I met a widow named Dawn last night. At least I assumed she was a widow—a sea widow, that is, a woman who has lost her boat, but not her passion for boats. A woman who above all else, in defiance of all else, clings passionately to being on the water, not to be taken by a mere predicament.

When I met Dawn she was sitting in the driver’s seat of a Ford Fiesta, an indistinct automobile if ever there was one, and a pitiful replacement for a boat. I later learned she hailed from Dearborn, which explained the car and perhaps my affinity toward its owner. Michigan folk are good natured people, agreeable and pleasant to be around. Soft in the way Michigan sounds when spoken aloud—soft on the tongue like an Indian lullaby—hey, hey wan-ta-nay.

It was a languid Saturday afternoon; I stood in the parking lot above the bulkhead in Morro Bay, California watching two gulls fighting for the remains of a fisherman’s catch. Pick-up trucks dotted the parking lot, each with its trailer-mounted boat, each boat drying slowly in the salt laden air. Morro Bay—seaside revelers, the embarcadero and a place for chance encounters.

Inside the Fiesta, Dawn appeared pre-occupied; I watched as she busily wrote. She didn’t notice me. I always notice writers, always wonder what they are writing. A quick look about the Ford made me wonder about her even more. There was a luggage carrier on top, the back seat full of indistinguishable stuff. It’s occupant road-worn though clearly not downhearted.

I took note that Dawn was right handed. Left would have made us clan. Short white hair adorned her angular head and the flesh of her right hand was golden brown, making it apparent the sun had worked some magic in her life. Her face was thin though shy of gaunt. She peeked over a slender pair of glasses. I looked at the paper she wrote upon, hoping for a clue that would reveal what she was writing. Was it fancy stationary, plain white, or a form—an application form, perhaps? Was it poetry, an essay, a diatribe—a Dear John? The odd thing was that she wrote on a clipboard, the kind a shop steward carries on the job floor. Was it a keepsake from an assembly line in Dearborn?

She wrote steadily, intently, the kind of writing I am supposed to be doing, according to the advice of writing pundits. It impressed me in an odd way--this place, this situation, this person I assumed to be a sea widow--all aspects being focused through the window of a dusty and road-worn Ford. I thought, “Sea widows are a bit odd, but who am I to judge?” There is little doubt that I am much like Dawn, a sea widower, her counterpart, which undoubtedly makes me odd, too. I soon became convinced that Dawn and I, widow and widower, were in Morro Bay doing the same thing—breathing salt air, dreaming of boats, and enjoying an atavistic connection with a sea that holds all secrets in its depths, sad and happy all the same.

Dawn looked up, saw me watching, and abruptly asked, “Do you own a boat?” I replied quite simply, “Not now.” She smiled, rather knowingly I thought, and said, “Me neither, but I have this car. I park it down here when the campground is full. They only let me stay there fourteen days, then I have to move... but I can go back.”

I’ve heard that before. I’ve done that before; but it had been a very long time ago while skippering a yacht, not a car, in Marblehead. “The boat will have to move, you can only remain on a mooring until...” I would pull up anchor, take the boat out for a couple of hours and motor back to a new mooring. I couldn’t see a future in it, though it enabled me to stay temporarily in a place I very much wanted to be, in Marblehead Harbor.

“I’m from the Great Lakes,” she said next. This really surprised me. I thought I was the only one around the Central Coast making that claim. I had already started to like her, and now I considered her kin - an aunt perhaps, a schoolteacher in Dearborn with a tiny annuity, or a settlement from an accident that ended her marriage, an accident on the assembly line, perhaps. People around here don’t know how Michigan folk live and die. People here live and die differently, and I suspected Dawn was only now figuring this out. It had taken me several years, and not a little heartache, to discover life and death occur differently in different places.

My presumably widowed friend told me she had departed Michigan on May 10. A date pronounced distinctly, a date that meant something special, but that something she did not reveal. We chatted a few minutes longer. She wanted to know why I didn’t have a boat and I gave my standard though dubious answer. “It’s kind of cold out front there, a lot of fog, and a chilly breeze when there is one.” This response Dawn would not let lie, and in the kindliest way, gave me a list of new fabrics, undergarments and special weaves that would keep me warm. I liked her even more, for in her innocence she could not have possibly known my deep aversion to the cold, and my deathly brush with hypothermia two days out in the Gulf of Maine. I didn’t explain and only replied, “South Florida--that is where I’d like to be on a boat.”

Introductions over and feeling like family, we continued talking. She told me bits and pieces of her life, which I quickly wove into the story I had conjured to afford her a place in my memory. She asked about me; I gave a few highlights, seasoned for the palette of a sea widow and it was about then that an old fellow climbed out of the fog, drew along the starboard side of the Fiesta as a proper yachtsman would, leaned down into the open window and asked if she was ready. “I’m starving,” she replied. She turned to me to explain, because I was her own kind, not a Californian. “He’s invited me to supper; I’ve made some friends here.” I thought of the Californians who have become my friends; good people and that is something to be thankful for. Standing on land is enough to bear—to be a boat widow or widower as the case may be—but no reason not to have friends.

Then Dawn surprised me. She looked up, lifted her hand out the car window and offered it to me. It seemed unusual; I did not expect this gesture and stared momentarily into her calm eyes. As if taken by a siren on a blowing sea, I reached for her hand. I felt her warmth but noticed instantly her hand was not soft or delicate. Perhaps she wasn’t a teacher after all. Still, I shook the sea widow’s hand the way I had seen my father shake women’s hands, embracing it with both of mine. In doing so I became convinced it was a hand of someone who builds things. So, the assembly line…perhaps. Cars, transmission, brakes, maybe even boats—I didn’t care, really. I only cared that she was from home, the place I had sailed away from nineteen years ago, the place we all come from and never leave despite our movements in time and space.

The few seconds we humans give this ritual of mutual touching ended and I stepped away from the Fiesta. Dawn’s other friend shuffled his feet obsequiously—the sound reminding her that she was being courted. She smiled at me and spoke aloud a tenuous good bye—the farewell of like minds—of people who never really part, but find each other in the body of another. People whose souls sail upon dreams of boats, safe passages and the port from which they disembarked—the port they still call home.

What struck me was the incredible experience of being only a hundred yards from a Coast Guard rescue helicopter, but barely able to distinguish the growl of its jet engine and its throbbing vertiginous blades. There was a good reason for this. A supercilious wind, aided by the crash of fourteen-foot rollers, deafened the aircraft’s roar. That was how hard it blew across Lake Michigan the day this story unfolded.

I drove through wind-blown fields and bent over rows of Osage orange as I returned home to the Old Bird. My car pushed hard, buffeted by what I knew would be a gale at the shore. Earlier I had planned a sunset cruise, but now I envisioned work below decks as the lake would certainly be up. Once in sight of the water, I caught glimpses of roiling seas and my suspicion proved true. Thankfully, the Old Bird would be in the wind shadow of a sand dune, tucked between tall cabin cruisers. The ornery gale racing down from Milwaukee would fly right over her before banging into acres of Michigan vineyards inland of the marina. I could now picture myself polishing coal stove brass until joining the regulars down at the yacht club for a glass of local wine.

I crested rolling hillocks as I neared the shore and it was along this stretch that I first noticed the rescue helicopter hovering over the lake; over the next hillock I spotted the Coast Guard patrol boat. On the final descent, I caught a view of why they were there. A small sailboat, perhaps twenty-five feet in length, was in trouble. The Big Lake, mindless and conscienceless, shouted a thunderous invective against the hapless vessel, pushing it mercilessly toward a granite breakwater. The small craft lay in the lee of the longest fetch Lake Michigan could muster, generating a short period wave of enormous height and vivid strength.

All lake sailors fear this dreadful prospect. Everywhere along the southeastern shores of the Big Lake, it is necessary to pass through a stone breakwater to get off the water, regardless of the weather, the time of day or night, rain, sleet, fog or snow. Misreading the lights on a stormy night, slamming against the jagged structure when an engine fails, whatever the reason, it is one thing that must not happen.

My heart beat rapidly as I realized the enormity of the situation. I skipped past the road to where the Old Bird lay in her slip, hidden from the wind. For an instant, my conscience tested me, probing to see if I was prepared to witness destruction or death on an otherwise sunny and pleasant afternoon. Not only that, was I interested in witnessing a situation that I might, someday, find myself suffering aboard the Old Bird?

