In learning to be still, I began waking before sunrise to discover the brief moments of intense beauty before the sun appears on the horizon. Mitch Traphagen photo.
I’m not good at being sick. I’ve read various articles that women believe that men are the biggest whiners when it comes to being sick, and perhaps that is so. I don’t think I whine about the discomfort, but I certainly do about the stillness required of an illness. What I’m really not good at is learning to be still.
But I’ve discovered over the period of recovery on my boat at Little Harbor that being still has some advantages. I began waking up before sunrise. Although it would seem the East Coast would have the ultimate in sunrises, it’s hard to beat a Gulf Coast sunrise. About 10 minutes before the sun breaches the horizon, the sky goes aflame with color. It is intensely beautiful and extremely short-lived. Once the sun comes up, the harsh Florida rays mercilessly tear that color away, making way for a brilliant blue sky.
I was sitting in the cockpit of the boat one morning, watching the many birds come and go. Suddenly, near the seawall, I spotted a juvenile loon. I’ve seen adult loons wintering well offshore in the Gulf and occasionally even in the Bay but I’ve never seen one in the marina. As I stared, he turned and saw me. Perhaps he recognized some trace of Minnesota (the common loon is Minnesota’s state bird) in me because when he turned, he paddled in a beeline, straight toward me. When he reached the hull of my boat, I saw his red eyes as, for a moment, we were locked in a gaze, and then he took a dive, swimming away under the keel. It was a remarkable experience.
I ran to get my camera but he was gone. Perhaps some things in life are best left as memories.
With nowhere to go, I spent plenty of time on the web. Reading the near-constant stream of bad news made me feel a bit better about the fluffy stuff I tend to write. You can find bad news wherever you look; there is plenty of murder, rape, pillaging and mayhem to go around. But in the bad news there is also the poignant, the heroic stories that need to be told.
I read the story of Hillsborough County Sheriff’s Office Deputy John Robert Kotfila, Jr. He is one of only 14 HCSO officers killed in the line of duty since 1874. Deputy Kotfila gave up his life to save others, speeding past a car to stop a wrong-way driver on the Selmon Expressway. The woman in the car he passed said that he saved her life; if not for the deputy, the wrong-way driver would have killed her and perhaps others. Deputy Kotfila was brave, willing to give his last full measure of devotion to serve the public. He is a hero. He was only 30 years old.
In 2004, I was invited to attend the funeral of Deputy David Abella. I rode to the cemetery in a patrol car, one of a long line of patrol cars from law enforcement agencies around the nation. Along the route, before entering I-75, Hillsborough County Fire Rescue had two ladder trucks set up holding an enormous American flag over Brandon Blvd. Once on I-75, as we slowly headed north, several cars in the southbound lanes had pulled over in a show of respect. Perhaps the ultimate show of respect, however, was provided by one man who not only pulled over but stood outside of his car with his cap over his heart as the long procession passed.
PFC CORY ORR
I didn’t attend the ceremony as a journalist, and I’ve long since admitted my bias in covering the HCSO. Every single person I’ve met within that organization is a hero to me. There is not enough money to adequately pay them for what they do. There are not enough ways to say thank you.
Once at the cemetery, I didn’t dare look at anyone — all of those hardened men and women who have seen everything and still feel everything. I tried and failed at choking back the tears at the riderless horse. I tried and failed at choking back the tears as the radio call went out for Deputy Abella, unanswered. And then the voice on the radio signed him off forever, ending his watch.
I’d imagine that so it was for Deputy Kotfila. I saw his story passed around social media from friends around the country. Like me, they recognized him as a true American hero. To Protect and Serve, he gave his life for people he would never know.
I went out to watch the day end from the cockpit of my boat. The fishing boats and tourists were gone, and it was silent. As God proved his artistic mastery in coloring the evening sky, I thought about Deputies Kotfila and Abella.
I thought about Cody Orr, a young man from Ruskin with a crooked smile, recently married, and with a loving family, who years ago became the 500th American casualty in the Iraq War. Although I never met Cody, or the deputies, they will live forever in my heart.
The sky darkened. I uttered a silent prayer of thanks for those who sacrifice for us. And somehow, with my memories, I learned to be still.
