John and I had never served together on a boat and our actual contact consisted of when he and Lynn stopped by our place a couple of summers ago in their camper - plus a couple of meetings at SubVet events in Groton.

But like boat sailors do we managed to stay in touch.  I could rely on at least one phone call every month, more or less interspersed with occasional e-mails.  Most of these electronic-comms were the result of John's re-reading some of the crap I have on the internet about the passage of time, youth and the boats.

He loved reading Dex Armstrong's stories. He relished the poems and writings of my late cousin Bob. In fact as far as I know there is still a Christmas decoration that John had made and hung on the tree at 40 School St. with Bob's name on it.

The stories by any submarine guy about times-gone-by was like catnip to John. They moved him. And so he would call and tell me how he felt. John was a sentimentalist.  He hated the aging process and the loss of strength, youth and the cruel passage of time. (And don't we all.)

He would go on a surfing/reading spree and then my phone would ring: "Hey, you old fart you watching the soaps" he would yell at me. I would respond with the same words "Nope! Too busy.  I leave that to you old guys".  It was almost a ritualistic exchange. Then, without breaking stride he would rapid fire launch into something he had read on my website or some story from a Submarine BBS and his thoughts about it. 

We'd kick around some sort of disjointed sailor-speak about what it means and the brevity of life and the good times. All the while, like two drunk high schoolers who had just discovered deep thinking, we jumped from point to point.  Most of the time never fully completing a thought until finally one of us would say, "Well I gotta go". Followed by his signature sign-off: "Talk to ya later. Who loves ya?"... Click!

---

During the past several months our calls were less frequent. He was not doing well and I knew it. But a few weeks ago we talked for the last time on the phone.  I could understand him a little better as he was talking slower. I asked him how he was doing. His quick response was, "I got COPD. I'm hooked to an oxygen tank and I'm dying here. How the hell do think I'm doing? And when are you gonna come down? Got plenty of room."

That last conversation of ours focused on a couple of pieces called "Tears in the rain" and "Sweet Bird of Youth". He had just re-read them for the umpteenth time and they were really working on him and he wanted to talk.  I had a hunch where he was coming from.

When I hung up the phone my wife asked me how John was doing. "Talking slower." I said, " I could actually understand him better. He's really dwelling on the end of it all" Then as I felt my eyes starting to get that hot feeling I pulled on my jacket and went for a walk.

I'm missing those conversations already.

Good bye my friend... its raining.