Curiosity blurred my judgment. I drove straight to the beach where I could gain the best view. Sand stung my unprotected skin as I climbed out of the car. I lifted an arm against a wall of unending wind to protect my eyes. Blocking my eyes, however, defeated my purpose so I dashed behind a nearby building, joining several others who had taken up the same refuge. Grave looks passed between us. No one spoke; we all watched, dumbstruck, as the disaster unfolded.

For an interminable period, the helicopter and patrol boat stood by helplessly. They weren’t moving, but neither was the sailboat, even though its mast gyrated wildly in the gale. Obscured by bright sun and spindrift, I detected a spindly strand of anchor line leading into the water through a chock at the bow. The miniscule line held ground despite the increasing wind fueled by heat rising on shore. By my estimation, the stern of the vessel was only about a couple hundred feet from the breakwater and I imagined for a moment what must have been racing through the skipper’s mind.

Suddenly a collective gasp escaped the crowd. The anchor line had parted. Tremendous waves pushed the doomed vessel towards the rocks. The end would be seconds away—a minute at the longest. The frightened skipper leaped to the stern and started pulling wildly on the outboard engine’s starter rope. The helicopter circled around but couldn’t help. The patrol boat crept forward then backed away, equally powerless. The crowd continued watching, wondering.

The skipper yanked wildly at the starting rope, pausing awkwardly to check his position relative to the breakwater; he pulled and pulled until the engine suddenly fired. This time the crowd let go a jubilant cheer. Grabbing the outboard motor’s tiller, the skipper feigned to drive his vessel to safety. The crowd watched as the little sailboat pushed up one wave, then another.

The ornery lake suddenly spewed forth a mountainous wave, picking up the vessel and in the blink of an eye turning it around one hundred eighty degrees. A man next to me uttered an explicative. The boat was now motoring straight for the breakwater! This time the end was certain—the sailboat now traveled downwind and down wave simultaneously.

Despite the proximity of the aircraft, its bay door open and basket ready to drop, there was no way to lift the skipper off his boat. Instead, and to the pilot’s credit, not to mention prodigious courage, he lowered his aircraft within inches of the aluminum spar. Instantaneously, the spinning blades crushed the giant waves into sluggish mounds—the force of the wash on the water was stunning. The speed of the boat slowed dramatically on its march toward doom.

The skipper of the stricken vessel went below for a few seconds. I wondered if he were in radio communication with the rescue team. He popped back out of the companionway hatch, worked his way forward, and lodged himself in the bow pulpit to await his fate. I couldn’t believe this. It was counter intuitive I remember thinking, he would be safer below, out of harms way—protected by the fiberglass hull. The Coast Guard patrol boat clawed nearer, trying to do something, anything to save the threatened life. It was clear to everyone there was nothing it could do. If the patrol boat got closer, it would collide and crack the sailboat open like an egg spilling out its human yoke. The skipper backed away, acquiescing to the intolerant lake. The doomed boat came onto the rocks and hit on the starboard beam. With the seas flattened, the impact softened, the craft rolled slowly seaward. It turned its bow toward the breakwater and hit the rocks again. This time, however, the bow with its skipper gripping the pulpit drove up the crevice between two huge boulders. There it seemed to pause for what could have only been a scant second. The skipper sprung from his position in the pulpit, casually stepped over it and out onto the flat side of a boulder. He looked collected, even sanguine, as if he were merely going to dinner at the Yacht Club after the Sunday race.

Once safely positioned on top of the breakwater, the skipper paused to see his small craft drop back towards the tumultuous, heartless lake. His look changed; I could see shock and disappointment on his pale face, his lost boat, his predicament truer than he was able to endure. A fireman rushed out onto the breakwater with a blanket. He quickly wrapped it around the beset, but surviving skipper.

As suddenly as I had come upon the scene, the crises abruptly ended. The fireman and skipper scaled the breakwater and disappeared ashore. The helicopter banked slowly into the wind. The patrol boat came about, and set a course for its base in Michigan City. Soon I was standing alone, watching each craft depart. It occurred to me that in addition to witnessing a rescue, I had witnessed an astonishing example of altruism, selfless behavior manifested in an illogical drive to save a life, even at the risk of loosing the lives of the rescuers. The unequivocal evidence that altruism exists had only moments earlier piloted a rescue helicopter and skippered a patrol boat, and in doing so demonstrated, ubiquitously, the essential consequence of this noble human condition.

I lingered, watching the helicopter and patrol boat disappear beyond the horizon. I wondered what possessed the rescuers, these anonymous heroes, to race directly into the same conditions that threatened to kill the object of their rescue. It is true, and obvious that the Coast Guard has mechanical resources and special training. It is true they are spirited and disciplined—but at that moment, when ideation became deed, the very fabric of what makes us a society became apparent to me.

It seems this metaphorical fabric of who we are is spun warp and woof from the threads of altruism—threads woven through each of us, but especially prevalent in these young people of the U.S. Coast Guard. In times of impending disaster, they become the netting we wrap around us, to protect us or save us, and in so doing, they prove not just their technical acumen and their skill under adversity, but more importantly, they prove their heightened capacity for altruism. With each rescue, they define and redefine the meaning of the word and its profound importance in our daily lives—just as it was profoundly defined that blustery day for a skipper saved memorably in a rescue twenty-seven years ago along the voluble shore of Lake Michigan.

Marblehead Harbor was quite remarkable, I thought. I couldn’t think of a place like it on the Big Lake. I stood on Sewall Point, contemplating the sea of yachts before me, staring keenly through field glasses as yacht club launches scooted about like water spiders on a Michigan pond. I lowered the glasses, squeezed my eyes tight shut and took a breath of salt air. Reopening them, I fixed this picture of Marblehead Harbor in place, lodged it in my memory to be recalled whenever I chose, as was my practice; to see, to remember. I was curious about and intent on visiting scores of great places. That was the reason I restored Old Bird, the reason I became a sailor.

The view of Marblehead Harbor gripped me wholly. Striking at first sight and astonishing in scale, I found the Harbor awe-inspiring and I stood giddy with nautical enthusiasm. To my surprise, suddenly I was overtaken by a profound spell of nostalgia. Something about the place made me think of home, of Michigan! I stepped away from the edge of the bank and sat on a wooden bench. Leaning back, I closed my eyes and recalled one of my favorite places—Pyramid Point. Like Sewall Point it too is a promontory and overlooks water, fresh water—the Big Lake, Lake Michigan. Both places, I discerned, were extraordinary points on land, greatly similar, yet gloriously different. In my imagination I owned Pyramid Point, I possessed it as adventurers do. It was mine to occupy anytime I desired and I did so frequently. I felt an affinity for the place; I saw it as a sacred domicile, a tabernacle of sand and sky. As if I had personally settled the place I held an imaginary deed, an ethereal legal instrument one might characterize as a Deed of Reverence—for there was little doubt I revered Pyramid Point.

Sewall Point, this place I sat now, could be mine if I chose, but with a condition: I would take possession only if the place embraced me, drew me in, spoke to me with splendor and munificence. Would my memory forever hold the essence of Sewall Point, or was this visit merely a stopover, a glimpse of something pretty and nothing more? Plenty of those pass by in the transient life of a sailor! Salt air swam up the bank and anchored intensely in my senses. The rich aroma of clams steaming in a nearby pit mixed with the bitterness of tar coated pilings and the heady tang of salty sea foam curling over rocks below soon followed. The potent concoction moved deep into that place where timeless memories are stored, like a trap that can be entered but from which there is no escape. It was an alluring moment and I nodded to myself … a good start…. I sucked in another deep breath to affirm the offer.

I had read on a nearby historic marker that Sewall Point guarded Marblehead Harbor for more than two hundred and fifty years. Its sweeping view perfectly satisfied its historical purpose. By comparison, Pyramid Point had no purpose beyond what its possessors had infused. High on its familiar arresting precipice I had often gazed over turquoise water extending north and south to places and events I cherished and lamented in equal measure. My mother had feared the Big Lake as a child and did her best to keep her distance. She once told me of her own narrow escape and I recalled her ubiquitous forebodings: “undertows” lurked below the surface; cold will induce cramps; your cousin almost drowned, pulled from an inner tube! Her ploy seemed obvious, but I learned years later, as sons usually do, that mothers are right far more than they are wrong! The Big Lake is imminently dangerous, not to be taken for granted.

Although Mom lived near the shore her entire life, I believed she had never occasioned out in a boat. Then one day she changed her mind and hinted she might go sailing. I’ll not forget that singular afternoon she came aboard the Old Bird. It was a gorgeous fair-weather day and her worries seemed abated, if not dissolved forever in the blue water and blue sky. The Lake does that—it teases and plays, then parries and thrusts only to turn once more and entrance—what audacity! Thank God Mom had a great sail. We shared a moment I still enjoy envisioning; her broad grin under the shade of a colorful sun hat, one hand holding it down so it wouldn’t fly away.

