Message in a Bottle

A year ago, I received a note from someone I did not know, who let me know my old friend Paul had died. I attended his service a few weeks later. Yesterday, I was contacted by someone I had never met before, who told me the rest of the story. 

More than once, I have been surprised to discover a chapter in my life that I once considered thoroughly concluded had been very interestingly reopened.

In 2008, four years after Dave the Cat passed away, we were honored with publication as Chapter 2 in JG Annino's book "Florida's Famous Animals", and my young grandsons Dylan and Gabriel and I visited my photos and story at the "Pets in America" exhibit in the Museum of Florida History in Tallahassee. 

On April 16, 2011, I attended a Celebration of Life at Lake Ella for my friend and former roommate Paul Lasalle. How I met and knew Paul is recounted in 1984. I am not sure if anyone else at Paul's party had known him as long as I had. The next day, Paul's ashes were committed to the Gulf of Mexico. His friend Michelle remarked, "Paul had a good final send off at the beach". 

I had thought of Paul in recent days for two reasons. Only four days ago, I heard from Zan about the unexpected death of Dave Heuer, who was always working at Railroad Square Art Park when I was there, a longtime mutual friend of Peter's and mine, about our age. It was this week last year that I had heard of Paul's passing.

Sue contacted me yesterday and asked me about Paul. Even though she did not know me, and had never met Paul in person or known any of his friends, it was important to her to reach out to someone who had been close to Paul. Sue provided me with the unabridged narrative included below as written by her husband David Damon, submitted for Paul Lasalle's family and friends, and with respect to Paul.

RIP again, old buddy.

Heading around the point, I could see the outline of a small island, miles away. My dad is along for this sail, to the island. A few days ago, what had started as a Mothers Day outing, to do some bird watching, had turned into a day of surprises. The note in the bottle, found on the island on Sunday, was now finding its way back.

It all started when my wife Sue woke up on Mothers Day Sunday with one request, to take her out in the boat, to see birds. Our favorite spot to see birds lay miles away on a series of small deserted islands. These islands are protected by a maze of oyster bars and long stretches of shallow flats. A place only shallow draft boats dare go, and not a place to get caught on a falling tide. The boat of choice that day was a wooden 21' two masted, shallow draft sharpie. With her centerboard and rudder pulled up, she could ghost her way across the shallows in less than a foot of water. Her only source of propulsion other than sails was a pair of long wooden oars.

After rigging up the boat at the boat ramp, we headed down the long canal. Rowing against an incoming tide and directly into a strong southerly breeze, the progress was slow. About half way down the canal, I rowed over to a patch of beach and took a break. As we sat there chatting and enjoying the shade when my cell phone rang. I know, cell phone? With our fourteen year old son Gil, home alone, as worried/concerned parents, we keep a cell phone nearby. It was a friend calling to say a mutual friend , Scott, had died. I hung up and told Sue. The last time I saw Scott was just around the point from where we were sitting. About a month earlier, I was working on my catamaran at Spring Creek Boatyard. Scott pulled into the boat yard and dropped his brother off, then quickly left without saying a word. I was surprised and wondered what was his hurry that he couldn't say hello. That was the last time I would see Scott. Sue and I sat quietly for a few more minutes, then pushed off and headed back down the canal under oars, still thinking about Scott. As the day went on, this wasn't the only death we would face.

Once clear of the mouth of the canal I rowed far enough out to give us room to set an anchor. I threw out the anchor to hold us in place while I set the sails. With the strong wind and waves in the open bay, I worked quickly to get under sail and off the hook. Once under way she settled down as we cut through the waves. Her flat bottom became a vee bottom as she heeled over in the stiff breeze. Her tall unstayed masts bent at the top, spilling the excess wind, just as they are intended to do. She briskly danced her way across the bay kicking up her heels, she was in her element, I was too. I raised the centerboard on several occasions as sand bars and oyster bars became clearly visible, she slid across them every time with just inches to spare. This was my favorite kind of sailing. Most of my sailing lately was on a large catamaran that draws about three feet of water keeping me out in the channels and in deeper water further offshore. I hadn't realized how much I missed sailing in the shallow bay. This is great, I thought, that's about the moment the centerboard jammed in the up position after bumping a bar or two. Unable to get it down, we were sailing sideways and quickly loosing all the ground we'd worked so hard to get. I pointed her up into the wind and dropped anchor once again. Over the side I went. Diving under the boat I pulled and pried, eventually the board came loose and a piece of wood that was wedged up into the trunk dropped down, problem solved. 

