my chair making sure that some hobgoblin or some other evil spirit did not bother me while I slept. She is not alone. Sitting next to her is my mother or at least the early twenties version of her. Hair cut so it just touched her shoulders, wearing a white blouse with a princess collar, a navy cardigan and matching skirt. There is a single strand of pearls around her neck.
I am not completely surprised to see her. This is not her first visit with me during the last few months. They mainly occurred during activities that reminded me of her such as going to the supermarket I used to take her to on Saturday mornings or the hairdresser we both used to get our haircut. Or when I felt particularly alone. She rarely said anything. There was no need. Her presence was enough.
Today was different. She asked, “Did you like the book?”
I said, “I really did.” She looked at me the way she used to when I was young. The one she used when I would come home from school, and she would ask how school was. “Fine” was not an acceptable answer. She wanted details. What had I learned that day. Whom had I played with. Had I had any troubles during the day. A full report. Not some dismissive thrown away line. Understanding her look, I continued “You know I love Verne. He writes with joy and a little snark. He beckons the sense of adventure in all young boys no matter how old they are. And he is a hopeless romantic, like me, so reading his book makes me feel as if I am reading a kindred spirit. Even the late nineteenth century style of writing, when the author is being paid by the word does not bother me because he uses glorious words, we don’t use any more like “pedant “and “savant.”
Mom smiled in the way teachers smile to encourage their students to go a little deeper. She asked, “What did you think of the book’s conclusion.”
“It was very romantic.”
“True. And?”
“I think he missed an opportunity?”
“How so?”
“At the end of the book Heather tells Oliver that they no longer need to search for the green ray. Her quest to find the ray, to ensure she finds love, is complete. She has found him, and her quest is complete.”
“And?”
“I don’t agree. Happiness is a constant struggle. Love, once found, needs to be nurtured and cared for. Joy and happiness are temporary states of being. If they weren’t we would never grow. And not to sound like a greeting card, or some television guru, everyone is on a constant journey to find happiness and to make sense of the world. Just because you have it now does not mean you will have it tomorrow. It is a never-ending journey. Not a destination. The obligation that we have to ourselves is to constantly search for our green rays, whatever it is. And if you find it, amen! But it shouldn’t stop because the sun has set on that day. There is always tomorrow’s green ray that needs to be found. And if you don’t see it, if you don’t experience it, that is okay too. Tomorrow gives you another opportunity. It is the struggle and the hope that makes the green ray special.
Mom smiles and says, “Top marks” and opens her arms beckoning me for a hug. As I attempt to extricate myself from the chair my book falls to the floor. I bend over to pick it up and when I look up, she is gone.
I feel the boat’s engines burble off. The boat is adrift, but Captain Kam has, with the skill of a sea goddess, positioned the boat so its stern is facing west. We are adrift. Waiting for the sun’s daily swan song. From where I sit, I can see on my right the black silhouette of the hills of the Kapalua peninsula jutting out into the inky blue of the Pacific. To my left, the northern tip of Lanai and perfectly centered between the two, in a robin’s egg blue sky is the golden sun. The rest of my party has not joined me in the stern. I don’t know why. Maybe they are not interested in postcard perfect sunsets or seeing green flashes. Or maybe they just don’t know that the day is about to give way to the night. Captain Kam and Mo are also strangely absent. Perhaps they have seen too many sunsets for this one to matter or far more likely, knowing the captain, she feels her presence would be an intrusion.
None of my ghosts are here either. Mom, Dad, Desmond, Wen, Duke and Con and all the others have decided that, at the moment, their presence is not needed. I am alone and grateful for the quiet. The sun, now a brilliant yellow, with a tangerine halo, is a perfect circle just centimeters above the sea. The sky above it is an ombre of pumpkin to burnt sienna to apricot.
The last eighteen months have given the gift of time. Time to think unencumbered by the normal daily distractions of life. To evaluate where life’s journey has taken me and to contemplate which path I want to take next. As cruel and unforgiving as Covid has been it has also given me time with personal ghosts. Those spirits, that in other times, would haunt you in the middle of the night, and keep you from returning to your dreams. Most of those phantoms are no longer belligerents and are now allies. I no longer struggle with them but instead, when they visit, they help me in my battles for sanity and self. The few I still wrestle with remind me that the journey continues, and I find peace in that too.
A small gust of wind moves across the ocean’s surface, flattening it as if by an unseen hand. It disturbs a flock of seagulls who were resting in our wake, it brings with it the scent of the clean, crisp briny smell of the ocean and a hint of jasmine and hibiscus from the nearby shore. It is the smell of paradise, or at least this one. I wish that I could bottle it and take it with me. But as I can’t, I breathe it in, hoping that my memory will be an adequate repository for it.
The sun touches the sea. It is now a small globe so yellow it is almost white surrounded by a pyramid of saffron with a terracotta scarf that spans the horizon. It is descending rapidly now. It seems to have cast off Maui’s ropes as it urgently moves for the day to end. I appreciate its haste. How many times over the last sixteen months have I just prayed the day would end? Hoping against hope that when I woke on a new day that the nightmare of fear, disease and failed leadership will have evaporated in the night and been replaced by a world that more closely resembled the normal world that came before. But it never did.
Over time I have come to see it as a gift as had so many others. Instead of plodding along on the course we set ourselves on years ago we have been forced to question it. Confront the lives we are living and decide whether it is what we really want or is there a better way. While I welcome the night, and the rest that it brings, I know longer dread the days because the light of those days has made me who I am, and I am better than I was before.
The setting sun has shape shifted again. It is now a half dome with a core near white light surrounded by a saffron case. The sea is stained with golden highlights and there is a beam of shining gold that seems to start at our boat and run directly into the heart of our sinking star.