Gulls squawked in angry anticipation. The commotion jolted me back to Marblehead. I watched as they swooped and dove at mussels lodged in the rocks below. The din subsided and my gaze was drawn across the harbor to a magnificent yacht extending translucent wings, its crew at the bow guiding the helmsman past colorful lobster pots. Quite remarkable, I affirmed, purposefully trying to stay present.

But the Big Lake drew me back and within minutes I dreamed again of Pyramid Point. It stood much higher in elevation than Sewall Point—by this measure alone there was no comparison. From that overlook, passing boats appeared miniature, swaying and lurching in the Lake’s aquamarine splendor. I watched, looking down on their decks, as they sailed north, making way for Leland or the Manitou Islands—I could only speculate which; that too was part of the mystery and majesty.

My thoughts reeled back to the first passage I made beneath Pyramid Point. Kathy and I were coasting the eastern shore, having laid over in Frankfort to wait for the Big Lake to lie down. Late August winds blew hard over the Great Plains and raced easterly, causing mountainous waves. The wind indicator on the tip of the main mast backed toward the west-southwest. Good direction, I remembered thinking. The sky remained thick with billowing clouds, however, and I knew, as lake sailors do, that after the wind dies, the lake will gnash mindlessly long afterward. Not good for a sailboat—big waves and little wind—a formula for discomfort!

We took on fuel and water at a municipal dock tended by an old timer who lived most of his life on South Manitou Island. “Better watch the weather, eh,” he said as he topped off Old Bird’s tanks. “Holy Christ eh, the glass is risin’ but there’s is plenty weather yet ta come. It's gonna stink till ya round the point!”

After imparting this laconic advice the old man cudgeled Kathy and me into buying a self-published paperback about his life and times on the Island. From this volume I learned there was good reason for the old boy’s savvy. He had skippered the mail boat for 30 years, that is, when he wasn't sledding across frosty white ice pack behind a team of yelping Huskies. “Nothin’ ‘tween here and Leland, eh; if it gets bad ya beat up to South Manitou and drop a hook. You’ll find good holdin’ ground and stay put fer a while, she’ll lie down in ‘er own time! Yah sure, she’ll teach ya patience, eh.” I gripped the old timer’s hand, thanked him and stepped back aboard Old Bird. Turning west I cast my eyes out across the immortal she. I took heed of the old man's warning and delayed departure long enough to set two lifelines running aft on both sides of the cabin trunk. To these lines Kathy or I would attach a tether that in turn clipped to a harness that we donned over life vests when working on deck. For good measure we trailed a line overboard, a line to grab if one of us fell overboard. Swim across the boat’s wake! That’s all you have to remember.

Shoving off from the fuel dock I steered the Old Bird out into the fairway between two massive stone jetties. The instant we met open water the Old Bird began to climb and crash in a monstrous chop. Northwest wind pushed southerly along a high ridge of dunes running north and south from Sleeping Bear Dunes to Frankfurt adding to our frustration. We beat due north into fluky air and maddening seas. Old Bird gained little way and we tacked interminably. Water lurched over the bow forming deep rivers that rushed down the decks. I considered turning back. I looked astern and pushing out from behind the Frankfort breakwater was a small sloop, much smaller than the Old Bird. It rocked wildly and fell eventually on our same course. Another uninvited flood of green water spilled over the decks. My anxiety was nearing its limit. Old Bird can take green water, she’s designed to take this and more … the question is, can I? A passage by Joseph Conrad rushed forth from my memory, “ships are all right; it’s the men in ’em…”. How true in this instance. The Old Bird was a heavy-weather boat and only now coming into her own. Gray dunes rose and fell ahead of Old Bird's bow like cardboard scenery in an elementary school play. Short intervals between tall chop made my eyes vibrate, literally blurring my vision. The boat’s motion thickened my dizzying head and every action became difficult and exaggerated. Lethargy came on as an unwanted passenger and slowed movement as if my heart pumped molasses. What once was a great ketch had shrunk And I perceived her now as minuscule, a cockpit with a tiny bow and stern, a child’s toy, rocking in a sea of churning foam.

I looked aft again to the little craft that like Conrad’s Secret Sharer, haunted my soul. It rocked wildly. If she stays out … we stay out, and then I realized the flaw in that brand of prideful thinking. My staying out, my passion for sailing, had nothing to do with the trailing vessel. This wasn’t a race or the stuff of nautical bravado. I dragged my attention back aboard and noticed Kathy’s white knuckles as she gripped Old Bird’s massive tiller. I drew her attention and motioned toward the pursuing boat. They must be crazy … out of their minds, we both thought, although we didn’t voice it. Again I contemplated the Old Bird's sturdiness, then assessed my own; of that, I wasn’t absolutely certain. I breathed deeply, said nothing and did nothing, and we sailed onward.

Cold wind drove spindrift across Old Bird’s bow. Infuriatingly, we crashed into one wave after another. I ducked to miss the spray that arched over the bow and flew aft to annoy me—it felt as if I were picked solely for this special abuse., With equal measure of guilt and approbation I snatched another obsessive look behind. The little sloop dogged along. I gulped the saturated air and returned my watch forward.

At such times the forces acting on a boat are magnified; they are powerful and dangerous regardless of the toughness of the vessel. Every thirty minutes I hooked myself to the lifeline and inspected the rigging, both standing and running. After returning to the cockpit I relieved Kathy at the helm. She went below and shortly reappeared in the companionway, pointing a camera toward the cockpit. Bracing against the boat’s motion she focused the lens. I winced in anticipation of spray from a breaking wave and was slapped in the face. The camera clicked. It captured my morbid, chiseled glare, entirely humorless and strained from the Lake’s grueling punishment. That gloomy aspect evoked an image in a book by a couple whose yacht was sinking in the Pacific after being holed by a whale: the ghastly look on the skipper’s face spoke volumes. The photo was hugely disconcerting to recall. Later, when I viewed Kathy’s photo, I believe I recognized in my own eyes what the hapless skipper must have felt—for rough weather on the Big Lake begs a simple but profound question anyone might, no, legitimately ought to consider—will I return to shore?

When Kathy returned to spell me the weather hadn’t let up. Finally I decided we should take the old man’s advice and tuck under the lee of South Manitou. Swinging below, doffing soaked foul-weather gear, I unrolled a chart and checked depths on the lee side of the island. I heard the old timer saying, “… if it gets bad you beat up to South Manitou and drop a hook. You’ll find good holdin’ ground and stay put fer a while, she’ll lie down in ‘er own time!”

A loud boom slammed me back from my reverie. My heart skipped and I spat out an involuntary expletive as I jerked upright on the bench. In a second I realized a cannon had fired. I looked toward the entrance of Marblehead Harbor expecting to see a man-o-war and instead saw a fleet of sailboats heeled over, crossing a starting line. I leaned back and relaxed once more. A halcyon sky backlit the fleet as columns of racers trimmed white shards of cloth set slender and taught. They sped silently between orange buoys, set hours before by a committee boat. Gazing longingly at the racers, I pondered tactics and maneuvers as though I had transported onboard. I watched intently as they rounded the first mark. What fun, what a day … not likely to see this off Pyramid Point—too far from any port.

Sunshine embraced me as I monitored every tactic like the afterguard on a J boat. The warmth worked its magic and I became drowsy. I sank into the bench and allowed my eyes to close, my face to the sun. Curls of color and squiggly images danced behind my eyelids and it wasn’t long before I revisited my daydream. Back on the Big Lake I recalled how quickly, how unexpectedly, the lake lay down as we sailed nearer to Pyramid Point that blustery day. It was immensely gratifying to be liberated from the bondage of the lifelines. The lethargy that had turned our blood to molasses thinned and Kathy and I shook reefs out of the main and mizzen. Layers of foul weather gear were blissfully jettisoned. The warmth of the following breeze combined with dazzlingly bright sunshine and released us from our captivity. We set a Yankee up forward and a mizzen staysail between Old Bird’s golden masts. She transformed into a great winged fowl—a cloud of bellowing white fabric, sensuously fluttering above a wooden hull interposed by glossy yellow masts. The fair weather brought out day sailors and motor boaters, curious to see the magnificent newcomer who carried so much sail. I relished the opportunity to spread Old Bird’s prodigious wings. That instant I forgave the Lake its ornery misconduct and the misery of mere minutes ago faded into the bright air. Old Bird swayed gently and drew serenely toward Leland.

