Magic Known

A magic known before our time
Was mastered and forgotten.
One day the warmth disappeared
For a spell, and the fog settled in.

 

Upon the return of the sunlight,
Things would never be the same
As an old magic reinvented itself
In a young man’s heart.

 

Breathing would unlock the mysteries
Churning within his soul.
An unfamiliar unrest provoked
His intuition and challenged his mind…

 

Soon he would comprehend his power;
And God had faith he would use it for good…

 

The Devil disagreed….

 

Ultimately, it would be up to the young man…

 

 

 

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Without fail, every Sunday morning one of the Simon brothers will row out to the white ball mooring just off the western point of the property.  They head out for a day of fishing, cruising, or escapes to nearby beaches aboard their 1981 Chris Craft Catalina. This is a twenty five foot cruising and fishing boat that they had purchased together in Maryland when they graduated from college. They had it shipped down to the island soon after moving here.

 

Although it doesn’t have an official name stenciled onto the stern, I’ve heard them refer to it as the “Aqueous Humor.” This boat has been their sanctuary, their respite, and their bliss. It has been something they describe as always available to recharge their psychic energies after a taxing week. So long as it wasn’t breaking down.

 

As I have noticed, Sunday evenings always make way for a remarkable time to chat with them when they stumble up the hill carrying a fresh catch and a fading buzz. On occasion, some of the clients and staff will join their days’ fun; but it seems that most take care to respect the docs’ Sunday space. Andrew says time on the boat is his preferred version of “going to church”, it achieves a similar connection to God, though with far more more wine available.

 

Today after breakfast, Peter invited me to join him on a morning fishing trip to a location referred to as “The Shelf.” He billed the impending adventure as a “serious wahoo hunt.” How could I resist… It sounded like an opportunity I could get into?

 

Andrew couldn’t make it out today, as he had plans to accompany a client over to St Thomas for a scheduled intrathecal pain pump placement procedure. Peter needed a strong deckhand – presumably to help with opening the beer bottles and baiting the lines. Fortunately I was totally available and happy to join the crew.

 

On the way out of my cottage, I grabbed my sandals, my wallet, and my now trusty sunscreen. I filled up my water bottle with a pile of crushed ice, and added a fresh side of a cut lemon left over from breakfast. I figured it would protect against scurvy in case we got lost at sea. I wanted to be prepared. I wanted my next merit badge.

 

When I met Peter at the shoreline, he had already prepped the vessel, the lines, and the coolers. I knew this was going to be a big trip. With a five day old beard, an unenviable case of bed head, and a torn Hawaiian shirt; this guy looked like a fisherman who I could trust.

 

On the thirty minute trip to the hallowed fishing ground, Peter told me a bit about himself in terms of his adventures behind them helm. He told me about an epic struggle against the ill tempered and snaggle-toothed monster bluefish on Cape Cod. He described a fatally flawed oar-powered charter of Key West. He even detailed a story that reflected his own heroism during a hurricane in 1991 that was later dubbed “the perfect storm…”

 

I guess he figured I hadn’t seen the Mark Wahlberg / George Clooney movie. I grew up in Massachusetts, and I could clearly see that this guy wasn’t a Gloucesterman; not even close…

 

What I do know is that Peter Simon is a medical oncologist by training. He is single, and he appears to be in his early fifties. He and his brother Andrew established Altamount Hospice Inc. as a joint business venture almost seven years ago. They embarked on the project after both had taken sabbatical from their respective medical practices to complete further training in palliative care.

 

They too had been inspired to appreciate the utility of this discipline after bearing witness to the death of their respected father. He had experienced a torturous struggle with the diagnosis and treatment of a metastatic head and neck cancer.

 

The unrelieved symptoms and hardship that his illness revealed made Peter and Andrew question their own professional focus. It was some time after Mr. Simon had died that the brothers took a solemn oath to heal themselves, and create opportunities for others healing as well. They had realized the ideal way to spend life’s waning days; comfortable, in paradise, and with dignity intact…And if possible, with a rum drink nearby…

 

Peter and Andrew had spent their formative years in southern Maryland, as their father had been an instructor at the US Naval Academy. It was there they had known Johnny Sullivan. It was destined that Johnny found himself as their third musketeer, and balance to the brothers’ dynamic. In the years following their adolescence, they all would follow different career and life paths until they fatefully reconnected on the island.

 

Johnny and his wife Jamie had inherited the property in the 1990’s from his grandparents (before the island was popular among the East coast masses).  They initially spent their efforts trying to build and improve it. It was a dream come true for the both of them.  The villa that Johnny’s family left them was run down, and no one had lived in the cottages for years. When they first started out down here, they were camping on a withering investment.