The halo changes. The sky above it is an ombre of pumpkin to burnt sienna to apricot. Slowly, by millimeters it descends into the sea. First a quarter, then a half, and finally just a fingernail of golden yellow. Then, without fanfare it dips beneath the waves and just as I think I will be disappointed once again, there is a brilliant flash of jade.
Kam is at my shoulder. She asks, “Did you see it?”
Without taking my eye of the horizon I reply, “I did.”
“And?”
“I am glad to have seen it.”
“Nothing more than that?”
“Honestly?”
“You don’t need to lie to me.”
“I was a little underwhelmed.”
“You didn’t think it was beautiful?”
“No. It was amazingly beautiful.”
“Then what?”
“I guess that part of it is that I have that looking for the green flash for so long to have it come and go in seconds and with as little fanfare as any other moment in any other day seems incongruous for me. I am not saying there should have been heavenly music and a bolt of energy pass through us leaving us physically and emotionally different, but it should have been more than what it was.”
Kam caught my gaze and gently said “You said that was part of it before I say anything, what is the other part?”
“Had this been even a few years ago, there were so many others I would have delighted in sharing this moment with…not the least of whom were Duke and Con. I wish they were around so I could share with them that I had finally seen the green flash and we could laugh and make jokes about it.”
“But…”
“Now that I have seen the flash, what is next?”
“Are you going to stop looking for it when you see the setting sun? Or are you going to say I wonder if there will be a green flash tonight and wait and see if you can see it again? Of course, you are going to look. It is like any other goal you have in life. When you reach it does not mean that is the end. It is really the beginning of what is next.”
“Then why I am I so sad?”
“Endings are sad until you decide that they are not.”
I look off to the west. The last light of day is an incandescent tangerine hovering at the horizon. I turn and face Kam and say “Perhaps, every once in a while, we have the time and the opportunity to look for the Green Flash. What a gift. If we see nothing but the last moments of the day that is great. We have taken that moment for ourselves. But even if we are lucky enough to see it nothing has changed. Every time I look at a setting sun into the sea, I will still wonder whether I will see the flash or not. I am not going to stop looking for them just because I have seen one. The quest does not end. The journey continues. No matter how many flashes we see or don’t see we will always look for it because that is our nature.
It is the Golden Hour. The time-of-day cinematographers and photographers cherish as it bathes the world with perfect light for their craft. We are heading east; the jade and gold hills of Maui are to my left lit in perfect relief. The light accentuates their steep slopes, precipitous valley and ravines. The few trees that populate these hills stand out like mushrooms in a sea of grass. I am sitting in the aft, facing the setting sun. I am alone by choice. After a shot of tequila to honor Duke and Con, Del, Sam, Hadley and Liam retreated to the bow seating area with the bottle. It is clear their intention is to dissolve the sting of the afternoon with a bottle of Herradura Anejo. I understand. Olive therapy has helped me through more than one emotional crisis. But it was alcohol that killed Duke and memorializing him with drink seems wrong to me.
Kam taps me on my shoulder. She asks with her mild Hawaiian accent “You look all alone back here, are you doing okay?”
I appreciate her kindness and say “Thanks. I am fine. I am content being by myself.” Laughing I add. “It’s how I have spent most of the last year and a half, so I am used to it.” I don’t share with her that the real reason I am sitting by myself has more to do with not spending time with Del and ripping open old wounds than anything else.
She says “Well, I don’t want to disturb you. Just let Mo or me know if there is anything you need.”
I reply and say, “Would you mind answering a couple of non-serious questions for me.”
She gives me a quizzical look and says “Sure, shoot.””
I ask, “Is Namaka, an ancient Polynesian name?”
She chuckles and says, “I think that you know that it is.”
“Sister to Pele, right?” She nods and I share with her the self-satisfied smile of someone who has solved a puzzle. I look off to the west. The sun is hanging a couple of fingers above an indigo sea, the horizon beginning to develop a corona of tangerines and pinks. I say, “About thirty minutes to sunset, right?”
She replies, “Something like that.”
I ask, “Do you think there will be a green flash, tonight.?”
She pats me on the shoulder and with a grin says, “That is a question even I cannot answer but you know what we Hawaiian’s say?”
“No.”
“That seeing the green flash is reminder of Pele’s presence and her volcanic temper.” She pauses and adds sardonically “Like we need reminding.”
The Sea Goddess continues its leisurely cruise in the golden glow of late afternoon. Its wake is a white v on an indigo ocean generating small waves in each direction that diminish the further they travel from their source. Above us, sea birds circle, no doubt looking for a late afternoon meal and perhaps mistaking us for a fishing boat where they can get it without too much work. My father was a birder. When we had been to Maui years earlier, he had spent hours with a pair of small binoculars trying to identify birds that he had never seen before. I remember names like spectacled tern, masked booby, and Laysan albatross. I don’t have his encyclopedic memory of avians nor a pair of binoculars to help me see them better. Instead, I just enjoy their effortless flight, surfing air currents and rarely if ever flapping their wings. If only life were so easy.
I had never heard of the green flash until Conor, and I had gone on vacation to Key West together in our early twenties. We were single and poor, and we wanted to go on vacation somewhere that wouldn’t break the budget and where there was at least a possibility of meeting friendly young women. Key West fit the bill. After our arrival it did not take us long to discover that the kickoff celebration for the night of partying was the daily ritual of watching the sun descend into the Gulf of Mexico from the pier at the foot of Duval Street. In addition to the tourists from the north who had not felt the heat of the sun in months, there were the card-carrying members of the Conch Republic whose lives were caught up in the Margaritaville lifestyle of sun and fun. They earned a living by juggling, sword swallowing, tight rope walking, playing the steel drums and dozens of other ways of having the tourists gathered on the pier fund their lifestyle.