Nearing our destination we changed course slightly and rigged the sails wing and wing; set preventers on main and mizzen. I gripped the tiller joyously, my eyes bright, my bare skin tingling in the Michigan sun. Kathy appeared in the companionway holding the camera once again. This time the lens captured a remarkably jubilant skipper, my animosity for the violent Lake obviously dissipated; gone with the weather. This second photo pictured only my passion for the Lake; passion that flowed through warming veins like a river of hope and delight. The look on my face described, like mathematics, my reason for being, the reason I endured the risk of being tossed about by the lake’s rampant wind and waves. My transformation was complete in those juxtaposed photographs: two wildly vacillating moods, two completely opposite states of mind! How poignantly they illustrated the effect of the Lake’s windspun madness and then, quite instantaneously, the sublime satisfaction of reaching our landfall. The contrast was palpable evidence of the precocious and alluring temperament of Lake Michigan.

I awakened from the daydream a final time, the race was nearly over. I drew in a deep breath of Marblehead air and gazed over the Harbor, the Neck and the great embayment of water upon which history, pleasure and danger had at one time or another coalesced. The place was resplendent, glorious. It lay full of boats, lobster pots, and mysteries great and small. I thought again of Sewall Point and its place in all this, its place in history. Its value was strategic and lethal; it commanded a sweeping view of the Harbor, a stronghold for wildly independent fishermen and traders. It stood guard against both French and British threats. The USS. Constitution took refuge beneath its guns in the War of 1812. Remnants of Fort Sewall, built in 1742, still stand, and a short walk down cobblestone lanes leads to the spawning ground of the U.S. Navy. During the 1900’s the wary-eyed precipice became an outpost for viewing pleasure boating at a grand scale. Marblehead was, and remains, the greatest nautical playground of all; the very place where salubrious skippers of magnificent yachts joyously and impishly struggled for glory over the stewardship of an enormous silver cup hammered into history by a London silversmith more than a century ago.

The racing fleet rounded the last mark so close I wanted to touch them, to join them. It occurred to me that this place I stood now, so distant from home, so new, so vital, deserved undivided attention. It beckoned and it pleased and I reached for my field glasses to take in more, to focus and concentrate. I put Pyramid Point away, at least for a while; it became apparent that it was time to move on. Pyramid Point was yesterday, Sewall Point today; Pyramid Point was a thousand miles away, Sewall Point lay under my feet. I gazed again across the great waterscape of sailors, lobstermen and launches, and gulped down my excitement. When I had drunk my fill, I rose from the wooden bench and walked back toward Old Town. I left, though only temporarily, my newest seaside possession, as would the proud owner of a newly acquired country estate.

In an elevated state of mind I strode lively down Front Street. Ancient homes lined my path in ageless slumber as I veered seaward all along the way. Shortly I arrived at Tucker’s Wharf and climbed aboard my dinghy. I motored happily out to Maxine, my new yacht, my East Coast yacht—for Old Bird was a Lake boat and there she remained. These were new times, new adventures and new relationships to build and cherish. Sewall Point had indeed touched me in that way that an adventurer covets. It was mine. I now owned it—if only by that same ephemeral instrument by which I owned Pyramid Point—my imaginary title of possession—a Deed of Reverence.

Author's Note: This is the second chapter of the second novel in the Carter Phillips Sailing Adventure series, the sequel to The Figurehead. The book is tentatively titled "Letters From Bandeh Aceh." The scene opens with the main characters caught in the immediate turmoil of the Tsunami of 2004. They are in the Maldives, off the coast of India. A thousand miles to the east the Tsunami devastated Indonesia, particularly Aceh, on the northern tip of Sumatra. Something extraordinary happened in Aceh as the result of the Tsunami and that extrordinary event is what this novel explores

Martha stirred in her chair, her thoughts once again in the present. She realized her life had just spun a great turn and she now bore a responsibility she dreaded and desired in equal measure. A half century had passed since she studied the healing arts, but that wouldn’t matter. The need was extreme, indescribable by mere words—the awful truth as certain as the murderous wave. She looked around the second-story deck, well above the flooding streets. Claire stood alone, away from the Maldivian’s gathered at the railing. The young woman gripped a satellite phone to her ear, her slender hand pale against straight black hair. Martha saw Claire’s worried blue eyes fixed in space.

She’s frightened for Carter. Has every right!

Martha thought of Connor. So long ago, too young to lose his life. She still lived each day with memories of her young husband nested somewhere between then and now.

Martha worried about Carter, too. She sensed he was in peril; how couldn’t he be? The resort sat flat on the sand. No second stories for refuge there. And Patrick? Likely out in his fishing boat. She knew no better seaman. For the moment, she contained her conjectures. No way to confirm her feelings; no reason to further alarm Claire. Best not to move too quickly, not as she had the night Connor was lost.

Claire listened carefully to the recording as a loop of meteorological data prattled mechanically from the headset.

“An earthquake reported in Indonesia—a tsunami spreading across the Indian Ocean—coastal inhabitants should seek high ground immediately, repeat, coastal inhabitants seek high ground!”

Claire snapped closed her satellite phone and crossed her arms. Martha stepped toward her and raised her aged arms. Claire uncrossed her arms and accepted the comforting embrace as the welling tears fell. She recalled the blustery morning in Marblehead when she did the same for Martha, the first day they met. After a moment she released from Martha, took a deep breath of Maldivian air and smiled, hoping her demeanor expressed her appreciation despite her unremitting apprehension.

Hundali turned from the crowded rail attracting Claire’s attention. The ancient dark brown figure shuffled across the deck, collected a tray of cups and poured hot tea. She motioned for Claire and Martha to join her under a palm frond umbrella, out of the raw sunlight.

“Dis t’ing dat is happening, it will pass quickly, dis I am certain. I can feel dat truth.” Claire listened to Hundali portend. The Maldivian handmaiden was trying to infuse their predicament with calm, and Claire deeply appreciated her intention. No one spoke. The long silence grew mysteriously louder, shouting the question that Claire could no longer bear to leave unsaid—what do we do now?

“Auntie, Auntie, the water’s disappearing. I should go. I have to find Saleema…see what has become of my home!” Abdul’s round face turned sallow with apprehension. He decided to leave, and then realized he should do something for his aunt; Hundali was old and the Christian women would want to return to their atoll unhindered by her slowing pace.

Martha words came as if she read his mind.

“Mr. Almani, we shall take care of Hundali, you go…go to your wife; see that she is okay.”

Hundali nodded toward Abdul. Unsure and uneasy, Abdul turned away, his obedience evocative of ancient times when the Maldives were ruled by a Sultana. Abdul’s patrons also saw the water receding and were streaming off the deck and down the rickety stairs. Abdul waited at the top, allowing them to leave first, cautioning that too many were on the stairs, to be patient and wait their turn. The Maldivian tea maker turned one last time toward the women under the umbrella. They appeared different than seconds before—calm, talking quietly. The young one opened a satellite phone and began speaking, but she was too far away for him to hear her words. Deciding his Auntie would be well cared for and no purpose would be served by worrying, he turned and descended the emptied stairs and waded into the receding streams that ran through the streets of Malé. Was this all Malé would suffer, a three-foot flood? Allah Akbar! The stone bulkhead that encompassed the island capital had functioned well under the circumstances. The outlying atolls, he realized, enjoyed scant protection, most were barely above water at high tide.

An ancient fishing dhoni sailed cautiously toward a single mast rising above the wasted atoll. The son of the Maldivian captain peered through a tarnished brass telescope, shouting down from his perch at the masthead. He spoke in his native Dhivehi.

“Papa . . . it’s a sailboat, just as the old man said.”

The boy skittered higher up the rig. He watched as Maxine’s hull broke the horizon. The fretful crew gazed across their vessel’s bow, eager to see the stranded sloop. The creaking dhoni tacked closer to the crescent reef, then hove to in deep water. The brown-skinned boy continued peering through the spyglass, reporting every minute detail while a sun-leathered crew of fishermen launched Patrick’s vadhu dhoni. The old Irishman climbed aboard and hoisted the dhoni’s lateen sail into a growing noontime breeze. Within minutes, the dhoni skimmed into the crescent shoal of the atoll.

Maxine sat upright, stranded on a small circle of land, her keel sunk deep in sand. At first glance, the scene reminded Patrick of the ark on Mount Ararat. A dog’s bark caused Patrick to start. He recognized Sir Tom, the sole indication of life on the ruined atoll. Patrick groaned, the scene of devastation gnawing at his gut. The resort was lost—that could be re-built. The vegetation stripped—it would grow back. But losing Carter—that was incomprehensible. Patrick prayed to a Catholic God on a Muslim sea, wondering if his prayer would be heard.

