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Its funny how Life has a way of checking up on you. Despite our sometimes selfish diversions and their ability to make us forget things like mortality and accountability, at least for a while, there remains no viable route that's capable of outrunning destiny, or more pointedly, the inevitable end of the line. Once in a while Life is going to remind us all unceremoniously of the chilling fact that we are mortal, and there's ultimately no escape from our own vulnerability, no fountain of youth or magic super-hero elixir, much to my current chagrin.
My grandfather passed away yesterday, just as the sun rose over the same islands he fished and explored for the better part of nearly a century in coastal British Columbia. The victim of a sudden and violent stroke that for all intents and purposes killed him three days ago, it just took the salty old swashbuckler a few extra days to let go.
I'm not sure if i've met a greater man in my lifetime, or one that adopted more of a fatherly role towards me since we lost our Dad so many years ago. Gramps was a diverse and brilliant man, on many levels. Some of my earliest, and most cherished, memories are of the times we used to spend on Galiano Island off the coast of Vancouver where he had a large ranch known for it's thoroughbred race horses. Accessible by ferry or float plane only, his ranch on Galiano Island offered him the kind of serenity he needed to balance the hectic pace of business he battled against in the bigger city of Vancouver, and beyond. A place where finely groomed race horses and wildlife mingled in the wilderness, where warm fires burned in great rooms, and the sounds of family cascaded through the main house and cottages. It was a spectacular wonderland for a kid to explore the magic of the natural world, learn life's lessons, and cut one's teeth on the kind of hard work that comes with wilderness living and diverse farming. I can't imagine what kind of person i'd be today without those experiences behind me, it truly was a magical time, i'd venture, during both of our lives.
There's little doubt that Gramps loved his ranch, his horses, or all of the family that used to surround him, but it was mostly talk of fishing that would keep us around the wood fire in his living room on Galiano late into the night. Usually there would be a spectacular meal of roast beef, potatoes, carrots, fresh bread, and some sort of wonderful desert, all organically grown on the farm and nurtured from earth to table by my grandmother's magical hands. Such meals would often give-way to a Vancouver Canuck's hockey game broadcast from the mainland to one of the farm's living rooms, where all manner of tinfoil and antenna contraptions would translate the action to a snowy picture on the TV screen. Nobody loved Canuck hockey more than Gramps, and he'd often build himself up to an emotional fervor in front of the TV, hollering and chain smoking as whichever star right winger missed an opportune shot at the net. Grandma hated the hollering and chain smoking, particularly indoors, and would chide Gramps from the kitchen as she fretted over the dishes with Mom. The bickering would continue long into the third period, where usually Gramps would sneak another smoke in front of the fireplace and throw a mischievous wink our way.
After the game, talk would usually turn to fishing. He'd tell the same stories of his commercial fishing glory days over and over again, but i'd never grow tired of listening. Stories of him gill-netting the mighty king salmon run that used to haunt the British Columbian coast and the gigantic salmon they caught near the mouth of the Frazer River one day. His eyes would light up when he got to the part of describing how they fought to land the fish, and gesticulate wildly as he described how he and his friend wrestled the beast into the boat, eventually crashing to the deck with the fish and net in a tangled mess. He would keep you right on the edge of your seat as he told you how they reached for the knife and cut into the fish to check for the color of it's flesh. In those days king salmon with white flesh were virtually worthless, and his eyes would just about tear as he recounted how the fresh incision in the salmon revealed bleached flesh.
"Damn near worthless..." he'd recount, "but still one hell of a fish!"
As the years wore on he turned to listening to my stories, a change i believe he enjoyed more than the predictability of recounting his. Eventually it was my tales of gigantic fish from far away places that would bring that familiar twinkle to his eye. Adventures and stories he knew he'd never have the opportunity to experience or duplicate, but he lived through my adventures and the brilliance in his eyes often gave his enthusiasm away. He was the kind of man that had a passion for life, adventure, and fishing, and I'm sure having a grandson that was as eager as he remained was cause for celebration. He loved to hear of my adventures, perhaps as much as i loved to hear of his.
My life will change with his passing. We didn't see much of each other in these last few years, particularly since i've been deeply burrowed in Latin America, and i already regret it. Standard procedure for yours truly, i never seem to appreciate the magic surrounding me until POOF! it's gone.
Let that be a lesson to us, perhaps when it's needed the most.
Thanks Gramps for your many wonderful gifts that you so unselfishly passed on to the rest of us. Still teaching after all these years. May you find that mythically large salmon in the afterlife, and may his flesh be deep red this time around.
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