The second time we attended this nightly festival of fun, Conor charmed our way into meeting two comely young women from Miami who had come to Key West as a mini bachelorette party. Kaydee Brown, willowy and blonde was a flight attendant on American Airlines and was the bride to be. Her companion, Leila Tove, was 5’3” with sun-streaked dark hair, large engaging brown eyes and an easy smile, was an account executive with a large Hispanic advertising agency who spoke with a mild Latin accent. They had been fast friends since their undergraduate days at the University of Miami when both pledged Delta Delta Delta (TriDelt) sorority. Kaydee’s schedule wouldn’t allow for a normal bachelorette weekend and this trip had been decided on the fly when her schedule had suddenly been shifted.
Kaydee immediately attached herself to Con. Perhaps she sensed that if you were looking to sow wild oats, he would be the right one to harvest them. It didn’t bother me at all. She was way too loud and way too forward for me and the idea of having an affair with a woman who was about to be married bothered me. I am not a prude, but I know me. I tend to fall in love with people with whom I have sex. And falling in love with a soon to be married woman would not be good for my heart.
Besides, I found Leila far more attractive, physically and otherwise. There was more to her than her party girlfriend. There was laughter in her eyes. She seemed happy with herself and her life, but she was also holding something in reserve. She was not going to share all of who she was with just anybody. You needed to qualify first. She had secrets and if you wanted to plumb them you would have to put in the time first.
While our friends tried to determine how many Hurricanes or Woo Woo’s a person can safely consume within an hour, we would find a quiet corner in the bar and talk. She had not grown up in the United States. Her father, a veteran of the OSS in WW2, had gone to work in South America. She was vague about what his business was, but he moved around quite a bit and somewhere along the way he had married a Brazilian woman and Leila was the only child from that union. When Leila was ten, and they were living in Rio, her mother died. When I asked her how, she changed the subject and would not return to it. They left Rio and moved to Sao Paulo, then Buenos Aires and just before she left for University, Montevideo.
Over the course of the next few days as our friends made them scarce and our hotel rooms became off limits to us, we spent a lot of time together. We found we could talk about anything and everything from her favorite soccer team, Flamengo, to politics where we shared the same progressive outlook, to what we hoped our life would bring to us including family and devotion to our partners. We only had one major disconnect. She was determined to spend her life in Florida. She was a warm weather woman and could not see herself living somewhere the temperature routinely dipped below sixty. I, on the other hand, could not see myself living in a state where every strip mall had a strip club, and the average age was near death.
Our disconnect meant that we could not see a future for us. Still, the attraction between us was palpable. Being together, while wonderful, became difficult. We were like two magnets. The closer we got to each other the harder it was to pull us apart. Something had to give way and on our last night in Key West something did. We were at the end of the pier, standing shoulder to shoulder, not quite touching and hyper aware we were not, when Leila asked, “Have you ever seen the green flash?”
I had no idea what she was talking about and told her so. She laughed and said “You northern boys! You don’t know anything important. The green flash happens every once in a great while just as the setting sun dips below the horizon there is a brilliant green flash. Some say that if you see it tomorrow will be a beautiful day. Other people say that if you see it whatever you hope for comes true.”
Flirting, I said “Really? So, if we see the green flash this evening what will you be hoping for.” I knew what I was hoping for, but she would not take the bait. She just smiled and continued to look to the west where the sun was minutes from touching the horizon.
Being nervous, and at a loss of what to say, I utter “Are you sure the green flash is not some myth created by the local chamber of commerce to drum up revenue for local businesses?”
Leila, still gazing out at the rapidly setting sun, responded by taking my hand and saying “My favorite myth about the green flash is that it has the virtue of making anyone who sees it impossible to deceive in the matters of the heart. If you see it, you will not only be able to see more closely into your heart but read the thoughts of others.”
The sun touched the sea. I have no idea if there was a green flash that evening as Leila and I were too busy kissing when the sun disappeared below the horizon.
That was the only evening Leila and I ever spent together. Distance and timing made sure of that. But we remained friends and over time used to tease each other about the Green Flash. I took the position that the green flash was a myth, and she defended its existence. On occasion I would send her photographs of the setting sun and say, “Yet again no green flash.” She would return the favor like the time she sent me a YouTube clip from the movie “Pirates of the Caribbean.”
Hector Barbossa: “Ever gazed upon the green flash, Master Gibbs?”
Joshamee Gibbs: “I reckon I seen my fair share. Happens on rare occasions. The last glimpse of sunset, a green flash shoots up into the sky. Some go their whole lives without ever seeing it. Some claim to have seen it who ain’t. And some say-”
Pintel: “It signals when a soul comes back to this world from the dead!”
At that point, Leila was living in Los Angeles with her husband and son, so I wrote her back and said, “And we all know that everything created in Hollywood is true.”
But my curiosity about the Green Flash and my cynicism about its existence did not begin and end with Leila Tove. I joked with everyone about it. Conor, the boys, other friends, even my father on our trip to Hawaii.
The Christmas after the trip to Hawaii with my parents, my mother, the antiquarian book seller, gave me the first American edition of the Green Ray by Jules Verne. It is a magnificent book with wonderful illustrations by Mary De Hauteville and a hand colored, imprinted 19th century depiction of seaside life surrounded by a frame of ivy. The note that accompanied the book read, “I overheard your conversation with your dad about the Green Flash in Hawaii and thought you might like it.
I did. I loved it. Not only had books been my escape since I had read the House at Pooh Corner when I was four, but Jules Verne was a particular favorite. His book, 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea was the first adult book I ever read. Mom also knew that books were my weak spot. If I read a book, I could not give it away or even lend it to anyone. Which is why my library has grown to eight full bookcases and a few stacks located at strategic locations around our home. The Green Ray was given a place of pride, un-read on the bookshelf in my living room that contained my most cherished books.
