Good Friend Gone

I lost a very good friend this week. Bob passed on last Sunday of a nasty, aggressive, and virulent cancer. He was diagnosed at the end of January and he died at the end of March. That is the fast track to oblivion. From what I’ve been told, his pain was immense. It must have been absolutely astonishing because the man I knew was single-minded when the chips were down. He was a winner and he was a fighter. The onslaught he experienced must have been completely overwhelming.

He and I had not been in close contact for many years. I thought of him often, but don’t know if he thought of me with the same regularity. I’ve never met his children. I knew his first wife, but not his beloved new widow. We talked a few times over those years. I called him when he had cancer the first time because mortality was suddenly a very real thing. He survived that and was able to recover his robust life, resuming his love of the culture of competitive ocean canoe paddling. When we spoke it was like we’d talked the day before, like I was calling to borrow a hammer, or something.

We were very close in high school. There was a group of us who became like brothers, but without the sibling rivalry. We hung out together, we dated together, we smoked together, we tripped together, and grew into young men together. I can honestly say that I would not have survived the 60s had it not been for those guys.

Bob was a huge part of that. He was never intimidated by my sheer force of personality. He tolerated it, enjoying it most of the time, but was always the first to call bullshit when I went too far. He helped me define the limits I needed to function properly in the world. He helped me learn how to share feelings in constructive ways. But when I lost it, when I went off the cliff and got angry and crazy and destructive he always forgave me. Every. Single. Time. He figured out how to prevent me from tearing myself up with guilt. He was a Very Good Friend.

Bob, too, had his own destructive streak in those days. We were all barely in control. What saved us was that we loved each other and supported each other. We called Bob “Wildman.” He was a very skilled driver. He had to be. Some of those rides down to San Clemente High School, through Dana Point, still raise the hair on the back of my neck. In those days, Dana Point was just a sleepy little beach town. There was no giant marina. Before the jetty was built there was a kelp bed, a pier, and, when it was breaking, some of the most amazing waves on the planet. “Killer Dana.” In reality, they were big soft pillows, but they were really fun to ride. And speaking of rides, I’m sure there are people who still remember Bob’s yellow Karmann Ghia and the strange places it would appear doing sixty miles-per-hour, with passengers whose hair stood straight up and whose eyes were as big as stop signs. Like so many things, though, when the jetty was built, all that disappeared. A way of life quietly snuck off to be pushed aside somewhere else.

I’m going to miss knowing that Bob is in the world. He lives on, of course, in the stories I have, the stories his tight-knit family has, the stories his kids will remember and share. His mother is still alive. This is the second son she’s lost to that cancer. My heart goes out to her and to his wife and children. And to all of his paddling buddies and to everybody who will miss his quick laugh and his gently sardonic view of the world.

This is when I realize that life is, indeed, too short. Welcome to the birth of philosophy. How can I reconcile my own mortality with a very close friend’s death? I’ll play guitar, write, and discover, maybe, how I feel by running these sentences together.

I can only hope.