Etcetera: Sanchez RIP
The first time I met John, the stranger informed me that he was dying. It wasn’t quite as morose as that, but as he showed me around the boat, he intermingled hull dimensions and engine specifications with details about his failing heart and weary soul, delivered in his slow but steady Kissinger-like enunciation (see “Chapter 1: In Which an Idea is Born . . .”). At first I was unimpressed by this guy that I thought was looking for anyone as an audience to gripe to, but I soon learned this was a man staring into the face of the inevitable, attempting the impossible task of preparing for death.
During my few visits with him, our chatting about the boat soon turned to his health, and then inexorably to John instructing me on the necessity of making the most out of life. He was never preachy, but certainly made clear the importance of the topic. Mostly, though I think he was searching his past and convincing himself that he had accomplished what he had wanted to. I never got the sense he had regrets, or was desperate for one last chance, rather, I think he was confronted with the fact that there is no such thing as opportunity, chance, risk or possibility when one ceases to exist.
He inevitably wasn’t able to appreciate the wonder and incomprehensibility of ceasing to exist when he passed away this last winter. Nor can I comprehend his experience. All I know is that, while he is no longer around, he’s left a lasting impression on me that has altered my life’s path in ways beyond measure.