It was not until shortly before I left on this trip that it occurred to me to read it. And then only by accident. I was walking through the living room early one day and the morning light highlighted the colorful spine of the book. It stopped me in my tracks. Mom’s death was still raw and here was a gift that she had given me that I had not even bothered to read. It made the near constant undercurrent of guilt I felt about my mother’s passing acute. I would receive no more gifts from her. To assuage my guilt and perhaps to feel the warmth of Mom’s hug one more time, I pulled the Green Ray from the shelf and settled myself in the brown leather Swedish recliner that used to be in my Dad’s office and now graced my living room and began to read.
I read it in a single four hour sitting only getting up when nature called and to refill my cup of coffee. It is the story of an indulged nearly eighteen-year-old wealthy Scottish girl Helena Campbell who is being raised by her bachelor uncles. She reads in the local newspaper of a phenomenon known as the “green ray.”
What intrigues Helena Campbell is not the visual. Her Uncles are anxious for her to marry. While she is sure they have her best interest at heart she also knows them well enough that when it comes to love they know less than little. The article says “The Green Ray has the virtue of making him who has seen it impossible to be deceived in the matters of sentiment; at its apparition all deceit and falsehood are done aways, and he who has been fortunate enough to once behold it is enabled to see closely into his own heart and read the thought of others.” For her, seeing the green ray is the only way to ensure her future happiness.
She convinces her uncles to go on an expedition so she may see the Green Ray. They travel from their home in Glasgow to the West of Scotland where they hope to catch the phenomenon. Things do not go as planned. First, she runs into the suitor her uncle’s hope she will marry. He turns out to be an unattractive boorish mansplainer who provides anyone who will listen to the history of and origin of everything he sees. He thinks the “green ray” is nonsense. Worse, he ruins her opportunity to see the flash on two occasions.
A weekend junket turns into weeks. She travels from island to island looking for a spot in which she can see the Green Ray. There too she is blocked from the sight of it. Once by directing the ship she charted to rescue a man caught in a maelstrom. That man, Oliver Simpson, an artist and a romantic, becomes sympathetic with her mission and knowing the archipelago well directs her to a deserted island that boasts a completely unencumbered view of the setting sun. But before they can view the sun’s daily departure the island is battered by the remnants of a hurricane. Helena becomes trapped in a cave during the height of the storm. Oliver, heroically, saves her.
That evening, as often happens after a storm, the skies cleared. Helena, Oliver and the rest of their party climb to the highest point of the island to view the setting sun. Finally, the Green Ray is seen, an “incomparable tint of liquid jade.”
It is missed by Helena and Oliver who are busy kissing. Instead of regretting missing the Green Flash Helena tells Oliver “We have something far better still! We have seen the happiness of the legend attached to the observation of that phenomenon! And since we have found it my dear Oliver, let us be contented, and leave to those, who have never yet known it, the search for the green ray.”
The recliner is one of the all-time great napping chairs and even though I am tired from my reading I have to do one thing before I close my eyes. I punch up Amazon on my phone and order a copy of “The Green Ray” for Leila with a note that reads “I think at the very least you will find this book ironic and maybe realize we don’t need to see the Green Flash to experience it.” I am just about to hit the “Place Your Order” button when I remember that Leila is gone. She caught Covid while undergoing treatment for Thyroid cancer. Hers is a ghost I have not been able to confront.
It takes a while to fall asleep and when I do it is not an easy rest.
I Iook over at Del and say “When I asked you to say a few words today, I told you it would be just about Con. I told you that I would leave Duke’s eulogy to others. And I will. But with your permission I would like to say a couple words about my nephew.” Del stiffens. No doubt she is worried about what I am going to say and yet she cannot really deny me. Liam puts his hand on her arm to reassure her of my good intentions and with that she gives me a nod to proceed.
“Covid took so much from all of us. Everyone in this country, in the world for that matter, we all have a story or many stories about how Covid injured them. Everything from the inability to do day to day things like going to the grocery store or losing their source of income to losing someone they love. In Con’s case it was probably merciful. Covid ended his suffering. But Duke died of Covid too. Not from the infection itself but its side effects of fear, isolation, and despair. They conspired with his brain chemistry to create a toxic mix that ended him.”
“Perhaps it was a blessing for him too. All of us here know how he suffered.”
Moving my gaze to Del I say “And for a very long time I blamed myself for his loss. I practiced tough love with him. I would not talk to him unless he was sober. I did that because the family felt that was the best way to approach his disease. I did so despite the fact that Conor told me that approach would never work on his son. That it would just make Duke want to prove us wrong.”
“Had we lost Con and Duke in normal times it would have been much easier for us to bury the pain of their loss. We could have immersed ourselves in our work, friends, exercise, shopping, chores and all the mundane minutiae of everyday life so that the sorrow and grief we felt is diluted like a drop of ink in a glass of water. Covid would not allow us to do that. Coffee breaks were held in your kitchen. The gym was in your basement or spare bedroom. Your supermarket was Instacart. Your favorite restaurant, Doordash. Amazon became your mall.
For most, it was the first time in our adult lives, if not our whole lives, where we were forced to take a beat and evaluate our life and what we wanted from it. Suddenly people were stuck with partners that they had been escaping from every day through work and other means and forced to spend time with their significant others. Not surprisingly divorce rates skyrocketed which in my mind is a positive outcome.” And looking at Del I add “People who don’t belong together shouldn’t be together.”
“You don’t need to look far for other positive things to come from Covid. Like the “great resignation” where people left their jobs because they had the opportunity to realize that what they were doing did not give them anything more than money and they wanted more from life. They resigned in search of greener pastures. It created the “gig economy” where people were willing to earn less to have a better quality of life. Jobs became remote and instead of being tethered to a job that required hours of commuting every day or living in a place they did not like, folks could use that time for things they enjoyed or finding a place to live where their heart could soar when they stepped out their front door.”
