8 Bells

As I depress the turn signal to make the last turn into the West River Sailing Club parking lot, my heartbeat quickens and matches the tick, tick, tick. Daily, I keep my stress levels buffered with meditation, zen music, and nature walks. None of that priming is helping today.

The gravel crunches below my tires as I direct the car into a parking space within view of the entrance. I slide the shifter into park and press the button to turn the car off. Leaning back in the seat, I take a deep but shaky breath. I exhale until there is nothing left. That breath brings with it the realization that I am here. Tears sting my eyes. I chastise myself, whispering, “You aren’t even inside yet.”

Tears come quickly and unexpectedly in the last few months, but they still surprise me. I distract myself by grabbing my purse and checking for tissues. Opening the door, I slide out of the driver’s seat.

To force calm, deliberately I match my gait to my slow, unsteady breaths. The building is one story, with a stone chimney facing the parking area. On the opposite side, facing the Chesapeake Bay, the wall is all windows. The main door is also surrounded with windows.

As I approach that entrance, I see a small table set up inside the threshold. On the table is an enlarged picture. Doug is majestically standing on the deck of his boat, looking out over the water at the sunset. Fitting. This time, I can’t contain my tears.

After a moment, I push forward emotionally and physically, and lean on the door to open it. I am 10 minutes early, but mourners already pack the room.

The first person I see is Nancy, talking to a friend. She wears jeans, boots and a shirt that is patterned in her signature style. Her tiny form stands straight with the strength of a warrior, but also with the aura of a battle lost.

In 2006, a mutual friend, Toni, introduces us. Toni knows that I am recently divorced and fragile. She thinks that I should meet Nancy. At dinner, Nancy’s hilariously twisted dating stories entertain us. We immediately launch our kinship.

We mutually label each other “BFF”. My relationship with Nancy is one of unfiltered confidences. When we both live in Pittsburgh, we hike with our dogs weekly in North Park. We discuss anything that is on our minds. Once I move to Maryland, we become closer still with phone calls a few times a week. Emergency situations sometimes warrant an immediate consultation. We arrange visits whenever possible and fall back into our easy companionship. No matter the distance, our bond perseveres.

Until two years ago. We have a (now insignificant) tiff and drift far apart.

A few months ago, Nancy reaches out in the form of a text. We gingerly repair our friendship, testing the waters of trusting each other again. Once that bond is re-secured over the miles, Nancy’s quivering voice comes through the phone. “I have something to tell you.” I pause and respond, “I don’t know what it is, but I can feel it in my heart, and I am already crying.”

Doug has cancer.

Doug is Nancy’s longtime love. They meet soon after Nancy and I became friends. I watch the roots of their love expand deeper and wider. I visit them in Pittsburgh or Annapolis, and join them in their travels- Key Largo, West Virginia. Doug is always welcoming, congenial, and generous. I enjoy hearing about his most recent adventure- sailing the boat from Annapolis to Key Largo, or powder skiing in Wyoming, or surfing Costa Rica. He and I bond over the desire to travel the US in a van. When I visit Annapolis, Doug insists that I experience the best bed on the boat. It is the expandable couch on the upper deck, where the sunrise hits your face with a bright “good morning”. No matter how many times I give him my mad face and swear I wasn’t joining them any longer, he insists on paying for dinner, snorkeling, whatever. Time with Nancy and Doug is easy, fun, and entertaining.

Back at the boathouse, I stand in the doorway, quietly looking at Nancy, until she feels my presence and her gaze meets mine. We both start to cry. Nancy reaches up and I bend down for a hug that meets in the middle. We hold each other tightly, sobbing, releasing all varieties of sadness. Freeing my complicated, overwhelming emotions, I cry with the relief of having our friendship now firmly reinstated in person. I cry for the enormous loss of her partner. And I cry for the death of such a powerful life force as Doug.

We separate, still holding hands, not even a little embarrassed, and look at each other with happiness. The joy at our rekindled relationship moves to the front for the briefest minute. We say the you-look-great, no-YOU-look-greats and “I love your shoes” and “Your jeans are super stylish”, followed by “Your hair looks great, no YOUR hair looks great”. For a blissful moment, we forget the real reason we are there in chatty girlfriend talk.

