It's already a cliche, the story I've told so many times about the Whoop! that would come out of Henry
when he got the Sunfish planing just right, or when we got into top speed on the Hobie Cat, jam-cleated
tight on a close reach. I was maybe 8 when I first heard it, riding faster than the waves on a broad reach
on the Sunfish or the old Sailfish, our weight together and aft, the centerboard halfway up--and it
took my breath away. What a shock from a quiet man, but how deep, manly, mysterious, authentic,
and pure. On some level, even then, I felt what he was
expressing: a pure physical joy that arose from nature. And I
knew I was privileged to be there, it opened something in me, and it
changed my life.
As I learned to sail and windsurf in those winds and by myself, I got to hear the same
noise coming from me, thoughtlessly, intuitively--it comes only naturally, suddenly when things are
perfect and you fly. It's Henry's voice, his spirit, propelled though me. That he has physically
passed on and into me. The gift of a perfect moment, the magic of flowing faster than the wind. Those
moments were brief but they have stayed in my heart as they lived on in Henry.
I do not know how he acquired his love of the water from his Southern father and Brooklyn mother.
But it has entered our family, and now I see Henry's love and joy in eyes of my children discovering,
again, the world from the water's edge. And I've seen it too in Nina and Gideon, in Henry and
Catherine, and Simone and Leeyette.
Last summer I took him sailing, and we were quiet save for some shared comments on the sublime
design of the old Hobie. We had a good wind, the boat skipped
along, and he was a relaxed passenger, smiling and saying the word
'Beautiful' now and again. I felt then that I was returning his
gift.
Henry was my summer father. He taught me to sail, to tie knots, to listen, to watch. I got to ride
beside him on the fastest boat in the bay. He taught me how the best and wisest and smartest sailor
on the bay was also the coolest, the most patient, the most heartfelt. His sharp eyes and nimble
fingers could handle any kind of knot or cotter-pin that would
frustrate the rest of us; his sure knowledge in any circumstance on the
sea set the bar high for all of us. He was my Cape hero of few
words and no arrogance, a natural thoughtful writer and clear thinker.
And this is where we remember him, and where we leave him: standing on the grey porch planks, or
his brown bare feet on the sand, staring out to sea, smelling the breeze. He is straight and tall, barely
leaning against the force of the winds and sun; in a gathering storm he is at ease as their equal. His
silence is covered by the howl of the wind; his confidence and competence buoyed by the intuition of
the waves and winds that run through him.
And now he wraps on his slicker and pulls his boats down the beach as the winds come up and the
whitecaps take over, and in those storms he goes out alone, and we can only watch him.
May 2011