“Covid did not give me those gifts. I was already a part of the gig economy. I did something I loved when I wanted to do it. I lived in a place I loved. What it gave me, as it gave to so many others, was an overwhelming amount of alone time. Twelve months where the only human company I had was two dimensional and on screen. I was alone. While Nadine and I talked multiple times a day and wrote each other lengthy emails it could not replace physically being with someone you love. When someone is in your arms it is far easier to share your fears and doubts. When someone is far away, and alone just like you, you don’t want to burden them because there is no hug to steady them, and you don’t want them to worry about your troubles because you know they have their own challenges.”
I chuckle ruefully and say “Turns out spending all that time alone when those you love are dying and the world is locked down in a global pandemic will play with your mind. Who knew? For me I started having lengthy conversations with Fennie. Nothing really all that unusual. She and I have had one sided conversation since she was just a puppy. But as my time away from others lengthened, and my ability to distract myself diminished, hurts, slights, wrongs, missed opportunities and even lost loves began to invade my thoughts. They became the things I interacted with each day and wove themselves into the fabric of my life. I called them my ghosts because they haunted me. I guess I could have buried them if I had tried hard enough. Hide them away in some psychic cubbyhole. But they would always be there, and past experiences taught me they would escape their hiding places at exactly the time you wanted to see them least, creating more regrets, more hurt and bigger problems. “
“I decided, since I had the time and had nothing better to do instead of burying my ghosts, I would get to know them and try to figure out why after years and even decades they were still with me. And, if I could, come to peace with them. Understand the paths I chose and perhaps, if I were lucky, help me come to terms with my mistakes, so the road ahead would be a little less bumpy.”
“This morning, I went to Mt. Haleakala to see the sunrise. I went because it was a place Duke thought was special. A place he loved and shared with me in one of his epic text rants about how seeing the sunrise changed his perception of the world. I went there because I hoped I might be able to have a “conversation” with him. I needed to come to terms with his decision to leave because, I still feel guilty about his death. I had far too many unresolved could haves, should haves and would haves for his spirit to rest easily with me.”
“Haleakala is an improbable place. According to Hawaiian mythology it is where the god Maui convinced the sun to slow down so his mother’s laundry would dry, and the crops would grow faster. It snows there despite sitting on the equator and it is where they have a view on the universe found nowhere else on earth. Not surprisingly, at least for me, I ran into Duke’s spirit. When I asked him why he was there, he laughed and said, “where else would I be.” Of course he was right. I had conjured him. For a while we just stared into the stirrings of a new day and enjoyed each other’s company in silence.”
Just before dawn, as the clouds down below were bathed in the pink of the newborn day, I finally had the courage to tell him the reason I had summoned him. I told him how angry I was with him for leaving us in the way that he did. He had so much more he could give us. So much he could have contributed to the world. Giving up like he did was selfish and horrifically painful to those he left behind. The Duke I loved was compassionate and kindhearted. How could he have done such a thing to us? He was patient with me. Of course he was. He said I could not understand because I did not share his brain disease. His bipolar disorder took him places, dark places, that I could never understand because our thought processes were so much different that his.”
“I told him I would continue to try to make sense of his departure, but I was not confident that I ever could. As we spoke dawn broke. It was more glorious than he described to me. More magnificent than the pictures he had shared with me. It was then, in the light of the new day I told him the real reason I had come to Haleakala. I needed his forgiveness. I should have known tough love would not work for him. Con had told me, that compassionate engagement, not confrontation, was the way to reach him. I should have listened better. Tried a little harder and maybe I would not have failed him.”
“I thought he would forgive me. He knew how much I cherished him. Forgiving me was a nice thing to do. He said that if it was in his power to forgive me, he would, but he could not. The only person who could forgive me was me.”
I looked up and looking at our small congregation and said “I miss my brother Con. He has been a part of my life for so long and I love him so deeply that I doubt there will be a day in my life when I won’t think of him. But he had a good run. Better than most and I am at peace with that. Duke’s death is still too hard for me. Despite our conversation I still struggle to understand and perhaps I never will, but I will continue to try. Just like I will continue to try to find a way to find forgiveness for myself for being nice when I should have been kind.”
Del was glaring at me. I told her I only wanted a few minutes to speak about Con. A eulogy that she had lost the right to give years before. I should have mentioned to her that I also wanted to say a few words about Duke, but I didn’t want to have a fight with her about it. She would have wanted to know what I was going to say and there was no doubt in my mind she would have fought me about it. Not only were the metaphors I used not a part of the fundamental Christian liturgy but the words I had chosen carefully may have hit to close to home. Surely, if I felt personally responsible for my nephew’s death she should have felt more. And no matter how carefully I chose my words, she knew that I was telling her I felt she had forsaken her son when he had needed her the most. I also knew that at some point, if I were to find peace, I would need to find a way to forgive her. Which is why, despite her clear anger with me, I give her a wordless hug.
I am startled out of my reflection when Liam calls my name. “Uncle Danny do you want to say anything?”
I replied, “Sorry. Just lost in the moment. I do.”
I look around at our group. Sam is holding Del’s hand and looking at the deck as if he contained the secret of salvation. Hadley and Liam are also holding hands, but they have their eyes fixed on me as do Con and Duke.”
