Ray was down from Nashville for a week that spring; just the two of us fishing in the Gulf near Moon Mullet. We were on my boat bobbing up and down in heavy chop, drinking beer on an overcast day. And not catching anything. Ray cast again and sat back down, staring at his line's vanishing point in the water, resigned to the fact the fish just weren't biting. From out of nowhere he started reciting a poem; an old lullaby I hadn't heard for years.
"Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night, sailed off in a wooden shoe. Sailed on a river of crystal light, into a sea of dew."
Being out on the water must have inspired him. "Very nice, Ray."
"Danny, do you remember it?"
"Of course. Mom used to read it to us when she tucked us into bed."
Then he picked up the thread again and came back with a few more lines. "And some folks thought it was a dream they'd dreamed of sailing that beautiful sea. But I shall name you the fishermen three...Wynken, Blynken..."
'And Nod', I said in remembrance at the same time, almost like saying amen together. "That's amazing you can still remember it, Ray."
He didn't respond, just took a sip of beer and lit another cigarette. We sat for awhile in silence, reflecting. I thought how once upon a time it actually worked with Mom, how she'd been like a real mother. For those first few years before the alcohol took over.
"Danny," Ray suddenly spoke up. "How much would you give for this?"
"Give for what, Ray?"
"This day, this water, this breeze. This air and sun warming our bodies."
It was a gorgeous day. Low humidity, deep blue sky. One of those perfect days rare in south Alabama. More like one you'd see in San Diego.
"Whatcha gettin' at?"
"This hour, this very minute on the boat with you, Danny, is worth more to me than anything. More than a million dollars. It's perfect out here: Right-this-minute." He punctuated the words with finger stabs in the air.
"Despite the fact we're not catching anything?"
"Because we're not catching anything," he said. "Just like the poem says. We're living a dream. Sailing this beautiful sea." He peered over his sunglasses directly at me. "I love you, man. Now hand me another beer, will ya?"
I smiled, told him I loved him too, and got a couple cold ones from the cooler. I had to admit it was a fine day. The chop had laid down real good, but the air was fresh; fresher than usual. It did a body good to feel it up against the skin. We had our shirts off and the sun was warming up, but it felt like a cool bath of air where you didn't sweat a lick.
We'd been out some time and caught a good buzz. We rocked in silence for a long while, drinking and smoking and looking out at the great beyond. Finally Ray cleared his throat and spoke again. "You know something, Danny, I think we're some of the last guys on the planet who'll be able to do shit."
"Sure, Ray," I said, humoring him. "What shit is that?"
"We're the last of the old rank and file, the glittering tail end of the comet about to pass out of earth's orbit."
"Thanks for clearing that up for me. Now do you mind translating into English?"
"Well, the way I see it, we were around to see or at least 'feel' the glorious stains of real people: Johnny Cash, Ray Charles, Martin Luther King, the whole World War Two generation that saved civilization's bacon. We know the history, the geography of our country. How it got founded, who was important. We studied our wars and read books, Danny. Real books. We didn't just surf the net and watch TV. Now kids are beat to death with reality shows and news programs are a joke; variety shows for morons. But we, Danny, we had the pleasure of knowing what real freedom feels like. Sorry, correction: what real freedom felt like. Tasted like. Before they sterilized us into something less. Before the government became irreversibly broke and corrupt. Before they tattooed everyone's ass with a computer IP address."
"Well, I suppose-"
"We got outside, Danny," Ray interrupted, growing more excited. "Even as kids. We had the pleasure of playing outdoors without having to sign insurance waivers or pay a hundred bucks to join an organized soccer team. That's why this hour right now on this boat is so priceless. Breathing real air. This air, Danny. This air."
He stopped to take another slug of beer, his face suddenly devoid of expression. "Now people can't go ten minutes without a dammed tweet." He came up for breath, this time with a little grin. "And I'm just glad we had that chance. To have lived and tasted life before they fucked it up. But I'm telling you the comet's passing, the end's coming. We better enjoy what little's left of it 'cause we're the last of the Mohicans. The last of the Mo-fucking-hicans."
It was a hell of a rant, and there was more than a little truth in it. But Ray was still fidgeting, something still hanging in the air. I could tell he wasn't done. "Danny, seriously, would you promise me something?" he asked.
"Sure. Anything."
"See that small island where the pelicans are nesting?" He pointed to a large outcropping a quarter mile to starboard.
"Yep."
He didn't say anything for a minute, just stared. He was barefoot, wearing a pair of shorts; that S-shaped scar from his battle injury a permanent jagged zipper running half the length of his leg. In the winter when his skin was pale it was wine-colored, almost purple. But with his summer tan the scar faded to a muted clay color. "I've always loved that place for some reason," he continued. "See how it's covered in white down and feathers. There's something about the combination of textures and the fact that life begins there for all those birds that appeals to me."
I gazed at the island, letting his words sink in. "Sure, I like it, too. It's kind of a mess with all those feathers and the funky smell right now. But so is life. What's on your mind?"
"That's just the point. It is a mess. Life's a mess. Promise me that if I buy the farm before you do, that you'll have me cremated and spread my ashes in the waters just off that island."
With Ray, you never knew what might come out of his mouth, but I wasn't expecting this. He was barely thirty, for chrissakes. He was at that point in life where he was at his physical peak; as good and strong as he was ever gonna get. It happens with all of us, that apex. And then the gradual decline. But this was Ray's peak year. Hell, it might have even been his peak day for all I knew. He was too young to be thinking such thoughts. But looking back, maybe it was just the right time.
The wind picked up and freshened; a nearby buoy bell clanged rhythmically.
"Not that we're in a rush to get rid of you, man, but you were a Marine. A wounded vet with a Purple Heart. You could be buried at Arlington with full military honors if you wanted."
"I know, I know. I've thought of that. Thought of it a lot. And it's not because I don't love my country. I do, it's just that..."
He was struggling to find the right words.
"What?" I said.
"Maybe it's that whole ashes-to-ashes thing that beckons. Or maybe it's the artist in me. Like mixing gray and blue paints, but instead, mixing gray ashes into these beautiful blue waters."
Pa often said that sometimes the best thing to say is nothing at all. This was definitely one of those times. I held my breath even as I held my tongue.
"Maybe there are others who deserve to be in Arlington more than I do," Ray went on, "people who sacrificed more. At least I came home." He looked in the distance across the water. He took off his sunglasses as his gray eyes teared at the remembrance of lost and wounded comrades. "Or maybe it's because Arlington's so crowded. And out here-"
He took a sip of beer and smiled. Some people sprint to the end when they're trying to make a point, almost like they can't wait to finish. Not Ray. He'd always been the master of the pregnant pause.
"Out here, I'd have some elbow room. Would you do that for me? I mean if it ever comes to that?"
Looking back it seemed almost pre-ordained, like Ray saw it laid out in advance in a dream. But it was a question with only one answer.
"What the hell, Ray. Sure, I'd do that for you."
