Then like millions of waves before, it sucked him right back out. He peeled more line. I thought this was a goner. I kept fishing him, trying to stay calm. He grew tired and I was able to get into the seaweed-laden rocks, now up to my knees in water. Don’t fall!
I landed the beast by barrel-hugging him with one arm. His gut was so big I didn’t think he’d last long sitting on his side. I was right. I tried to mouth him and was successful quickly. Now get out of the water with everything but don’t slip. Three treble hooks can do some serious damage. I got up to semi-dry rock and went to work on releasing the lure. Heart pounding, sweat dripping down my sunglasses, it was an epic battle that I thought you’d appreciate.
Your son snapped a quick photo from the house—doesn’t do the fish justice, but the memory will always live large in my mind. I thoroughly enjoyed cleanly releasing that keeper into the seaweed to catch his breath and recover, then eventually head out into the ocean.
The best fishing in Maine has been and will always be Walker’s Point.
Love,
Hank
The Opposite of Fear Is Love
The death of a former president dictates a protocol of public mourning. When Gampy died, there were services through the week, culminating in a funeral at the Washington National Cathedral. Several other presidents were in attendance, as were foreign leaders, members of Congress, judges, and many friends.
The morning of Gampy’s funeral, I was up at the crack of dawn. My aunt Doro saw that at five A.M. I was already responding on a meditation text chain we share. She called me to see if I was okay. It was typical of her to set aside her own sadness to inquire after others. The truth was, I was struggling, but I knew her heart was broken. At the funeral, I was asked to say a prayer for my grandfather. This is the prayer I read:
A reading from the Book of Revelation:
Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth; for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying,
“See, the home of God is among mortals.
He will dwell with them;
they will be his peoples,
and God himself will be with them;
he will wipe every tear from their eyes.
Death will be no more;
mourning and crying and pain will be no more,
for the first things have passed away.” . . .
And the city has no need of sun or moon to shine on it, for the glory of God is its light, and its lamp is the Lamb. The nations will walk by its light, and the kings of the earth will bring their glory into it. Its gates will never be shut by day—and there will be no night there.
I cried often that week, but during that service I managed to keep my composure. My grandfather’s funeral made me think about the mood of the country that year—the violence, the anger, the images of children suffering on the border—and how I always want to walk on the side of love.
My hero in this quest was a teacher Mila was lucky enough to have for preschool. Maria is one of the most incredible teachers I have ever encountered. She is a light of a human being—a tornado of hugs, smiles, and boundless energy, radiating warmth and goodness. In her tireless, tender way, she makes children feel safe, and she lets parents go off to work sure that their children will not only be taught the building blocks of math and reading but also be taught to love.
In the fall of 2016, I was traveling too often to do drop-offs as regularly as I had for Mila’s first year of school. On those mornings when I was out of town, I missed Mila and Poppy, of course, and I also missed seeing Maria.
Ever since I first heard my mother’s stories of teaching at Bradfield Elementary School in Dallas, Texas, or JFK in Houston, I have found myself in awe of great teachers. Teaching taught me how difficult it can be to remain calm in the face of chaos, to focus on twenty energetic children at the same time without boring those who are bounding ahead or confusing those who are trailing behind on a particular lesson.
I know that setting your own feelings aside in order to serve the children in your care can require great reserves of strength. When I see a teacher doing all of those things while making it look easy and fun, I take notice.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Maria that year for another reason: she is Muslim. The 2016 campaign was dominated by rhetoric that encouraged fear of others. Barbara was disturbed by the inflammatory language, too. Many members of her global health nonprofit team come from countries around the world, including Muslim countries. She was working hard to help people, and now some of those who were suffering most in the world were being demonized.
Then came election night. Barbara and I have spent many election nights together. Some of these nights we didn’t have a personal stake in the outcome, and, obviously, sometimes we did! There were long, endless back-and-forth nights. We have early memories of staying up late, dressed in our American Girl dresses, sitting by our grandfather and our father, feeling the energy in the room shift, wondering why everyone was suddenly sad.
My sister doesn’t own a TV, so she came over to my place to watch the election returns that night. Henry was on a trip to Asia for work. It was just Barbara, the girls, and me. Like most everyone, we had read in the newspapers that this election would be a landslide. We planned to have some dinner and watch the results. Then she would go home.
After the girls were tucked snug in their beds, Barbara and I watched the returns. When the winner had not been declared by nine P.M., Barbara ran the four blocks to her apartment to grab pajamas and a pie, returning to spend the night. She and I got into my bed, ate our dessert, and kept the television on until we couldn’t keep our eyes open any longer.
The next morning Mila ran into my bedroom to wake us. At first she was confused. She saw Barbara’s long brown hair where her father’s head usually is. When she woke us, we turned the TV on and saw a very different result from the one we had been expecting. Barbara and I, sleep-tousled and groggy, looked at each other in surprise.
After we got dressed, I walked Mila to school. It was parent-teacher conference day. As soon as I saw Maria, we reached for each other. To me, Maria represents love. You can hear her singing down the hallway. She beams with a purity of spirit and an inner beauty. Her eyes sparkle. On this day, I thought I saw worry in her expressive eyes.
From the school, I went to a meeting for work. The meeting was, it turned out, made up entirely of women. A TV was on in the background, and we all looked over to see Hillary Clinton giving her concession speech. We watched in silence. Time seemed to stop as together we took in this historic moment.
To all the women, and especially the young women, who put their faith in this campaign and in me, I want you to know that nothing has made me prouder than to be your champion. Now, I know we have still not shattered that highest and hardest glass ceiling, but some day someone will, and hopefully sooner than we might think right now. . . . I believe we are stronger together and we will go forward together. And you should never, ever regret fighting for that. You know, scripture tells us, “Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season, we shall reap if we do not lose heart.”
In that moment, I was lifted out of the trance I’d been in all day. I remembered that women have the power to lift one another up, to give one another courage. That’s what Barbara and I do for each other. She and I decided that very hour to write a book together about what sisterhood looks like in our lives. In that moment, our book, Sisters First, was born.