I clear my throat and say “Con and I talked about what I would say at his funeral. I told him that whatever I said it would be without hysterics, chest pounding and wails. I would try to remember him as how he was with stories that humanized not beatify him. The person we loved. Not a fairy tale version who bore no resemblance to the one who lived. “
“With that in mind, let me begin by saying the obvious, Con was not a perfect person. He had glaring and massive flaws. For example, he was way too charming for his own good, and he knew it. No doubt his charisma was rooted in his Irish heritage and perhaps a pinch from the time we kissed the Blarney Stone. He would use his charm to his advantage despite the consequences to the person he was charming. Such as the night he convinced me to steal an industrial size jar of pickled onions from the snack bar at the Hill Club where I worked, and his family were members. I cannot remember how he convinced me or why, except that pickled onions were, for some reason, a favorite snack. Karma bit us on the ass that night. Somehow the1/2-gallon jar of onions broke in the back seat of his father’s car. Needless to say, his old man was furious. He made us detail his car and then reported our shenanigans to the management of the club as he sat on their board. The result was I got fired and his father got a clean car and Con had a new story to tell.”
I look over at Con, he is chuckling and gives me a thumbs up. I continue “Please do not get me wrong. I have free will. I could have said no, and over time it was something that I became adept at with him. I mention this story because it is symbolic of a bigger truth about my buddy. There is not a single person I know who loved Con who hasn’t felt the backside of his charm. Where they have done something that they should not have done because Con convinced them that it would be a good idea to head down that path.”
“The amazing part of this is not that Conor had used his charm and lied to us or betrayed us in some way. The amazing part is we almost always forgave him for it. So complete is that gift, that now, a little more than a year after his death, I struggle to remember any of the bullshit he managed to foist on me or on others. I only remember the laughs and fun we had before, during and after our little adventures.
“Suffice it to say, that wherever Con was, there was a party, or a good time was to follow. As a disciple of Hunter S. Thompson, he insisted on it. For years, whether it be in Stockholm where he got a party started by telling a group of Swedes gathered for a wedding how fucked up their country was or in Key West the night Ronald Regan was elected President and he kept pouring “Hurricanes” down my throat to ease the pain brought about by that victory, he insisted on calling himself the Dr. (as in Hunter S.) and me his attorney based on characters from Con’s favorite books Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. .
“I never asked Con why he loved the Dr. so much. I did not have to because I knew. It was the Gonzo writer’s code for life. He believed that “Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well-preserved body, but rather skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming “Wow! What A Ride!” And “the happier man, he who has braved the storm of life and lived rather or he who has stayed securely on shore and merely existed.”
I look over at my friend. He has one arm draped around his son’s shoulders and with the other is pointing to his nose and then at me.
“Con, and for that matter Duke would have wanted a funeral like Thompson’s. His carbonized remains were shot from a canon placed upon a 150-foot tower accompanied by red, white, blue and green fireworks while accompanied by Norman Greenbaum’s” Spirit in the Sky” and Bob Dylan’s “Mr. Tambourine Man.” That is the type of finale my buddy would have loved only he probably would have substituted Bruce Springsteen’s “Growing Up” for Tambourine Man. Unfortunately, Thompson’s funeral cost an estimated $3M and that was not in our budget. Which is why his carbonized remains will be quietly placed into the sea on a boat in the middle of the Pacific. Not quite as spectacular but I have no doubt that Con would have approved.”
Duke and Con both give me a thumbs up.
“I do not want to leave you with the impression my friend was a complete hedonist. He wasn’t. That was only the part that showed above the surface. For as long as I can remember Con was seeking a bigger truth. Whether that was embracing transcendental meditation and the teachings of Maharishi Mahesh Yogi when we were in high school or reading the poetry of Kahlil Gibran to becoming “born again” and his embrace of evangelical Christianity he sought deeper meaning for his purpose on earth.”
“The bigger meaning and what came next was very much on his mind after he received his diagnosis. Shortly after he began his first round of chemo, I flew out to Manhattan Beach to hang out with him. Sitting out in the California sun, eating donuts, he confessed to me while he was telling everyone else that he was going to lick this thing “even that had to give him a new brain”, he knew the score. The clock was ticking and getting louder every second. He was staring into the abyss we all will face, and he was scared about what came next and he wanted to know my thoughts.
I told him that I was the last person in the world he should be asking that question. I was a heathen: a non-practicing Jew. But he insisted that he wanted to know my thoughts. I told him since my dad’s death I had spent a lot of time thinking about it. I told him that it made no sense to me that the essence of who we are would not be preserved in some form. Newton’s law of the conservation of energy state “energy can neither be created nor destroyed; rather, it can only be transformed or transferred from one form to another. I told him that science suggests our energy will be converted into something new.
“I asked him if he remembered a book we had read together in our humanities class in high school called “The Razor’s Edge” by Somerset Maugham. There was a quote I loved from it “Nothing in the world is permanent, and we’re foolish when we ask anything to last, but surely, we’re still more foolish not to take delight in it while we have it. … “
“I told him none of us knew when we would die. For all we knew I could pass away before he did. Our sacred obligation to ourselves and to those around us is to delight in our life while we have it. He had the greatest capacity for delight in life of anyone I knew. He should not abandon that just because of a cancer diagnosis.”
“I have no idea whether what we talked about that day gave him any comfort. I hope so. I can tell you that when Liam and Hadley took over as his primary care givers, he found joy every day because they were there for him every day. Perhaps it was in the comfort of his care that he found the true meaning of his existence. To paraphrase Maugham
“The man I am speaking about is not famous. He never will be. When his life came to a close, he left no more trace of his sojourn on earth than a stone thrown into a river leaves on the surface of the water. But it may be that the way of life that he has chosen for himself and the peculiar strength and sweetness of his character may have an ever-growing influence over those who knew and loved him so that, long after his death perhaps, it may be realized that there lived in this age a very remarkable creature.”
I can’t hold back the tears and begin to cry. Liam puts his hand on my shoulder. I steady up and continue.
“Con you were a remarkable friend and father.” Pausing for a second, I chuckle and say “No doubt there have been better at both, but you left your mark on everyone who knew you and loved you. And even though your time with us has ended, who you were and, what you shared with us, carries on.”