“Good Lord, climb on deck, Caahtah. Please, Laddie…” He called out Carter’s name loud, then louder. No movement, nothing changed; not a sound came from Maxine.

“Mary, Mothah o’ God let ’im live; let the boy live!” Patrick tacked closer and saw clearly that Sir Tom was stranded in a denuded tree along with what appeared to be ragged clumps of flotsam and detritus.

“How the hell did he get up theah? Sure then, the wave, the bastard wave.”

The stranded critter and its captor tree stood twenty-five yards seaward of the grounded sloop. Patrick sensed the pall of death looming ahead. He sailed closer and spotted corpses lying on the beach. Sir Tom let loose another salvo of gripping yelps. It was then that the old Irishman realized on what—or rather, on whom—the three-legged dog perched.

My pen moves; a black line streams from the tip. I can’t stop staring at it.  Until now, I couldn’t cause it to form a character, only a line going nowhere. This is my third try. Chrysalis dodged the first two, sniffing each, detecting the smell of salt buried in the soggy pulp. She cocked her head and looked at me. Remember the way that used to make you laugh? It occurred to me to laugh, but I couldn’t. I’m not of the mind; in fact, I’m not of the mind to do a damn thing.

If I write things down, I might feel better. That’s Dr. Robinson’s theory. I’m testing it, but it pains me. I’m on the verge of tears. I force the pen to obey, to shape letters.  The result is frightening. I’m afraid to read what I write. If I can read my own sentence, or look Chrysalis in the eye without plummeting into despair, I will survive—so says Dr. Robinson. She calls it “The Three Paragraph Solution.”

Getting out of bed on dark frozen mornings is a challenge, let alone writing three paragraphs. Dr. Robinson says it’s worked for others. “Others?” I shrugged. “No one who’s ever felt like this has survived.” The doctor called my conclusion a distortion—a cognitive distortion. I call my conclusion the most likely outcome. But then I look at Chrysalis and wonder, who would care for her?


February 4,2005—Your Mother’s 62nd Birthday _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

I wonder if you were fully aware of the pride your mother and I experienced the day you became Stephen J. Granger, PhD. It was a defining moment, a celebration of curiosity. You were the sweetest boy, inquisitive, dutiful. I wonder about that gold magnifying glass. You loved the damn thing; what happened to it? It wasn’t with your belongings.  Andre said he couldn’t find it.

No parent should outlive a child. Dr. Robinson says that is also a cognitive distortion; a powerful belief not supported by evidence. “Parents often outlive their children,” she said. I told her I’m not strong enough to live with the horror of truth. I outlived Mom and let me tell you, son, that was horrible; but somehow I survived. This time, I’m not so sure. Why Sumatra anyway, why Aceh? What the hell were you staring at under that damn magnifying glass? What was so important? A bunch of trees—who cares? I want you back!

Sorry,son. I lost my grip for a moment. I’ve stopped my pathetic crying. The paper’s dry since I keep a handkerchief ready, but I can’t think of what to write. Ah, here’s Chrysalis. She just flopped on the carpet next to Mom’s chair. I’ll give her a treat. I used to warn you not to spoil her. “She must earn her reward,” I implored.  Andre told of your courage at the end. How can I reward you, how can anyone reward you? I… I’m slipping, I’m sorry…I’ll try again soon, son, I’ll try again.


February 14,2005—Valentine’s Day _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

It’s snowing again, freezing cold. While walking Chrysalis your e-mail from last December came to mind. You and Andre had secured an escort into a forest reserve in Aceh. I was excited. I pulled down my atlas, made an entry: Stephen, with Andre, December 18, 2004. Similar entries pepper the pages. I thought nothing of risk. Your mother worried once or twice. New Guinea worried her a lot. I laughed when you explained they no longer ate each other. But I never saw this coming; apparently, neither did Andre. I feel bad for him, but he can’t feel worse than I. That simply is not possible. I’m your father!

Biology seemed innocuous, a perfect place to channel your curiosity. Maybe I should have raised you different, put some fear in you, and scared you silly once or twice. Maybe then you wouldn’t have gone to Aceh and got caught up in other peoples’ troubles. Everyone in town is shocked, and I can tell you, Stephen, not a damn person in this place has ever heard of Aceh! So how the hell did you? What made you go? Surely you knew they were fighting – for centuries, according to Andre. You knew it was religion, right, the fighting? Damn, son, I’m no religious man, and maybe I ought to be, but shouldn’t you have kept the hell away from a place like that?

Pam McAvoy, the young widow down the street, brought me cookies for Valentine’s Day. I didn’t even realize it was Valentine’s Day. I have no appetite. I threw them away. I might as well starve to death. I am living in hell; the only thing left for me is the nightmare of life without you or your mom. I’ll be a son of a bitch. Damn this last paragraph. Damn, damn, damn—there, three times! Jesus, this has to end better; got to get a grip or I’ll lie awake all night, again. Did you know Chrysalis snores? Ha, there you have it! She snores and I lay awake thinking of what I must have done wrong. What kind of father am I—was I?


March 3, 2005—My 64th Birthday _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

I read my last paragraph - started to erase it but stopped. I felt that way and that’s the point, according to Dr. Robinson. I told her I keep vacillating. I can’t believe you are gone; I get angry then depressed, and all the while trying to think of a way to get you back. It’s worse in the morning. Nothing is right in the morning, which is what makes me scared to go to bed. I swear I have a sickness, but it’s not checking out. Dr. Sharma did a blood test, said I’m fine, and then politely asked, “How is Doctor Robinson?”

Andre looks bad too, every time I see him. He manages to make an excuse to visit damn near every day. Doesn’t he have family? A wife or girlfriend? Today he told me the two of you were in the hills high above the reach of the tsunami. He looked pale and his eyes watered over as he explained that the rebels panicked and took you both hostage. He tells me the tsunami washed people right off the lowlands into the sea! Survivors rushed to high ground, into the forest, disrupting rebel hideaways. Andre couldn’t go on. The poor fellow pushed a copy of the New York Times across the table at me. January 14, 2005. The headline read, “Once a Village, Now Nothing: Even the Bodies are Gone.” I can’t figure out why I’m not upset about countless thousands dying. I saw the word “Nothing” and only thought of you, and my life without you.

This is a miserable birthday. The weather is awful. At one point, I had a terrible, absolutely terrible thought. I wondered if Andre would take Chrysalis away, you know, take care of her. Sometimes I don’t think I can. This morning she jumped on the couch, placed her head in my lap and wheezed a great sigh. I could smell her breath. I broke down. You were my little boy, my precious little boy, and I can still smell your baby breath, your diapers, and the sweat from your baseball jersey. I can even smell the jungles and swamps of foreign lands when you returned from far away. Except Aceh! Forgive me son. I’ll never send Chrysalis away, I promise, no matter how bad my sickness!


March 14,2005—Our Wedding Anniversary _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

Tom Cagney from work called. He asked me about a client’s billing, but I knew the real reason. I said I’m fine. I’m not. I said I‘d be back to work. I don’t intend to be. Dr. Robinson advised that I should behave normally, even if I don’t feel normal. In time, she says, normal will return. That doesn’t make sense and I don’t believe it. Normal would be you returning from Aceh, walking through the front door, dropping on the floor, and rolling around like a crazy boy while Chrysalis mauls you head to toe.

Andre called. He invited me to coffee. I declined and he still showed up at the door a couple of hours later. Jesus, he looks like he needs more than coffee. I remember him being thick, rugged and square jawed. Suddenly, I can’t recall what you said he did. I figured he was a biologist too. I hid in the kitchen when the doorbell rang. I saw him through the reflection of the garage window—shoulders slumped, head too heavy to hold up straight. Chrysalis barked and barked. I knew he knew I was home. It was raining and cold. I finally answered the door, and we talked for a while. I asked him if he was sure about the gold magnifying glass. Might it not be somewhere he hadn’t checked? He winced. I took that as an answer but not very happily.

It’s evening now. The rain has let up and I can think again; I can think about what Andre told me this afternoon. He said the Acehnese have fought colonialism since the sixteenth century. Recently, according to Andre, thousands died fighting the Indonesian army. Andre sounds like a political science professor. To me, it made little sense. He also said Indonesia dealt heavy-handedly with the Acehnese. Heavy handed; I think he meant brutal. I listened as Andre spoke.  I think he and I have things in common, yet we are clearly opposites. We are both devastated; yet we react differently. I want to hide in bed, in the house, behind Chrysalis. He wants to be in the world, talk politics and drink coffee. I think you were like that; the world was your home place and the university the front porch. I should have asked Andre some questions. He’s trying to be a friend.


