He was a salty old dog. Sean and his wife lived in the second floor Portland apartment next to Ryan and Kristen in the West End. During the summer I worked on the docks shoveling fish and selling bait to the lobster-men on Custom House Wharf, we lived in the kid's spare bedroom and I would occasionally see him walking slowly in the hall. At first he was stand-offish and then one day, he smelled me.
Sean stood around 5'8" with sparkling blue eyes. He wore a grey beret on his balding head and carried a medical device which delivered powerful intravenous drugs through a picc line into a large vein near his heart. And he wore different colored rubber crocs, one red and one green.
"You smell like the waterfront", he opened. I smiled and apologized, explained my summer job working on the docks. "No need to apologize. I'm a sailor. I find you odor familiar. It reminds me of my life at sea," he replied. Sean went on to talk about his boat. As with many sailors, he went on and on about the obviously critical attributes of his beloved vessel. All of it was lost on me, but I listened attentively, nodded my head and tried to ask savvy questions. "She a beamy boat?" I asked hoping I would get points for at least demonstrating that I knew boats were female. He continued with renewed passion talking about sheets and halyards, jibs and draft. As our conversation came to a close he said, "I have something you need. I'll drop it off at your door." And true to his word, the next morning as I exited the apartment for work at 3:30 AM, I found a rubberized, zippered laundry bag sitting on the hallway floor. Yep, Sean knew what I needed.
We spoke whenever our paths crossed. Some days were better than others. The chemotherapy was kicking his ass. He had moved to this place to be near Maine Medical center and to fight his battle. But he was in heavy seas and he was tiring terribly. I admired him and I ached for him.
The last time I saw him was in the fall as we prepared to head South for the winter. My work was winding down. The leaves on the trees were past their colors, turning brown and littering the street. A cold wind blew them into piles in the gutters. It was rainy, dismal and dreary.
We shook hands. I said good-bye and wished him success in his struggle. He dropped his eyes and shook his head. "But I have a last question for you, Sean. Why do you wear one red croc and one green croc? And why do you wear the red one sometimes on your right foot and sometimes on your left foot?"
He looked at me and a little of the old sparkle returned to his eyes. "Well, it's a nautical thing, you see," he said. "When you are leaving the harbor, headed out to sea, you keep the green buoy on your starboard side and the red buoy on your port. And when you return from sea, it's the opposite. "OK," I offered, "Red-Right-Return." It was a little idiom that I had heard sailors repeat over the years. "So why are you wearing the green croc on your right foot now?" "
He smiled a bittersweet smile. "Just my little thing. Every day I chart my course. I ask myself, "Am I coming or going?" I'm wearing the green on my right and the red on my left because I know I'm going..."
Sean died that winter. He fought and lost his valiant battle. No doubt, he was buried in his red and green crocs and his grey beret. One of the good ones...
Fair winds, friend.
Parable of Immortality ( A ship leaves . . . )
Henry Van Dyke - 1852 - 1933
"I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a peck of white cloud
just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, 'There she goes!
Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the places of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
'There she goes! ' ,
there are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout :
'Here she comes!'
Sean stood around 5'8" with sparkling blue eyes. He wore a grey beret on his balding head and carried a medical device which delivered powerful intravenous drugs through a picc line into a large vein near his heart. And he wore different colored rubber crocs, one red and one green.
"You smell like the waterfront", he opened. I smiled and apologized, explained my summer job working on the docks. "No need to apologize. I'm a sailor. I find you odor familiar. It reminds me of my life at sea," he replied. Sean went on to talk about his boat. As with many sailors, he went on and on about the obviously critical attributes of his beloved vessel. All of it was lost on me, but I listened attentively, nodded my head and tried to ask savvy questions. "She a beamy boat?" I asked hoping I would get points for at least demonstrating that I knew boats were female. He continued with renewed passion talking about sheets and halyards, jibs and draft. As our conversation came to a close he said, "I have something you need. I'll drop it off at your door." And true to his word, the next morning as I exited the apartment for work at 3:30 AM, I found a rubberized, zippered laundry bag sitting on the hallway floor. Yep, Sean knew what I needed.
We spoke whenever our paths crossed. Some days were better than others. The chemotherapy was kicking his ass. He had moved to this place to be near Maine Medical center and to fight his battle. But he was in heavy seas and he was tiring terribly. I admired him and I ached for him.
The last time I saw him was in the fall as we prepared to head South for the winter. My work was winding down. The leaves on the trees were past their colors, turning brown and littering the street. A cold wind blew them into piles in the gutters. It was rainy, dismal and dreary.
We shook hands. I said good-bye and wished him success in his struggle. He dropped his eyes and shook his head. "But I have a last question for you, Sean. Why do you wear one red croc and one green croc? And why do you wear the red one sometimes on your right foot and sometimes on your left foot?"
He looked at me and a little of the old sparkle returned to his eyes. "Well, it's a nautical thing, you see," he said. "When you are leaving the harbor, headed out to sea, you keep the green buoy on your starboard side and the red buoy on your port. And when you return from sea, it's the opposite. "OK," I offered, "Red-Right-Return." It was a little idiom that I had heard sailors repeat over the years. "So why are you wearing the green croc on your right foot now?" "
He smiled a bittersweet smile. "Just my little thing. Every day I chart my course. I ask myself, "Am I coming or going?" I'm wearing the green on my right and the red on my left because I know I'm going..."
Sean died that winter. He fought and lost his valiant battle. No doubt, he was buried in his red and green crocs and his grey beret. One of the good ones...
Fair winds, friend.
Parable of Immortality ( A ship leaves . . . )
Henry Van Dyke - 1852 - 1933
"I am standing by the seashore.
A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze
and starts for the blue ocean.
She is an object of beauty and strength,
and I stand and watch
until at last she hangs like a peck of white cloud
just where the sun and sky come down to mingle with each other.
Then someone at my side says, 'There she goes!
Gone where? Gone from my sight - that is all.
She is just as large in mast and hull and spar
as she was when she left my side
and just as able to bear her load of living freight
to the places of destination.
Her diminished size is in me, not in her.
And just at the moment when someone at my side says,
'There she goes! ' ,
there are other eyes watching her coming,
and other voices ready to take up the glad shout :
'Here she comes!'
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