I look over to where my silent audience has been watching. Duke is patting his father on the shoulder and my friend Con nods his head, acknowledging my words.
The Sea Goddess is heading south-west in the golden glow of the late afternoons sun. Its twin six hundred horsepower Evinrude engines are cutting a long v shaped wake in the indigo sea. To my left are the verdant green hills of the island. They look new, untouched. No houses, just grass and the occasional lonesome tree. The island is one point five million years old. People have lived on it for over a thousand years. Europeans have been here for only two centuries. Yet this part of the island still looks unscathed by the assault of man and will no doubt outlast me and all of humanity. The thought humbles me. Our existence is so momentary, such a small speck of time, that we might not have existed at all. Except we did.
The thought of this makes me stare at the two light grey Grecian style urns at my feet. They are not from antiquity. They are a product of advanced science and modern sensibilities. They are ecologically neutral containers designed to hold the ashes of the dead. When placed in the ocean they will float until the bottom of the urn dissolves and releases its content into the sea. Then the container will dissolve until it is just a blur in the water. Their existence blending into the vast. The two urns at my feet are covered with written messages of love and remembrance from Del, Liam, Hadley, and Sam. I am the only one who has not added a note.
Despite my fears of being late, I was the first to arrive at the Sea Goddess.
She is well maintained, white, and about 45 feet long. She does not look like a fishing vessel as there isn’t an angler’s chair, crow’s nest, or bait box. Instead, she appears to be a boat designed for cruising and day trips where comfort is king. I see no one on board and for a moment I have that sinking feeling you get when you think you have fouled things up and arrived at the wrong destination late. I am about to consult my phone to make sure I have not made a dreadful error when I feel a tap on my shoulder.
I turn around and see a woman about 5’5” with a muscular build, honey brown skin, wide oval face, large brown eyes, and full lips that do little to hide perfect white teeth. Her long wavy black hair is tied in a ponytail routed through the back of a navy-blue baseball cap with “Sea Goddess” embroidered on its front. Her age is hard to guess because despite a life spent under a tropical sun her skin is flawless. She has an air of confidence about her, as if nothing can defeat her, yet her smile is broad, warm, and inviting. She says, “Are you here with the Ryan party?” When I nod my ascent, she introduces herself “I am Captain Namaka. The Sea Goddess is my ship. Please call me Nam.”
I introduce myself and she responds with “Maikaʻi ka launa ʻana me ʻ” which I know means “nice to meet you in Hawaiian. We shake hands. Her grip is strong, and I instantly get the feeling that I know her. As we step on board I see an exceptionally large man wiggle through a small cabin door inside the covered lounge. As he approaches, I realize that he is not just large, he is enormous, at least 6’ 6 with broad shoulders and a muscular build. He too appears to be native born, his thick, dark curly hair tied in a top knot. He has an engaging warm smile, but you get the sense it can go from friendly greeting to growl in a flash. Nam introduces him as Moe, her mate. When we shake hands, mine disappears into his like a child’s into an adults.
Nam gives me a quick tour of the boat. The aft seating area includes a wraparound couch that outlines the stern and a single seat facing the rear. The cabin area includes a small four-person table for eating or conversing, a “con” area for the captain including radar, radio and operational controls and a large well-padded chair for whomever is at the helm. There is also a tiny “head,” no bigger than a large broom closet. Nam says can be used for “#2”in a pinch but would prefer to keep it for “1.” Forward of the cabin is the bow seating area with two, three person “couches” that form a “V” at the front of the boat. Tour over, I take the single seat just short of the main cabin that faces aft. Moe asks if I would like a bottle of water and when I say yes, he reaches into a built-in cooler and pulls out a small bottle of Fiji water. I am just about to attempt a small joke about the brand of water when the rest of our party arrives.
First on board, wearing a matching set of aqua colored shorts and blouse that look as if they have been pulled from the “for seniors only” bin at TJ Max is Delilah. Her eyes are covered by a pair of dark, oversized polygonal sunglasses that make her look more bewildered than sophisticated. Her church lady smile is plastered on, and she greets Kam with the same tone of voice she used to speak to Con after they had fought, all saccharine, and no sugar. It instantly sets my teeth on edge and dredges up the deep anger I thought I had diffused.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath through my nose, exhale through my mouth. There is no time to meditate now but I try to focus on compassion. Despite our differences and my personal animosity for her, it is a time where we should support each other. This promises to be a tough afternoon for everyone and I will not let past grievances get in the way of what brought us here today. But I find it impossible to forget that she is the founder of this day. If not for her, we would not be here.
Del introduces Kam and Moe to the rest of our group. First, Sam, Del’s new husband, who boards wearing Docker’s khaki shorts and a lavender colored unbranded polo shirt carrying a large Styrofoam container. He is followed by Hadley who looks elegant in billowing white pants and boatneck three quarter sleeve navy and white striped tee. Liam is last. He looks as if he is out for a round of golf. A pair of Nantucket red shorts with a tucked in baby blue Vineyard Vines polo shirt. He too is carrying a large Styrofoam container. He and Hadley are wearing matching Ray-Ban Wayfarer sunglasses.
Introductions over Del comes over to where I am standing and presents her cheek to me saying “I am so glad you are here.” I don’t believe her. But that is okay. I am here because I want to be here. I need to be here. That is what friends do. That is what Uncle Danny’s do. They show up. Besides, I am too mindful of what those Styrofoam boxes contain and the grief they represent to say anything other than “me too.” Sam shakes my hand with a firm grip and a little nod. I want to tell him “Good luck. You are going to need it.” But no doubt he knows that, so I squeeze his hand a little harder than he is squeezing mine and return his nod. Hadley gives me a warm hug. I do not know her well but enough to know that she has a generous heart and is a fierce protector of Liam. Her hug makes me feel welcome and I return it with affection.