March21, 2005—Spring Equinox _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

Pam McAvoy came by yesterday bearing fruit. Then Frank Warren returned a tool I don’t think is mine. I can’t take these “good neighbor” visits. I know they mean well, but my mood is terrible. I push away people who care; I snap at people who are only trying to help. I behave as if everything is fine. They know damn well everything is not fine. I threw Pam’s food in the trash in an inexplicable spasm of rage. What’s wrong with me? If I saw you do those things, I’d be completely alarmed.

It doesn’t feel like spring. It’s still cold and rainy and by mid afternoon, I sat at the computer and Googled “Aceh.” When I downloaded images of the tsunami, I crumbled. I saw live footage of people being swept away and rivers of debris. News headlines now claim that over 230,000 people died in Aceh within minutes, Stephen, within minutes. I nearly puked at the thought of your life ending in that horrible, horrible place.

Chrysalis,God bless her, whined and cocked her head. I fell to the floor and got licked until my tears were indistinguishable from her kisses. I rolled over and laid face down on the carpet to escape but she jumped on top of me. I laughed for the first time since this nightmare began. During the moment I laughed, I stopped hurting. Dr. Robinson advised that I should fall on the floor a couple times a day; that too made me laugh. None of that works in the morning though.


March 27, 2005—Easter _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

It’s Easter. Andre came by a while ago. Instead of welcoming him, I asked him if he didn’t need to get back to work. He said the agency he works for gave him sick leave or some damn thing. I thought he worked for the university, like you. Anyway, I felt suddenly bad for being rude. I couldn’t ask him to leave, so we sat in the living room. Andre petted Chrysalis and I thought I saw a spark of life in the boy, but that went dim when he started to talk. He tried to tell me about the day things went bad for the two of you.

I finally offered the poor lad a cup of coffee and left him with Chrysalis so she could make him laugh. I went in the kitchen and wondered if he’s seeing a shrink. Maybe he’s on the three paragraph solution too. I’m not sure I want to find out; he reminds me too much of you. I am beginning to realize you and he must have been best friends, not merely colleagues. I overheard Chrysalis jumping and slobbering and took it to mean they were having fun. I stole a look around the corner and discovered Andre hugging Chrysalis, sobbing like a child. I stepped back into the kitchen, paused, and then made a clanging sound to alert him of my return. I felt so bad for the lad. I wanted to hug him, but men don’t hug men; you understand, don’t you?

Andre filled in a few more details as we drank coffee. The Indonesia army arrived. International peacekeepers negotiated. There was a lot of confusion. The bastards that…well, you know…they were arrested, and Andre claims he heard shots. He says your murderers were “summarily executed.” I find no solace in that—I just can’t handle the awful truth. He can’t either, I can tell. It’s as if we are locked together at the hip; your death has welded us together. We can’t break apart, be normal. I’m a wreck until that special time comes when I fall to the floor and let that silly dog of yours maul me. In those instants, I feel alive. She never tires, thank God. This morning I wept when I thought of losing her. She’s all I have left. If I had any sense, I’d ask Pam McAvoy to walk Chrysalis to the park, to do something outdoors.The weather is finally showing signs of spring.


April 15, 2005—Tax Time _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

I stirred from my torpor a couple days ago and realized taxes were due. I nearly sunk back into depression. Dr. Robinson would have been disappointed. My morning sickness has diminished. Anyway, turns out that Andre’s not too good with numbers but figured I would be, me being an engineer. So he brought his tax forms over. We sat in my office and I scratched out figures while Andre fidgeted on the computer. When I turned to see what he was up to, I found him reading the Indonesian language version of the Jakarta Post. They shipped you back from Jakarta, I remembered that. I felt suddenly sick. I turned away and shuffled through Andre’s papers. I noticed a W-2 from “The United States Agency for International Development, Office of Transition Initiatives.” I heard the printer start up and turned to ask him how he understood whatever it was they spoke in Indonesian. But he was reading an English language version. Instead, I asked if he would let Chrysalis out.

While Andre was away, I drew close to the computer screen expecting awful news about the tsunami. Instead, the headline read “Government Ministers Meet GAM Exiles in Finland.” Quickly printing the article, I shoved it into my desk drawer. Andre returned and I gave him his tax papers. He offered to buy me dinner. I turned him down. I waited until he left and then withdrew the article from the drawer. Just then, the telephone rang. It was Pam McAvoy. She invited me to a dance. In my haste to read the article, I answered yes. I jotted down the time and place. I kept thinking of the paper in my hand and hung up without being very nice. I intend to fix that.

Chrysalis is whining at the door. I’ll tell you about the article another time. I better grab her leash and get her outside before she leaves a gift I’d rather not receive. I don’t think I mentioned that she got out the other day, apparently when I left the front door open while carrying in groceries. I didn’t notice and then came a knock. It was Frank Warren with Chrysalis in tow. I was grateful. She’s in heat. I offered Frank a coffee and he said he’d like a beer. I’ve had a six-pack in the fridge since Christmas, so I gave him one and he insisted I join him. I did what Dr. Robinson recommended. I behaved normal even though I don’t feel normal.


May 8, 2005—Mother’s Day _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

Boy, I’ve got to tell you son, I felt guilty as hell going to a spring dance with Pam McAvoy. Today, of all days! Dr. Robinson let slip a tiny grin last week when I told her I accepted Pam’s invitation. She gently reminded me that your mom’s been gone five years. I got over my guilt, however. I danced with a lot of gals, even though Pam kept stealing me for the waltzes. Andre offered to baby sit Chrysalis so I could go. I felt bad about that. I asked him if he had a girlfriend so he might join us. He looked suddenly stricken. That’s when he offered to look after Chrysalis.

Andre’s a good fellow; I can see why you two became friends. The other day he came by while I was spring cleaning. He mentioned that while I was at it I ought to brighten the place up. He suggested we go shopping for art, as if I would know how to do that! He pitched in to help, and after a while asked to visit your room. I thought it a bit strange. Anyway, I thought I ought to let him. Maybe it would help. Maybe he needs “closure.” Dr. Robinson thought so when I mentioned the incident. Anyway, now that I’m feeling a bit better, I no longer obsess on my own misery and realize how much he’s suffered too. Dr. Robinson suggested that Andre and I have a co-dependency thing going on. I forget her exact explanation, but basically, Andre and I are trapped in a dance of despair. In time, she says, we will separate and find new partners. I do believe that’s why she smiled when I told her about Pam McAvoy’s invitation. By the way, Pam is a good dancer.

Days are getting longer and I’ve been getting busier. I’m resting finally and Chrysalis is flat out next to Mom’s chair, snoring ahead of schedule. I thought again about the article and decided to make it the subject of my third paragraph. The article explained that things were rough in Aceh, even before the Tsunami. Apparently outside countries, our own included, but mostly Scandinavians, have tried intervening. Up to the time of the tsunami, there were on and off peace talks. The tsunami, according to the article, caused widespread death and destruction, yet at the same time, it caused a cessation in fighting. Apparently, talks are underway between GAM, the rebel organization that occupied the forest highland, and the Ministers of the Indonesian government. I say GAM (whoever the hell they are) murdered you. Andre corrected me sternly. “Idiots murdered Stephen, zealous idiots—mostly the Acehnese want peace!” It makes me think, can the most terrible thing imaginable cause an end to centuries of war? How ironic would that be? I suspect Andre will track it to its conclusion.


May 30, 2005—Memorial Day _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

This is my first morning paragraph. I’m anxious, but believe I can do this. I’m carrying a pad with me today. I’ll sneak the second paragraph in later. Pam called and is due here in half an hour. She’s driving me to the cemetery, even though I said I’d be fine, that I could drive. Chrysalis is pacing. She knows I’m uneasy. Frankly, she’s been acting strange—circling round and round then plopping down. Anyway, I’ve been jittery since Pam called. Pam detected my agitation and told me to stop worrying, particularly about Chrysalis. She said she wants to take me to the Memorial Day parade after we visit your resting place. I haven’t been to the parade since you were a boy! I called Andre a few moments ago. Talking to him tends to calm me down. He said he would meet us at the cemetery. I feel guilty each time I come to see you. I’m the one who should be next to Mom. You should be with Chrysalis, looking down at the two of us. Oh Christ, I don’t know if I mean that.

