This is not a eulogy. (Thank God.)
One of my favorite series of books as a child was the “Frog
and Toad” series by Arnold Lobel. The tales of the two amphibious friends that
couldn’t have been more different from each other hold a special place in my
memories of childhood. The one tall and calm and capable, the other short and
intense and unsure, the two balanced each other out, making for good times and
a lasting friendship.
In one of their adventures, Frog and Toad read a book about
knights in shining armor fighting dragons. The pair begins to wonder if they
are as brave as the knights in the book. They look in a mirror and decide that
they do indeed look brave, but they decide to climb a nearby mountain together
as proof. Along the trail to bravery, they escape a deadly avalanche, avoid
being eaten by a snake, and are forced to flee from a hungry hawk. In the end
they run home and hide, deciding that they are both brave enough just as they
are.
I am not skilled with a hammer. When using a screwdriver, my
tongue sticks out in concentration, and in my head I hear the chanting rhyme righty-tighty, lefty-loosey repeated
over and over until the task is complete. I’ve never cut a straight line
through a piece of wood, I can’t unclog a toilet without soaking myself in
poo-water, and the only finish work I am good at is not an appropriate topic
for open discussion. The closest I can get to being a handy type of man is bending
over and showing some butt-crack.
In addition to being little better than useless when it
comes to fixing things, I am not at all brave, sure, or tough. Yes, I shoot
guns, I can start a fire with one match, and at the age of forty-one I ran a
marathon with very little training (okay, no training, because I was lazy), but
I lost a lot of fights as a kid, snakes still bring out the little girl in me,
and the only car chase I’ve ever been involved in was when some local teenagers
wouldn’t stop harassing us with toilet paper and window peeping.
I won’t ever win any type of manly award. My beard refuses
to grow past a patchy stubble, I don’t like wearing clothes for more than an
eight hour stretch, and I shower three to four times a day. Just walking into a
Banana Republic makes me horny, I know all the words (and some sweet dance
moves) to “Party in the USA” by Miley Cyrus, and I wear my emotions like a
day-glow-yellow turtleneck. I’m not gay, but there is a lot of drama queen in
me.
Also worthy of note is the fact that I’ve never been given a
cool nickname. My nieces and nephews used to call me “Bruiser,” but that was
probably because they saw me trip over a shadow and cry at the resulting black
and blue marks. The name didn’t stick long enough to count anyway.
I am not sure if all of the above makes me Frog or Toad, but
it does make me in need of a good friend, a friend that will balance my
shortcomings and find strength in my weakness.
Enter Captain Rob.
To start, he has a great nickname (no one will ever call me
Captain).
Captain Rob can swing a hammer with precision and purpose, he
cuts a straight line every time, and his tongue stays hidden inside his mouth whenever
he’s doing any of the many great and powerful things that great and powerful
men can do. He plays a convincing pirate, can pilot anything on wheels or water,
and grows a real beard faster than I can turn a corner running.
Rob is everything that I am not and more. He is also a lot
of what I aspire to be but will never become.
When Rob is around, I am at my bravest, coolest, and most
capable. In his company I’ve steered a big boat (well, it was big for me),
climbed a couple of mountains, and been chased by a hurricane. I’ve been twenty
fathoms under the sea, played with seals in the whitecaps around the Isles of
Shoals, and squealed with delight through my scuba mask as I’ve witnessed the
rippling colors of a squid in the dark and frigid water on a winter night. I’ve
driven a convertible down to Key West, sped across a frozen lake on a
snowmobile, and been to more than one Guster concert. Together we’ve camped on
a lighthouse island, crossed over to the wrong side of the tracks in the middle
of the night, and spent the night with the Swedish Ladies Hiking Team atop
Mount Chocurua in the White Mountains.
But…While in The Captain’s company, I’ve hammered dimples into
a lot of wood, thrown up a gut full of banana milk and chocolate donuts into
the sea, unwittingly walked through the middle of a transvestite gathering in a
hotel bar, and proven myself useless on more than one manly project. I’ve
wounded myself with power tools, grimaced and whined at the burden of hard
labor, tripped over extension cords, and handed over the wrong wrench on more
than one occasion.
Although I have felt inadequate in the presence of many men,
around Rob I don’t feel any sort of need to measure up. Instead, I feel a
distinct and pleasant need to be myself. Our relationship grew strong not
because we share interests, talents, and experience, but rather because of our
differences in what we bring to the table of friendship. Rob makes it comfortable
for me to be me, a favor that I try to return. Even when he calls me “Sally,” I hear an amused affection in
Rob’s voice.
