By Cole Naylor
Yesterday marked 11 months since my world fell apart. It’s still fresh. So fresh that I haven’t learned to anticipate the pain that comes on the 4th day of each month, yet each month since July, that damn 4th day hits me like a ton of bricks being dropped from several stories above. When Wynne was killed part of me went with her—a part I’ll never recover on this side of heaven.
They tell me I’ll learn to balance the sadness with the joy. The numbness will subside and my passions will return. I might even find new passion I didn’t explore in my past life. Great. Can’t wait. Give me that pill and I’ll take it twice a day.
The Work
But “the work” takes time. For the past 11 months I’ve mostly been numb. Super. Something else I don’t want. In the past when I needed to get my head right, the solution was simple—get outside and go on an adventure. Hunt something, catch something, build something, learn something. Since becoming a father, the solution remained the same, but my role changed. For nearly a decade my medicine has been to get the kids outside and take them on an adventure. Wynne and I went on a lot of adventures. Adventures I hope to keep writing about. I want to take her little sisters on those adventures and many more.
Yesterday was June 4th, but yesterday I was standing on the bow of a skiff in the Florida Keys.
If the vision of a 100+ pound silver torpedo launching out of crystal clear emerald water in a primal effort to detach itself from an angler’s dinky 1/0 worm fly doesn’t give you dreams of selling all earthly possessions, buying a skiff and poling it all the way to the Keys, you need to reconsider your priorities. The truth is though, tarpon fishing is 90% boring and 10% exhilarating. It’s a powerful drug, but also the epitome of hurry-up-and-wait.
This week, waiting has been my life. Wait for the tide to shift. Wait for the worms to pop. Wait for the school to come in range. Screw it all up or have it all go right, then wait for the next shot. All that waiting gives a man a lot of time to think and between raising a grieving family, navigating a demanding career, fighting for changes that might spare another family this pain, and carrying burdens I’d never imagined a year ago, my time to sit and think has been squeezed tighter than a pair of jeans after Thanksgiving dinner.
Waiting Out the Tide
Last night, after completing the fourth consecutive 14-hour day spent straining my eyes in search of a bronze tail, red dorsal fin or the silver face of a rolling tarpon, I laid back anticipating the weight of the date to knock the breath out of me. Instead, through the numbness burst the warmth of life. Grief, love, sadness, joy, self-pity and gratitude all filled me at once. Then her smiling face shone bright in my mind’s eye, and for the first time in months I felt reconnected to my little girl. I laid there peacefully picturing her beaming face laughing her toothless giggle and the unique expression she got when her curiosity overtook caution.
This morning, the last morning of the trip, I sat on the bow of the skiff watching the sunrise over Marathon, thinking about Wynne. Pillows of white clouds were still rising over the horizon and blocking out the sun. The tide hadn’t changed so the schools were still sleeping under the bridge. I closed my eyes and started to pray. I thanked God for my family in Dallas awaiting my homecoming, for good friends that invite you fishing, and for the time to sit back and once again enjoy creation. I began to weep. I sat there in silence letting the tears gently roll down my cheeks until I felt the warmth of the sun breach the top of the clouds. I ended my prayer the way I now end all my prayers and told Wynne I love her and I’ll see her soon. When I opened my eyes, I was greeted back to the world by a vision of a glowing throne of clouds encircled by a halo of sunshine. I dried my eyes, scanned out across the channel just in time to spot a school of rollers coming our way, and picked up my rod.