Liam is last. He puts down the Styrofoam container to give me a hug that would make anacondas envious. He whispers in my ear “I am glad you are here Uncle Danny.” I hug him back and try not to embarrass myself with a damp face. This young man has been through so much in the last couple of years. He has handled it so well, but I know the depth of his hurt and in that moment, I just want him to know that I will be there for him as long as the heavens and fate permit. I whisper back “Where else would I be.”
I do not know what to write on my friend and nephew’s urns. I want what I say about these two men I loved to be the definitive goodbye. The words everyone else on board wished they had written. Part of this is my competitive nature but is fueled by my lingering resentment. It is hard for me to shelf my anger at Del. As much as I have tried, I still cannot get past the fact that she is largely responsible for the death of these two people I cherished.
I look up. Both Duke and Con are standing in front of me. They are dressed identically in light blue Hawaiian shirts covered with topless hula dancers; white board shorts adorned with vermilion hibiscus flowers. Both are wearing mirrored aviator sunglasses and trucker hats with a screen-printed Ralph Steadman drawing of Hunter Thompson
Con says, “Writer’s block?”
Duke adds “Can’t figure out all the nice things to say in such a small space?”
I reply “Not helpful guys. I am on a deadline here.”
Duke says, “A pun?”
“Yes. But unintentionally. I have to figure out what to say soon.”
Con asks “Why do you have to write anything?”
“Well, because I want these folks” pointing to the forward sitting area where Del, Liam, Hadley and Sam sat “To know the loss I feel. How much I love and cherished you both and do so in a way that they know I know who is responsible for all this.”
Duke says, “Why does that matter that they know?”
Before I could answer Con chimes in “What was it that your friend Des said? Wasn’t it something like “there is no unfinished business. I know who loved me and the people I know how much I love them.” Dude, we know. We have always known… What you did. Be satisfied with that. If karma catches up with him, so be it. If it doesn’t that’s okay too. Somewhere deep inside of her she knows what she did and what she did not do. Either that will bother her in the dark of night or it won’t. Nothing you can say or do will change that. Move on and let her struggle with her own forgiveness. And what was it your father used to say all the time” You can lead a whore to culture, but you cannot make them think.”
I reply “Yeah, he was quoting Dorothy Parker with his own twist, but I take your point.”
Duke adds “And Uncle Danny, didn’t’ you once tell me that saying nothing at times is more powerful than saying anything? “
We are interrupted by Captain Namaka. Eyebrow raised; she looks at me curiously and says “Have you decided what to write on the urns yet? I don’t want to rush you, but we are getting close to where we want to release them so if you are going to write anything, now would be the time.”
I smile and reply “Yeah, I’m done. I am not going to write anything. They know how I feel. I didn’t hold out on them while they were alive. There is nothing left to say.”
Nam grins, her white teeth gleaming and says “That’s the way to do it. Leave nothing left unsaid. Your friends are pretty smart.” With that she picks up the two urns and walks over to a small stand adjacent to the swimming platform that Moe has covered in red hibiscus, plumeria and white orchids and places my nephew and friend’s urn on top. I am slack jawed. I know the conversations I have had with those who are no longer here, while real to me, exist only in the fragments they left of themselves with consciousness. How then could Nam overhear my conversation with Duke or Con? Was she was speaking in generalities or could she see more than most?
Mo throttles back the engines and then cuts them completely. Around us the deep blue of the ocean is gilded with the light of the late afternoon sun, each swell perfectly accentuated in relief. With the engines silent there is no sound except the gentle lapping of waves on the hull of the boat.
Before we left the dock Nam told us she was taking us to was Maalaea Bay. It offers a glorious view of the Maui coast and is where humpback whales, dolphins, and false killer whales often feed in the late afternoon. When I told Kam I have never heard of false killer whales, she explains that they are the rogues of sea mammals. Too small to be Orca’s and too large to be considered dolphins, whom, she added, they sometime feed on and occasionally have sex. When I said this sounds like a complicated relationship, she giggled. What I don’t say, but think, is that they sound like the “Con” of the sea.
Del, Sam, Liam and Hadley come aft. Kam and Mo retreat into the cabin gracing us with a little privacy. We form a semi-circle around the small altar created for the urns. Hadley and Liam on my right, Sam and Del on my left. Directly opposite me, sitting on the gunwales, and smiling are Con and Duke.
For a moment we stand in awkward silence then Del steps forward and standing with her back to the alter, raising her hands up in the air says, “Let us pray in Jesus’s name.” I know this is how the faithful pray in her religion, using their hands as if they are the solar panels for god’s love but this act and her invocation of Jesus’s name immediately puts an end to my listening to anything she has to say. This is not disrespect for her religion or coreligionists. Any way a person can find peace in this world, a way to their god, I think is wonderful. This is about Del’s sanctimony and hypocrisy. Throughout her divorce from Con she would quote scripture as justification for her conduct yet when it came to the major teachings of Christ, forgiveness, and compassion, she seemed ignorant. When it came to Duke, she forgot what the bible tells us about caring for the sick and infirm and she let him die.
I know I need to move beyond my anger. I need to learn the art of forgiveness. But, listening to her intone words of faith when she has proved that they are nothing more than a way to justify how she feels, is too much for me.
Instead, I try to focus on the miracle of now. I am in the middle of a golden ocean, off an island many describe as paradise, on a planet that has, against all odds, given birth to life. We are here to celebrate the lives of people we love, a miracle in itself considering the incalculable odds of loving two people in a world of billions, in a galaxy of four thousand solar systems and a universe of 100 trillion galaxies. That is my prayer. That is my miracle. My way to God.
Blame it on Rio 