I Don’t Have Much Time Left!

It was still light outside on a warm August evening when Ariel and I entered the Yardarm, a quaint local eatery in Orleans on Cape Cod, Massachusetts. The little restaurant was dark with wood booths that had seen plenty of wear. As we walked into the room, we were hailed by Captain Bill who was sitting with a group of fellow captains and fishing buddies and he invited us to join them.

Bill had grown up on the water in New Jersey and had parlayed his love of the ocean and fishing into becoming a guide. Many times his guests let him fish right alongside them, which for Bill was a dream come true. Ariel and I had known Bill for about five years at this point, having hired him as a guide for several local New Jersey excursions. After getting to know us a bit, he mentioned his love of the Cape Cod area. Generations of his family had gone to this famous spit of land on the southeast corner of Massachusetts – and he recommended that we go there and fish for striped bass. Happily, we took his suggestion and went on to fish the Cape with Bill several times over the next five years.

At the Yardarm that night, after a long day on the boat in the wind and sea and sun, we chatted with Bill and his companions over bowls of clam or fish chowder – New England style, of course – with crusty bread and butter. In the companionable silence that fell as the guys (and Ariel) were enjoying their food, Bill suddenly spoke up.

“Shya,” he said, “I have a confession to make. Do you remember when we first met?”

Of course I did. Ariel and I had just gotten our first boat, Shya’s Dream, and had found a place to moor it on the Jersey shore. The problem was that I had no idea where to fish. During my research, I came upon an article written by Bill who was a local fly fishing guide describing the area around the Raritan Bay and Sandy Hook. I gave him a call and asked if I could hire him to show me potential areas where I could fish on my own and we booked a trip for the first day that both our schedules were free.

The night before my charter, everything was ready to go and I had just slipped into bed hoping for some shut eye before the next day’s adventure, when the phone rang.

“Hi, Bill! Everything okay?” I asked.

“Well, Shya, I checked the weather, and it’s going to be a nasty, windy day with the strong possibility of rain. Maybe we should go another weekend or try another day?”

I listened to his concerns and considered for a moment, then replied, “No Bill, let’s go. I don’t have much time left.”

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. I could almost hear Bill nodding as he said, “I understand. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Back at the Yardarm, empty bowl of chowder before him, Bill smiled as he recounted our first windy, sloppy day on the water together. How we had navigated the choppy ocean and spewing rain, how we had actually caught a few stripers and how it had been an exhilarating, satisfying day.

Then he turned to me and said, “Shya, I remember spending that entire day with you thinking, ‘This is the healthiest terminally ill person I have ever met!’”

The folks at the table chuckled and we did too. Bill continued, “Before that, we’d only spoken by phone so I didn’t know you yet. It was only after several trips together that I realized you weren’t actually sick, you were just…immediate.”

It’s been many years since that first day I went fishing with Bill and I still go about my life with urgency, as if this day is my last, as if each moment matters.