It’s almost noon, we’re still at the cemetery. I left Andre and Pam to return to the car. I needed to calm down. When I left your grave, Pam was hugging Andre. I didn’t have the strength to endure. You should know—I hold in my hand your missing gold magnifying glass! I can’t believe it; Andre had it all this time! I still can’t believe it. Ten minutes ago, we were standing by your grave. The smell of lilacs filled the morning air and I felt brave. I noticed Andre reach into his vest pocket. I thought he brought something to leave on your headstone. Suddenly he began choking back tears. I saw a glint of gold flash in his hand. Lifting his head, he turned to me, handed me your magnifying glass and cried out. “I’m sorry, Arthur. I’m sorry.  I wanted it. I needed something for myself…do you understand?” His eyes beseeched me, but I fear I looked like stone, frozen, unable to do the right thing, to say the right thing. I turned away from him. Pam stared at me, her eyes opened wide. She glanced from me to Andre. She seemed suddenly aware of something that eluded me. Poor Andre, he wept and wept. “I needed something, Arthur, I needed something...” I gripped the glass in my fingers and felt your soul. Pam finally turned and embraced Andre. He hugged her with wanting arms. He hugged her the way you hugged Mom when Old Sal died. You loved that damned dog! Tears welled in my eyes as I tightly held the glass—your precious gold magnifying glass. Your glass, it made it home. Instead of being angry, I became elated, overjoyed.  I mean, it’s everything to me, so why would it be so important to him?

It’s evening now. Each day the last paragraph is easier to write. I believe I might be getting good at it; at least better than when I started. Pam is in the kitchen dishing up rhubarb pie and ice cream. Chrysalis stares mostly at Pam now. I think I hear them talking occasionally. Andre sounded good when he left an hour ago. He’s meeting a couple of guys in town to have a drink. When Andre left, I shook his hand and thanked him for the magnifying glass. Pam gave him a motherly kiss. He handed me a folded paper on the way out the door, and I read it just now. It’s another article from the Jakarta Post about the peace talks. Andre is definitely fixated on the negotiations. I don’t know what to think. I guess Andre is figuring that if peace happens, I will feel better—that it would make my loss, our loss, less painful. I would like to think something good could come from all this. I hear Pam talking with Chrysalis in the kitchen again. I better find out what they’re talking about (girl talk, no doubt). OH MY GOD, when I went in the kitchen, Pam grinned and told me Chrysalis is pregnant!


June 19, 2005—Father’s Day _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

Finally, the weather feels like summer. We, I, have endured a cold, wet spring.  But it’s over and spring portends new life. You would be happy to know that Chrysalis had three pups! I’m a grandfather, ha-ha! Dr. Robinson calls them the “three pup solution!” I still see her each week. She told me I don’t really need to continue our visits if I don’t feel the need. Andre can’t stay away. He and his buddy Robert constructed a cardboard house for Chrysalis and placed it where Mom’s chair used to sit. I’m certain Robert wants a pup. Pam comes by every day to check on the little family. Between the whole bunch of them, I am finding it hard to mope around. Don’t get me wrong, son. I love you. I’ll always love you and I miss you terribly. I visit you and Mom every week, and I don’t even mind visiting Pam’s husband’s grave along the way. It’s become a family outing that would make no sense whatsoever if all these strange things hadn’t happened.

Andre and I had an interesting conversation yesterday. He came by the office and stole me away for lunch. We ate at a Vietnamese restaurant uptown. The place was packed with young people from the university. Frankly, more “ink and piercing” than I’m comfortable with, but Andre convinced me it’s barely noticeable compared to the places you two explored. I can hear your voice when Andre speaks; I find joy in his clever insights. We’ve had a lot of conversations, so I’m going to tell you a secret. I believe Andre is a spy! And, I think you must have known this. I think you two had secrets. It’s a stretch, I admit, but I think you two were doing more than studying forest ecology in Aceh. Andre is so intelligent. I mean, you were too, a PhD. and all. He finally admitted that he too holds a Doctorate. Actually, he tells me he holds two. The second, he explained, is in linguistics. I didn’t even know the subject of the first – political science. Since he is so damned smart, I asked why he needed me to help do his taxes. He smiled, then a grey shadow passed over him. “Father died when I was a boy. Mom and Grandma were great, but...” It was then that a young Asian waitress lit like a bird at our table. She was adorable and I thought Andre might take notice. She smiled and said her name was Bee, “like a honey bee.” She asked if we were ready, pen and pad poised in her delicate hand. I watched Andre as she jotted down his order, wondering if he “noticed” Bee. He did not. Bee then turned to take my order and looked at me as if I were the most important person alive. I’ve got to tell you, Stephen, for the first time in six months I felt alive. Bee smiled once again and spoke in broken English. “It’s Father’s Day. Is this your son, mister? He buy you dinner, yes?” It hadn’t occurred to me. I looked at Andre. He looked back at me, kind of startled. “Bee, this is Andre, and he’s my…well yes, Bee, he is my son!”

It’s evening again, I hear crickets outside and sweet smell of summer prompts wonderful memories. Chrysalis is in her cardboard home. The pups are nestled around her belly, wiggling and suckling. She looks up, shifts her big brown eyes without lifting her head and makes me glad to be alive. Andre and Robert stopped by earlier on their way to a comedy revue, I think they said. That would be good for Andre; laughter is powerful medicine. Pam and I enjoyed supper on the back porch, fireflies magically appearing at dusk. I told her about Bee and about what she asked me at the restaurant, about Andre being my son. Pam held my hand when I choked up. You are my son, you will always be with me, yet so much has changed. I thought the world ended when Andre spoke those horrible words last winter! How foolish of me. The world hasn’t ended; it’s changing and I realize I must change with it. Pam and I kissed when she left to go home. It felt strange and wonderful and those aren’t big enough words. Not sexual, no, not that. Well, actually…I know you’ll keep a secret…sex has crossed my mind. Pam is a full- bodied woman, you know. I’m not sure that would matter to you, nor should it to me. I’m too old to be lusting around. When I spoke of Pam in session with Doctor Robinson, she practically suggested I give Pam an expressive hug, if you get my meaning. Well, she didn’t actually say so plainly. I think I just heard my own desire speaking louder than I ever imagined possible.


July 4, 2005—Independence Day _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

Good morning Stephen, it is 9:00 AM and sweltering already. It’s the Fourth of July and I might add my personal Independence Day too! I decided to stop seeing Doctor Robinson. I wake, look forward to the day, go to work and look forward to coming home. Everything in between is quite ordinary, deliciously ordinary in fact. I no longer obsess on my feelings. During the day, while I am at work, Pam stops by the house and looks after Chrysalis and the pups. She insists it’s no bother. Andre visits less frequently. Our dance is ending, just as Doctor Robinson predicted. It’s time to reclaim my life, to move on, to show some strength. Andre and Robert have become best friends. I figure Andre’s going to be called back to work soon. I’ve never mentioned my spy theory to him. What would be the point? He e-mails often, sending me information on Aceh. Even I read the Jakarta Post like it’s the Sunday Times. The whole idea of peace as an outcome of a tsunami continues to astonish me. They call the peace accord an MoU, a Memorandum of Understanding. Odd, why not a treaty? An MoU sounds unceremonious. Perhaps that’s the point. Muslim negotiating with Muslim, how should I know? My ignorance of Islam is deplorable. The MoU isn’t a done deal. According to Andre, there are details to work out. I asked Andre why it interested him so, and he referred to the MoU as “the football.” At first, this upset me. He thinks politics is a game. You were killed, for God’s sake, murdered by men gone mad. What the hell kind of game is that? Still, I find it remarkable that peace is likely to be the outcome of so horrible a situation. For Andre, “the football” is still in play and I guess he simply longs to win; he needs that agreement the same as I needed your gold magnifying glass. He lost you, his teammate. He lost his place in the action. He sits on the sidelines, unable to participate in a meaningful way. I have a better understanding of his situation. I felt for months that I was ground zero for suffering. I’m not sure about that any longer. I am sure, however, that I am the only other living soul that knows the magnitude of Andre’s sorrow.