For all his muscles and grit, Rob is, on the inside, stuffed
with cotton candy. I once watched him sit patiently for well over an hour as my
young daughter carefully painted each of his nails in bright shades of pink and
purple, coated his face with cheeky blush, and filled his hair with clips and
ribbons. He has carried each of my sleeping children in his arms, and shouldered
them while trick or treating on more than one Halloween night (dressed each
time as a pirate, of course). He has played their games, traded jokes and
tickles with them, and spoiled them with unexpected presents and sweets. He will forever be their favorite captain.
Rob’s heart is bigger than his chest. At the lowest point of
my life, when I felt that I couldn’t go on in the wake of my brother’s death,
Rob spent hours at my side. Much of that time was spent installing the wood
flooring that Elizabeth and I had ambitiously purchased without much thought to
its installation. His craftsmanship was indeed an appreciated service, but the
humble hours spent together on our back deck one day after lunch was a godsend
for Elizabeth and me. Rob listened quietly as we poured our grief, confusion, and
despair at his feet. After taking it all in, he shared his own heartbreaking
experience, the sudden loss of his brother Ricky years earlier. With a wounded
voice, he shared all that he had felt and learned from a moment in time that
will never leave him. Covered in sawdust and tears, Rob bore our burden with
us, and mourned with us as we mourned. I loved him even more for that.
Knowing Rob like I do, he would shake off my sincere
expression of love, appreciation, and praise as nothing more than the sensitive
fabrication of his dear friend “Sally.”
And that is Rob to anyone that knows him. He is a man
without guile that carries within him a bare-chested spirit, because he has a
habit of giving the shirt off his back to someone in need.
Earlier this week, my good friend Captain Rob posted a photo
of the tugboat on which he serves as first mate. The caption read “Outbound from Cape May northbound. Hope this thing makes
it!” I have seen Rob post photos from his floating office many times
over the past few years, but this one gave me a few moments of pause. I know
that Rob is a capable, brave, and experienced seaman, one that doesn’t throw
such comments about without cause. The business of my day eventually pushed the
foreboding feeling to a dark corner of my mind, and in time it was forgotten.
Two days later, at an ungodly hour, an incoming text
vibrated me out of a deep sleep. Pulled from the darkness of dreams into the
bright light of technology (and without my glasses), I could barely make out
the sender’s name. It had come from Neil, a good friend to both Rob and myself.
Why
would Neil text me at this hour? My birthday has come and gone. It isn’t
Christmas, and there is nothing special about today.
Rob.
I dropped the phone and rolled back into the warm cocoon of
blankets, unwilling to don my glasses and read the message that was sure to be
bad news about Captain Rob. I stared into the darkness, listening to Elizabeth
breathing softly beside me. My phone rested a million miles away on the
nightstand as I tried not to envision a world without my dear friend living in
it.
How would I ever be brave again?
Many minutes and a very hot shower later, I summoned the
dregs of my courage and picked up my phone to read Neil’s text.
Rob’s
tug sank in a storm off the coast of Rhode Island. Rob and the crew had no time
to pull on their emergency suits, only life vests.
My knees buckled; I fell back and sat on the edge of the tub,
bile rising within my throat.
They
were rescued by a fishing boat. (Hey Neil, next time start with
the good news.)
My head felt light with relief, and a smile spread its way
across my face. Rob’s phone was most likely at the bottom of the ocean, but I
called and left him a voicemail anyway, wanting him to eventually share in the
joy I was feeling to know that he was alive.
Thanks to a wise and wonderful wife, I was soon on a plane
heading east to surprise my friend with an unannounced crashing of his “Man
Overboard” party. It was an absolute adrenaline rush, to throw my arms around
my dear friend and tell him that I love him. To see him standing before me,
dressed in the lifejacket that had kept him afloat, laughing, smiling, and
living, struck me as a blessing from heaven, one that filled me with happiness
to bursting.
Rob told me the harrowing tale of the sinking, and how
within a span of just a few minutes he and the crew went from marveling at the pounding
waves to swimming for their lives in them, wondering if rescue would arrive.
Later, during a quiet moment together, I asked the bravest
man I know, “Were you scared?”
“You know Matt, I’ve never been more scared in my life,” Rob
answered in a serious, my-life-course-has-been-forever-altered tone.
And in that moment, I decided that Rob and I are brave
enough just as we are.
Love you Toad. (Or am I Toad?)