 

Rising costs of labor, supplies, and recession gave the Sullivan’s a very grave look into the future of their island dream. They prepared themselves to sell the property in the late 1990’s as the taxes and electric bills alone were becoming more than formidable with each month that passed.

 

Things were looking very bleak for the property until serendipity floated ashore aboard the incoming ferry. It carried the physicians, their hope, and a idealistic vision to build Altamount.  With the partnership of the Sullivan’s, and an impressive financial backing of their own, the Simon brothers set out to transform a shared dream. In the process they solved their desperate friends situation, and transformed it into into a thriving new business.

 

The carpenters returned, and work resumed. Before long they had a business plan, a quality product, and enthusiasm to change the world. After some well placed advertisements in reputable stateside magazines (and a talk show appearance that Andrew arranged), clients began to drift ashore. The rest was history. I had heard the story recently  but I wasn’t interested in the details of it  today. Today was about fishing.

 

 

 

 

 

Once we were off shore we set the lines and trolling began. Peter reached into the cooler, pulled out two Carib beer bottles and popped them open.

 

“Here you go Mark, now you’re ready boss…” he chuckled. He turned, grabbed the wheel, and rested his beer aside the now blinking fish finder.

 

In a moment of relaxed curiosity I turned my back on the bending rods, and climbed up to the bridge. “Peter, listen I really appreciate this opportunity, I’ve been here long enough to know how impressive all this is…”

 

Peter looked back over his shoulder towards the stern and addressed the wake with a squint- induced smile, “Yeah it’s a hell of a day, lots of fish along this ridge. They float right up to the surface. They’re tempted by those attractive instincts that keep them fed… I just wait for the screaming zip of my line to start, I hit neutral, and then I do what I do best… I catch fish…big ones.”

 

I thought to myself, ‘wow, what a weirdo this guy is, I was talking about the hospice.’

 

I said out loud, “Sounds like a plan Doc, let’s get some dinner.” Saying it that way seemed so much easier and appropriate for the situation.

 

It must have been a solid two hours before I got my call to duty. Using a wire leader with a double hook trap set up and fresh mackerel bait, I landed a bite. “Fish on, Doc,” I yelled.

 

The throttle clicked and the engine slowed to a hum. The sound of my drag letting loose cut sharply into the salt air. Setting my feet, I gave it hell… It was real ugly, but I certainly hooked the son-of–a-bitch. Peter talked me through the hard parts, and then the glowing yellow fish came into sight.

 

After what felt like an hour, the fish was reeled in to a distance fifteen yards from the boat.  At that moment my line tightened, momentum shifted, and I flailed. Out of the water it jumped, breaking the surface and exposing itself completely to the air for the first time. A real beauty indeed. Just then a sharper jerk directed my rod to the port side, and my line went loose.

 

I thought the fish must have freed itself with that last effort through the surface. Disappointed, I reeled in while retracing my steps through the lost catch. As the rig approached the side of the boat I was shocked to see that I had actually still had something. The fish was still there…Well, half of it anyway…

 

For a second I wondered if  I was really strong enough to rip a fish in half? As I raised it from the water, Peter looked amused. “Looks like a good mahi… You got the rest on layaway buddy?” He laughed. “I guess the shark out there was hungrier than you today…”

 

“Story of my life, Peter…” I woefully responded. We reeled in the rest of the line and inspected the remains of the fish. Sure enough, it had been a shark. There in the ripped scales beneath what remained of the dorsal fin was a small serrated tooth. I picked it up and held it to the light. My optimism convinced me that this tooth was the reward for catching two fish at once; rather than not landing either of them. Blind faith and a constant search for a silver lining was also accurate synopses for the ‘story of my life.’

 

Although the morning hunt didn’t provide dinner for the night, it did provide some good, old fashioned, fun for the day. As we pulled up to the dock, we threw the bow and stern lines to Tom, one of most “healthy” clients at the hospice. Apparently he was playing dock master for the afternoon while reading from a weathered Robert Ludlow spy novel.

 

“Hi Mark, you look good friend, what’d you catch out there?” He asked while pointing at my widening grin.

 

“Just some rays Tom.., and somewhere out there, floats the body of a thirty pound headless Wahoo…” I raised my brow to explain my statement, and Tom got the picture…

 

Peter cut the engines and we unloaded the boat. Now I sit safely in my room, three hours later, and can still feel the undulation of the waves under my feet. Swells of inertia move awkwardly from my feet to my stomach, and eventually spin into my head. I feel like I’m walking on water here. Easily the sensation lulls me to sleep.