Pam and I are joining Frank and Evelyn Warren for an early dinner and then fireworks. Frank keeps a boat that he loves to show off at the marina. He insists we watch the festivities from on board. He’s a good friend—stuck with me despite my self-pity and bad manners. Andre and Robert are headed for Vegas and Pam’s friend Donna is checking Chrysalis and the pups. We, well I, am keeping one of the females. I named her Monarch, Monie for short. Andre and Robert are going to each keep one, Ruby and Leonardo. I told Andre that if he travels, I’ll take care of Ruby, but he explained that he intends to room with Robert. He also said he’s looking for a new job closer to home. This prompted a thought. Why doesn’t Andre find a nice woman and settle down? I like spending time with him; I value his companionship. Then two days ago, Pam made an odd comment—that Andre and Robert make a great couple. I thought of you, Andre, and all your adventures. I figured that’s what she meant. She smiled wryly and changed the subject. Later, I thought about it again and concluded that I am incredibly naïve, arguably just plain dumb. I’ve assumed that the whole world is like my world—unremarkable, ordinary and predictable.  Take the Tsunami for example, talk about unpredictable. It amazes me that a random cataclysmic occurrence could prompt an end to age old religious hostilities. Andre says the tsunami was merely a “catalyst.” Lasting peace will require tolerance, accepting differences and finding common ground. I asked if that was what he and you were doing in Aceh. He said, “Yes, that is what we were trying to do, Arthur. Stephen was researching forest ecology. That placed us there. I was listening, I’m good with languages. That is what I do. I listen for opportunities. I listen for things people say that are often the fundamental components of peace.” I didn’t press deeper into his cryptic reply even though I wanted to; I knew he was a spy! I asked if he would return to his job of “listening,” soon. He explained that he felt he needed an extended leave, perhaps do some lecturing at the university. “I’d like to spend time at home, with Robert and the pups.” I believe that is when it finally, truly, sunk in. I probably sounded apprehensive when later I told Pam what I was thinking. I was struggling to get my arms around the whole idea.  She saw right through me, smiled and asked simply, “Do you love Andre, Arthur?”


August 1, 2005—Andre’s 30th Birthday _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

Today, you remember, is Andre’s birthday. Robert, Pam and I are taking him to dinner. We thought about fancy places all around town, but Robert suggested the Vietnamese restaurant. I think Andre mentioned Bee’s father-son question, and my reply, to Robert. Anyway, that’s not important; it simply crossed my mind. Early this morning, I rolled over and woke Pam. I asked her to stop by the restaurant at noon and have a word with Bee. Perhaps we can make this a special day. There’s a world of great things I wake to each morning, not the least of which is the warmth of Pam McAvoy. I’m so damned happy—I’m struggling to find time to write my paragraphs. This makes me both happy and sad. I’m thinking that the emotional work of writing has been effective, just as Doctor Robinson predicted. I am living life once more, not merely writing about it. On the other hand, writing is a rewarding pastime, and Pam thinks I should continue. She says she likes my style. I think she’s biased, but who am I to argue, ha-ha!

It’s late in the evening.  Pam has retired to bed. I am going to join her soon but thought you would enjoy learning about Andre’s birthday dinner. First, let me say that no finer dressed fellows ever ambled down the streets of uptown. Andre speaks often of the contrast between funk and fashion that makes uptown special – his words. I’m an engineer, weak on funk and fashion, but not this evening. Pam dressed me. Bee greeted us at the door and sat us at a table set aside from the main dining area, on a riser that gave us a view. Andre sat in the place of honor, and Robert gleamed with excitement. I drank Thai beer. Pam sipped white wine and Andre and Robert shared Sake from a stoneware decanter. How uptown we were! The food was exotic, Bee’s service sublime. When we completed eating dinner, the chef came to our table. We explained it was Andre’s birthday and he quickly nodded. “A special dessert! I make special dessert...” Nods of approval were exchanged and fresh ground coffee was spooned into decanters along with boiling hot water. The aroma was intoxicating. No sooner had coffee been poured than the Vietnamese chef stepped through the kitchen doors carrying a plate stacked high with scoops of sorbet, tropical fruit, green leaves and flowers. All this was stacked around a golden orb of oriental contour. Tiny candles descended between the mounds of sorbet and fruit. A fine porcelain lid topped the orb. Out from under the lid and down the sides cascaded a gold chain. All three of us clapped and laughed and prompted Andre to blow out his candles. The task was impossible, but his effort gallant. After a couple of hardy blows, smoke ascended above the mountainous dessert. I rose to my feet and made a short congratulatory speech that ended with a request—open the golden orb! With a good deal more apprehension and excitement than I expected, Andre rose from his chair and carefully lifted the lid from the orb. The gold chain rose with it and from the depth of the orb a weight brought the chain taught. Lifting steadily Andre looked at the three of us and then directly at me. That very moment, and I mean that instant, the gold magnifying glass broke the surface of the orb and a resounding hoorah greeted the unsuspecting birthday boy! Andre looked around the table, his eyes sparkling with tears. His smile grew bigger. I rose from my seat, stepped past Pam and embraced Andre. We hugged and hugged. No stopping the tears. Pam, Robert and Bee quickly joined in. Patrons at the surrounding dining tables began clapping and shouting with great revelry. It was truly a sight, Stephen, how I wish you were there—in body that is. The truth be told, Stephen, I have never felt you closer. I felt your presence and embraced your loving memory as I embraced Andre, my surrogate son—and your partner. We were all together as one for that wonderful, wonderful moment!

It’s nearly midnight. It’s still hot, that mid-summer heat we enjoyed when you were a boy, burning sparklers, roasting marshmallows.  The windows in the house are wide open.  I haven’t been able to sleep—thinking about Andre and this evening’s dinner. I’ve been sitting with Monie on my lap, listening to Chrysalis snore. Ruby is on top of Leonardo’s head and Chrysalis’ paw is cuddling them. It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen. I must be getting soft in my old age. I feel a rush of headiness envelop me in the simplest situations. I love these little creatures, and I am feeling that, and more, for Pam McAvoy. This whole question of love is bewildering. I’ll always love you. I’ll always love your mother. But where do I go from here? Now I love Pam and I love Andre too. Our dinner tonight was magnificent. Andre’s great and I understand why you spent so much time together. You were fortunate to share so many adventures. I’m thinking beyond that though, that you loved Andre deeply—that he loved you too. As I think back, that can be the only explanation for all that’s happened—the gold magnifying glass, the deep mourning, Andre’s persistence to be near me and the house; all things a widower would feel and do. This, clearly, was what Pam’s simple comment a couple of weeks ago led me to understand. But more than that, nested inside Pam’s comment was the idea that tolerance of disparate beliefs is okay—no, essential. Tolerance prevails; it trumps being different. My world is changing, Stephen. I am adjusting. Tonight I changed too. When I contemplate the Acehnese, their loss, their struggle for peace, I believe I should be able to cope with my loss and find peace as well. Andre, frankly, has given me the key—listening and understanding those things that bond us together, that make us friends, families and peaceful societies.


August 15,2005—Peace in Aceh! _______________________________________________________

Dearest Stephen,

The MoU has been signed. Today the Acehnese and the Indonesians came to an understanding—unbelievable and unprecedented. Of all the outcomes of the tsunami, this is by far the most incredible. I could write on and on about details, negotiations, exiles returning home, and hope for the future. Instead, I will inscribe the part that pleases me most: my sons played a role. You, my beloved Stephen, gave far more than anyone should, but I realize now you knew the risks, accepted them, and behaved bravely, honorably. Andre, my adopted son, has finally achieved closure; for him the game is over, peace prevailed. By the way, it is Professor Andre now. He appears engaged and contented.

I purchased a flower arrangement today. I realize that patient relations are “professional,” but I couldn’t think of what else to do. It’s true that I paid Doctor Robinson, and in turn, she provided a service. Yet what the good doctor provided in my case, this simple idea she called “the three paragraph solution,” transcended ordinary practice. I shall always write, and I shall always remember why I began. She was in session when I delivered the flowers. I knew this would be the case; it was unnecessary that I see her. There were three birds of paradise blossoms in the arrangement. I loved the symbolism, but it was nothing an ordinary person wouldn’t have thought up. I think that was my message to Doctor Robinson, “thanks for helping me be so wonderfully ordinary again.”

Well, here it is: my third paragraph, the third and final. Well, hardly final-final, only the final of this chapter in my now ordinary life. I want you to know, Stephen, I think of you as if you are with me every day. You are with me when I visit Frank and Evelyn, dance with Pam, and play with Chrysalis and little Monie. I feel your spirit when I drink coffee with Andre and Robert. Your passion, your intelligence, your ultimate sacrifice—they are all part of me and shall remain so until I pass away. This closeness to your spirit brings me tremendous inner peace. Occasionally, I think of Aceh, a place I’ll never visit and people I’ll never know. Yet I do know that intolerance in that place killed my first son and that tolerance, the acceptance of things very different, gave me another. What a strange and wonderful alignment of circumstances. I’ll never be the explorer you once were, only the engineer I’ve always been. Nevertheless, I have discovered that here, inside my mind, my very ordinary mind, is the most peaceful place on earth!