Shared Silence

A mist sat over the water, making the mountains’ reflections on the silent surface a shadowy neutral as if the world had been sketched in detailed gray scale. It looked like it was going to be a chilly day. I sat on my porch a while longer watching the tide subtly rise, moment by moment. It was nearing time to head to work. However excited I was to head to a job I enjoy, I was hesitant to leave the perfect secluded silence of my sanctuary. My home. I slowly stood, called the dogs, and started my day.

Things began normally enough on the job. I look forward daily to groups of cruise ship passengers interested in seeing Alaska from a different perspective. Some crowds are told that I was a veteran before they meet me, some are told I’m a salsa teacher, some are told I have a purple heart, some are told I’m Rita, wearing a shirt in red hot Latin flavor, but this group had been told my name was Karl, and I was tall and funny looking. They definitely walked past me at the dock, and seemed thoroughly confused as I reeled them in. I tried to convince them that they were with the right person, and the jokes ensued.

No. My name is not Karl.

Yes, I’m funny looking.

No, I’m not tall.

On the river, I had seven on my raft. There was a family of four in the front, including two daughters 21 and 23, an older pair of sisters in the back, and a single woman from Pennsylvania that sat directly to my back left. Inevitably, as I introduced them to my office, I was asked what I was doing in Alaska if I’m from Pennsylvania. I gave an abbreviated version of my story. I told nobody about my service, about my purple heart, about my passing up jobs for freedom, nothing. I said simply that not everyone has as much time as they think they do in life, and so why wouldn’t I spend mine in a place as breathtaking as Haines, rowing down a calming river with magnificent views like that as much as I could?

I then turned the question on them. The family in the front responded with a simple, “Why not Alaska?” The sisters in the rear said that they wanted to get there before they ran out of time because they were tired of waiting. But it was the lady from Pennsylvania that truly caught my attention with her response. As soon as I cheerily asked her for her story, I realized that subconsciously I already knew the answer. There aren’t many reasons an elderly woman would be found alone on a cruise ship and alone on a rafting tour of the Bald Eagle Preserve in Haines, Alaska.

“My husband and I always wanted to come to Alaska. He, too, realized he didn’t have as much time as he thought. He would have enjoyed this so very much,” she nearly whispered with tears welling, “This trip is for him.” She looked into the distance. The boat went silent. For several moments, nothing was heard but the soft rustle of silt against rubber, the soothing sound of the river gently caressing the bank, tempting it to let go, tumble down, and be swept away, and finally a quick slide and a splash. A small shelf freed itself from the confines of structure and embracing freedom, riding the current in a million separate particles. There was nothing to be said. We all understood. I understood better than they could ever have imagined.

I fought back tears as my mind raced through memories of friends who would never again get to see something so incredible as the Cathedral Peaks, Kicking Horse Valley, or a twelve pound bald eagle shredding and devouring a salmon within feet of the raft. There were four young men that came to mind instantly. The picture used at their memorial still weighs on my mind. Four bright eyed, healthy men…boys really, who loved each other like brothers, always insisting on being in the same truck with one another, posing for the camera in different tough guy positions. One with both hands in the air, looking to the sky seemingly asking for deliverance, another with only his right fist in the air looking diagonally away from the camera. All four of them radiating youth and promise. All four of them no longer on Earth. Their truck was barely recognizable when it was towed back to the FOB and left in the “graveyard.” A young father who lost his life two weeks from before seeing his newborn son for the first time over mid-tour leave. A boy, now over five years old who never had a chance to meet his father. A boy shot by a sniper through his temple on his 20^th birthday. A boy next to whom I sat, discussing how lucky he was to be coming to our FOB as opposed to his COP. I told him he was lucky to get to work with the CIED team. It sure would beat his other job. Days later he was crushed under the vehicle when it hit an IED. A group of young men burned alive inside an MRAP. A boy who thought he could stop a truck from tumbling down a cliff and keep himself out of trouble, but ended up going down with it. A suicide towards the end of the road with less than a month left in Afghanistan. None of these guys will ever be able to celebrate life as we can. They can only live on in our memories.

“I need to travel more before I, too, run out of time,” my passenger from Pennsylvania told me as she stared in awe, mouth slightly agape, at the small salmon stream that opens up into a view unparalleled of the vast alluvial fan and towering mountains capped with fresh snow. “I need to do many things.” We all do. Many things need to be done.

Everybody dies. Only a handful of people truly live. This woman from Pennsylvania cried for her husband as I cried for humanity. She touched my heart as I can only hope to touch others in time. We shared a moment on the raft, eight of us, contemplating the beauty of being capable of living each day how we choose. It is truly a gift to live, and that day everyone with me understood that. Embrace each moment as is it’s your last, as you never know when the last may come.