Bryan passed away.
Passed this way with his wake upending our hopes he would remain longer. As a man who exuded lightness and effervescent warmth, we had assumed he had greater buoyancy and wasn’t anywhere near close to his last casting off. In his wake he left the wisdom of his advice to many a board, his stories, and a legacy of generosity. By the time I knew Bryan, he had learned to steer himself towards opportunities and friendships with an ease that maybe belied former times of tumult and uncertainty. The joy of his presence remains in his wake.
Bryan's Island on the Right |
He owned an island. He loved his island. He loved telling stories about his British Columbian island. How he noticed an ad for it, crossed over to it at low tide, and ran all the way around it before having to wade through the incoming tidal waist-deep water to get back to its larger and closest island, Lasqueti. If you imagine his island, think of it as a stone, tossed from Lasqueti. Not too small. Not too large. Just right for one man. An island, which when it was plopped into the water, set off its own wake of pleasure that one day ensnared Bryan, a lucky guy.
Solitude was Bryan’s most constant guest on his rock, but he did invite a select few to join him in celebrating its water, eagles, old-growth forest, and its lovely sunsets.
Photo by Bryan |
With Bryan’s methodical bent, he assembled island paraphernalia. No easy feat considering one cannot take a vehicle on the small local ferry from Vancouver Island to Lasqueti. His vehicle had to be parked somewhere. Generators had to be separated from their batteries for two trips on the little ferry. Kayaks had to be scheduled for hauling. Then, some arrangement was made to haul stuff from one end of Lasqueti Island to the end closest to Bryan’s island. And then boat it over. He had no running water. No cabin… not even one built of driftwood. A screened cook tent and a sleeping tent sufficed. Visits in the winter were near impossible. The island suited Bryan and he became its custodian for many years.
Photo by Bryan |
Bryan’s choice of living mostly by himself meant his stories are archived with those he befriended. He never married—although he loved more than a few. Never fathered children. And yet it was obvious at a celebration of his life, he had birthed many stories and friendships. He left an archive of memories, a multitude of ripples.
Early in my friendship with Bryan on a morning walk along a wooded dirt road up my canyon, he told me a story from his college years. He said school came easily. He rarely studied and got straight A’s in high school. But when he got to college at the University of Colorado, he received a C on his first physic’s test. He was dismayed. He studied for his next test and earned an A. The instructor called him out, accusing him of having cheated on the second test. No one had ever before moved directly from a C to an A in his class. So Bryan provided proof. He took a friend with him as a witness. Upon arriving at the classroom where he was to meet the professor, he said nothing but went to the chalkboard and proceeded to write out the entire proof of the problem from the last test. From then on, he got A’s and became friends with the professor.
Proof. Although Bryan considered what might come after his death, he couldn’t find any proof of an afterlife. He expected none, but if there is one—knowing Bryan, he will quickly study up and insert the missing connections and excel in whatever comes next.
Last year, when Bryan waited for the results of a biopsy (Waiting for the Results of a Biopsy), he gathered those close to him and consulted on everything he thought was essential to tidying up in case the prediction of his demise would become reality. Harry, his brother, arrived in town to assist and his friend Jen stepped in to help orchestrate details. Those of us who accompanied Bryan on his last casting off have poignant memories of his leave-taking. Of his courage and of his optimism. His exhaustion. His efforts to greet visitors, usually dressed in one of his beloved plaid shirts and with hugs. Sometimes shaky with tears. Martie, his dear friend who housed him in her little cabin in the woods his last many months, and Lori, his love, kept the rest of us apprised of his course. But Bryan was at the helm, at times confident and at other times desperately examining the charts.
The ripples of his wake haven’t entirely subsided. Those of us who knew him well can still remember him in focus. His smile sharp. His wit lingering. Back on his island, Bryan must have spent many hours over many summers sitting on some chunk of driftwood on its shore while listening to the lapping of the water, the ripples from afar. He would appreciate that we derive pleasure in having known him and still are listening to the lapping of his wake.
Photo by Bryan |