A Fitting Farewell for an Old Salty Fisherman

This past weekend we spread my father's ashes.

Only half of them actually. His wish was for half to be spread over his favorite fishing spot and the other half spread in his favorite deer hunting spot. That means he'll be split between the Chesapeake Bay and the Blue Ridge Mountains. It's completely appropriate since that is how he spent his life -  split between two loves, separated by the seasons.

So, on the first Saturday of the Virginia cobia season, I boarded my dad's boat, the Alice Grace, for the last time. We sat the little black box containing what is left of my father's body in the Captain's chair while my uncle drove along Buckroe Beach standing behind the wheel and leaving my Dad to sit in his favorite seat. It was a beautiful day for fishing, with the wind turning mid-day to blow from the South West.

The old Buckroe Pier

When I was a kid on summer break, back before we had instant access to weather apps, I would religiously watch the afternoon news. Not because I was particularly interested in current events, but because I needed to check tides and wind direction.

When Daddy's truck came pulling up the gravel road in the late afternoon, I would meet him in the yard.

"South West at five miles an hour."

That was all I had to say. We'd throw the heavers and a bait bucket in the back of the truck and head for Buckroe Pier.

I can't tell you how many hours my dad spent on that pier. Some of the earliest memories I have are of me riding his shoulders out to the end or of my tiny body wrapped around his leg like a vise because I was afraid I would fall through the cracks in the boards.

I know he fished long before I came along. There are old black and white pictures of him with large cobia and the red drum that held the pier record for decades. But I know that half my childhood (the summer months of cobia season and the early bluefish run) was spent on that pier with him, watching storms brew up over the Bay, catching fish, getting sunburn, laughing at stupid jokes.

Most of the time we spent there wasn't spent catching fish at all. Fishing for big fish is a bit of a waiting game. You bait the hook, toss it out, and wait. We would go weeks without catching anything. But when a big cobia grabbed your line and headed for deeper water, the sound of a screaming drag would make your heart race as you rushed to grab your pole. You have to let them run just long enough to get a good hold before setting the hook and starting the fight.

Waiting for the cobia run
Photo Credit: Buckroe Fishing Pier

So, we scattered half his ashes, the half that loved to fish, just off of Buckroe Pier. It seems like a place he would want to be. It's a spot that must feel like home.

My father's sister has a bad back. For her, climbing into a boat was out of the question. Instead, she took her walker all the way out to the end of Buckroe Pier. She planned to watch from there as we spread his ashes from the boat. It takes time to launch a boat from a public marina on the first Saturday of the cobia season, so she got there long before we did. Which gave her plenty of time to chat with the cobia fishermen parked on the end of the pier hoping for a big one. Some of the older guys remembered my dad. There are still pictures of him up under the shack where you pay to fish.

It was pretty quiet fishing, not much going on in spite of the beautiful weather and favorable winds.

On the boat, I pried open the black box with a filet knife and sliced open the plastic bag inside. I had a moment of panic as I held the bag poised over the port side remembering that Daddy couldn't swim. But I dumped him anyway, figuring it was time, and his ashes floated on top like a good chum slick across the end of Buckroe Pier. Then he slowly dropped through the water and out of sight as we rode off down the beach.

Meanwhile, on Buckroe Pier, my Aunt watched from the railing. As the ashes hit the water, the lazy quiet of afternoon fishing erupted into excitement as people dashed for their poles. Because the reels that had been still and quiet all day were suddenly screaming with the first good cobia runs of the season.

And while you can chalk it up to coincidence if you'd like, I think it was probably something else entirely.  It was like a farewell 21-rod salute for an old salty fisherman. A fitting exit, don't you think?

Rest easy, Daddy. See you when I see you.

Losing Loved Ones and Car Keys

"I'm sorry for your loss."

I can't even count how many times I've heard that platitude recently. It has been written in flowing script across sympathy cards, whispered by family, friends, and acquaintances with kind eyes, posted in digital form on my social media platforms. It's the go-to sentiment when people really don't know what else to say to relatives of the dead.

I "lost" my dad three months ago.

It's damaging verbiage, the language of loss. Because it isn't as if I lost my keys, or my wallet, or last month's bank statement. It wasn't an act of carelessness on my part. It's not like I set him down somewhere and forgot where I put him. It isn't even like that time I lost my daughter in Target, where I was frantic and panicky, in spite of the fact that she was safely reading in the book section.

I didn't lose my father. His death wasn't caused by any sort of error or personal shortcoming. It wasn't like losing a football game, where if I'd only played better I might have won. "Lose" is an action verb. It hints at responsibility. As if taking a different course might have changed the destination.

And by calling his death a "loss" it implies that I might be able to find him if I just thoroughly check between the couch cushions. If I were just more vigilant. Maybe if I tried harder, I could turn this lost into a found.

I didn't lose my father. He died.

But we are afraid of death. So much so that we sweep the word from our vocabulary. Instead of acknowledging death and its power, we trade reality for empty euphemisms about being "in a better place". By sugar-coating our expressions of death and grieving, all we do is perpetuate Society's phobias about death and dying. It is social decorum that keeps us from talking about death as a reality.

Maybe if we don't use the word, it's like it never really happened.

But it did. And the only thing worse than hearing the empty pity in the sorry-for-your-loss bromide is encountering the people who know but don't acknowledge. They want to avoid discomfort so they pretend they can't see the gaping hole in my soul. But it feels like they are actively denying that my father ever lived, that he ever meant something to me, that we can all just carry on as if nothing significant happened.

Our culture really sucks at coping with and acknowledging death.

We need better words. But we also need better ways of dealing with grief. My world is never going to be the same no matter how much we pretend, no matter how we try to act like life has somehow returned to normal. No amount of fluffy language is going to change that.

When my father first died, I fought the urge to slice deep grooves in the flesh of my arms, to somehow do something concrete and drastic with the emotional pain I was experiencing. Instead, I chopped off my hair. I cut it shorter than it has ever been, right up to the nape of my neck. It wasn't quite the drastic measure I desired, but it did seem a lot less destructive than knocking over a liquor store or punching holes in plaster walls.

My hair is growing back now. I don't think I'm ready to feel normal yet. I'll probably chop it short again.

I once lost my car keys at McDonald's. I frantically dug through my pants pockets in search of them. My oldest son dug through the soggy garbage and half-eaten burgers of the McDonald's trash can. The kids and I looked under tables and in the parking lot, thinking that the keys had been dropped somewhere when I wasn't paying attention. I was certain that I had lost those keys for good. We were stranded without them. Stuck alone in a dark fast food parking lot. I dialed my husband in tears to inform him of my loss, and just as he answered the phone, I found those keys.

They had been in my coat pocket the whole time. They were never really lost.

There's probably some grand existential message in that story. Maybe I'll think on it some more when my hair grows back.