It was taking awhile, three hours had passed as we scooted through the gauntlet of oyster bars on our final approach to the island. The island blocked the south wind as we made our way just feet from the marsh grass in the calm protected water. It was so picturesque, the island in the background, the birds in flight and my wife on the bow in her floppy hat. I pulled a camera out of the bag and snapped a few quick shots. Rounding the the point of the island we head into the open Gulf, the waves quickly built along with the wind. One last tack and we'd be headed right for the only beach on the island. In 15-20 knot winds, a fast moving flat bottom boats tacks very quickly, she did. So quick that I hadn't grabbed the main sheet in my hand, I'd also carelessly set the camera on top of the bag on the floorboards at my feet. As we came about, the wind hit us hard, knocking her down to the point that a wall of green water poured over the wide gunwales and into the boat. In scarcely the bat of an eye it had all happened, I grabbed the mainsheet and released it as I scooped the cameras up. She settled down quickly and sprinted toward the island. My wide-eyed wife, cameras and assorted other gear were all fine, and mostly high and dry. 

The north end of Smith Island was directly ahead about fifty yards away. I sailed her up on the beach as the hundreds of gallons of water sloshed around under the floorboards. Sue jumped out of the boat and headed down the beach to find her birds. I stayed behind and bailed and bailed paying for my careless mistake of not having the mainsheet in my hand to spill wind quickly, especially on such a windy day. 

Now this brings me back to why I sailed back to the island a few days later.......

I'm headed out this afternoon in my sharpie to return something that Sue and I inadvertently removed from an island while we were sailing on Sunday. It was a series of strange events that started on that Sunday afternoon.... Sue wanted me to take her out in the boat to take pictures of birds for Mothers Day. That afternoon, after about three hours of fighting wind and tides from the wrong direction, threading our way through oyster bars, sand bars and islands, we pulled the boat up on the beach of one of our favorite islands. (But not before having the centerboard jam, diving overboard to free it, and then getting knocked down by the wind once in a very near capsize)....back to the island. While walking along the shore Sue found a wine bottle with a note in it which she proudly brought back to the boat where I was bailing water from the near capsize. As the sun was setting, we sailed back home with our treasure, feeling pretty good about our afternoon adventures, near misses and treasures found. Later that evening, we were all very curious about the bottle with the note. We tried to get the note out with no luck. Sue shook it hard, only sand came out. Gil tried a wire but the note was pushed down in the bottle where it had partially opened up. More sand came out but not the note. I commented that all the sand must have been put in the bottle for ballast, to keep it upright as it "sailed" along in the waves. Not one to be defeated, after Sue and Gil gave up, I put the bottle in a paper grocery bag and handed a hammer to Sue. After all, she'd found it and it was Mothers Day, she was to do the honors..........opening the paper bag we carefully pulled out the scrolled up piece of paper, from the pieces of broken bottle. Smudged and dirty we knocked the dust off of it as we unrolled it. The note was on what looked like very old parchment paper, burned along the edges. The note was a carefully placed, thoughtful note remembering a special person in someone's life who had died, way too young and by his own hands. Under a photo of a man fishing with his dog were the words: "He was infuriatingly unaware of how much his good heart was appreciated and valued". The sand and dust we were shaking out in the kitchen, we now realized were Paul's ashes, now mixed with the morning's coffee grounds.

With a renewed respect for what we'd found, we carefully gathered Pauls ashes and put them in a safe place. A few days later my dad and I sailed Paul back to the island. On a beautiful afternoon, in a picturesque spot on the middle of the island, dad said a few words and I spread Paul's ashes under a canopy of palms. It was the same island where we'd first found Paul, only now, he was free of his bottle and part of the island. I cannot imagine a more peaceful place to be.