Death of a...

Death of a Sails Man

 

(A little background before you read the final letter of this series)

Inhabitants from the region of origin in the religion of gin-making may say there is more than one way to gait a gate and rig a trig, all in the mix of antics portrayed in the eye from the ending of living exteriors and linear happenings.  But who’s watching?  Where is the system of checks and balances?  What happens when the acts of tax relax and the usual backtrack loses slack?  Will we know or does it just end, do we end? 

Maybe we’re like water.  When in the womb we are like rain, creating bodies of water, and when we grow until adulthood, we are the oceans full of life.  After growth we slowly evaporate into nothing as we age.  When we die, it starts all over when we condensate until returning to liquid form.  This is one example of the profound philosophies held by a true American, Anoki Chowilawu.

I met this bibulous Nez Perce a few years back when hiking among the trees of the Targhee National Forest.  He taught me how to appreciate the earth and I taught him how to do the Truffle Shuffle.  He told me stories of his ancestors and I told him drinking stories from college.  He gave me advice on how to succeed in business without being corrupt and I told him how to play the wooden Pandura.  Over the three weeks I visited Anoki Chowilawu and his three siblings I became wiser to the meaning of why I was put on this earth and now I belive I can live a long and satisfying life full of adventure and inadvertent self-acclimation.  Before I left he gave me his mobile number and the bark from a Dropmore Linden and told me to rub it on my left shoulder blade every day, after I take a shower; so the good earth is with me throughout the day.  Anoki claims this will remind me of what’s important when facing a difficult decision or situation anytime in life.  My body will feel the earth as my mind looks for answers.  Unfortunately I lost the bark a week later when I forgot it at the I-80 truck stop in Iowa.  Anoki Chowilawu would be proud to know that I have replaced the Dropmore Linden bark with a slab of peanut brittle that I found under the couch at my friend Andrew Nesbitt's apartment in Hermosa Beach, after a yuletide get-together.  The brittle has dwindled down to that of a corn chip holding a solitary legume.  He would be proud, if he were alive.

 

This is a letter I wrote to be placed on his leather-bound urn:

 

Anoki

You crazy son of a bitch!  What possessed you to start learning how to swim at such an old age?  I remember learning all the ways this earth has blessed you and improved your well-being; but throughout the time of our cohesive stint you refused to disperse any accolades toward water.  I found it odd but let it be.  Then your sister, Etenia, told me about your fear of the wet stuff.  You sold me on geology, but only dug in briefly to water-related sciences, like ratamology, hesitant to go into any detail.  Then I hear you are going to visit your ancestors’ burial sites on the coast of Washington.  I figured their sites were far enough from water, where there wouldn’t be any danger.  It turns out they are buried on Crane Island (part of the San Juan Islands).

My admiration for you became deep-rooted due to your knowledge on practically everything.  From your studies on gastric Herring communication to the technical developments in fringe science, you were my Guru.  This is why I ask the question - why the heck did you feel compelled to learn about Shear Stress Transport in a maritime setting when I know everyone you know knows you don’t know not a damn-damn thing at all about swimming?

I suppose even you can’t answer this since you’re dead; but maybe one day we’ll meet again, perhaps in the condensation stage of our life cycle.

Your Kus Hama,

Stephen

 

P.S. – I’ve been seeing Etenia, I hope you don’t mind.