Next to Nancy stands Kelsey, Doug’s 24-year-old daughter. As I turn to face her, Nancy reminds her of my name. Kelsey says, “I know.” I say, “I’m sorry.” My heart breaks wide open for her fresh face that now has a subtle dark shadow. As she hugs me, I cry again for her years ahead without her father.

Behind Nancy stands John, Doug’s close friend and business partner for the past 20 years. His pale blue eyes reflect the water of the Chesapeake outside. They are clear with love for his friend and, at the same time, cloudy with the heavy sorrow of loss. His eyes hold the weight of watching his friend deteriorate over the past few months.

Behind John stands Doug. Or at least Doug’s essence. It feels like at any moment, Doug will pop up from behind the bar, ask me how my drive was, and if he can make me a Dark and Stormy. His presence is so strong. I can’t comprehend he is gone. Only one explanation makes any sense to me. Doug was given a full lifetime of amazing and wonderful moments and, in his quest to fully experience everything, unknowingly he depleted those moments. Cancer pulled a plug that drained his life slowly. Doug couldn’t replace the plug, no matter how hard he tried.

The service begins with Doug’s mother talking about Doug’s integrity as a child. Doug’s Dad speaks of how Doug practiced and persevered until he was ping pong champion of California at age 11. Next, his sister speaks of comical sibling back seat car fights. Kelsey gives us a glimpse of what it was like to have an overly energetic Dad waking her too early because time was wasting.

Nancy shows us the lighter side of Doug, speaking initially of funny memories. She gently teases him from across the universe about his engineer brain and his respect for the match.com algorithm that paired them. She makes us laugh, telling us the story of how he allowed her one backpack and one pair of shoes for their extended van road trip. As the person who witnessed Doug’s pain firsthand, only Nancy can grant us this permission to laugh. It is so cathartic to release the tension and laugh at her lively stories.

Nancy ends her tribute with a beautiful description of how Doug helped her experience the thrill of surfing when she was too green to do it alone. They paddled out together on one board. Doug verbally walked Nancy through what to do and when to do it. Soon, she was standing on the front of the board, Doug’s arms around her, experiencing a breath-taking moment that otherwise she would have missed. This is a beautiful parallel to their life together. The poignancy of that story brings another wave of tears.

Doug’s partner, John, speaks next and shares the five most important lessons he learned from Doug. He gleaned them from their many deep discussions on the meaning of life and what brings people happiness.

1. Life is a team sport. Doug surrounded himself with friends. He felt that you are only as good as those with whom you spend time.

2. Be like water. Water is relentless in finding a way through, even though that pursuit may take time. Perseverance is key.

3. If not today, when? Doug never said, “Someday I’ll ____.” He pursued his passions NOW. He believed in living an enriched and fulfilled life NOW.

4. Do the right thing. Doug held the highest ethical standards. He believed if you broke rules to “win”, you have already lost.

5. Pause to celebrate. Doug noticed that we lament our failures more than we celebrate the successes. He wanted to celebrate life’s moments, sensing our time here is short.

After all of the reminiscences quiet, what I strikes me is the consistency of the descriptions of Doug’s character and how closely it matches with my memories. Every family member, every friend, said the same things about Doug. He had the utmost integrity. Doug cared deeply about how others experienced life in his presence. He was generous. And he appreciated life thoroughly.

In many pictures of Doug, you see him giving the Shaka hand gesture. This gesture involves extending your hand with all fingers but the pinkie and thumb bent. It’s more than just a simple greeting. It shows mutual regard and affection for another person. It acknowledges the importance of each and every individual in a collective existence. The simple gesture symbolizes a reverence, solidarity, compassion, and friendship. This was the epitome of Doug’s personality.

I didn’t fully appreciate Doug in life, not as much as after listening to the eulogies. This is my way of saying “thank you” for being an example of what I should strive to emulate. Thanks for showing me what I should seek in my own partner. Thank you for being the unicorn in a field of horses. And thank you for loving my friend in the exact way she needed to be loved- facilitating an amazing experience, in love and life, while standing behind her with your supportive arms around her.

On a ship, the passing of time is signified by a bell ringing every half hour. The length of the usual watch is four hours. At the conclusion of a four-hour watch, eight bells are rung to signify the end.

8 bells, Doug.