Father, friend and fisher man

Jim Rayphand

I must admit that this stage of my life—the nostalgic, introspective and overly-sentimental stage—can be a bit annoying (or rather emotionally exhausting) at times. I suspect, particularly for those who don’t know me (though I can’t rule out even those who know me well), that I might come across as patronizing or didactic, if not pretentious and boring, with my over-sharing through a general love of the written word, but it is what it is—“I yam what I yam, and that’s all what I yam” (Popeye, 1933). My behavior reflects my basic nature.

Prone to overthinking (from as early as I can remember), my mind is frighteningly susceptible to obsessive-compulsive thought and self-destructive action, but mostly thought. Imagine if you will a repeat-button getting stuck and automatically replaying a particular song (or more aptly, a particular video) and needing either to bang on it or let it run its course and play out enough times to loosen. That’s my compulsion and whether it’s a negative or positive thought determines the manner in which I function. To be clear, I don’t have a mental-health diagnosis as such, have avoided psychological/psychiatric services like the plague and there again but for the grace of God go I “do not go gentle in that good night” (Dylan Thomas). More often than not, I self-medicate to mitigate and, if I’m being completely honest, sometimes to perpetuate the cycles—I’m either running away from or running to the windmills in my mind.

A quick plug (at the thought of running): the trifecta of exercise, healthy diet, and proper rest collectively render a more satisfying, calming and lasting effect than medicine of any kind. At fifty-plus years old now, it is something of an understatement to say that I have been through the gauntlet of non-prescribed, reckless alternatives and am intimately aware of the false promises therein. Also as a former athlete (of sorts), I can speak with some authority on the euphoria that comes with a rigorous, physical workout. Of course, endorphins just appear out of thin air instantly with “medicine,” whereas the more natural alternative requires an honest sweat and investment of time. It’s no secret which route I’ve chosen to take in recent times though it is a New Year…fingers crossed. (*Note to reader: Please resist any urge to assume this is some kind of cry for help—it isn’t—tough I can’t believe these are the words coming out of my mind).

If ever there are recurrent themes in my lifetime of neurotic thinking, they (broadly) are those of life, death and, of course, love. Put another way, I have spent a lifetime subconsciously and otherwise trying to reconcile (or rather obsessing over) the paradoxical yet harmonious nature of this holy trinity. Think about it: In the name of Life (the Father), Death (Son) and Love (the Holy Spirit).

There is perhaps nothing more life-affirming than the wonder of having children (“The sons and daughters of life’s longing for itself”—Kahlil Gibran). It took me having kids of my own to understand (or rather empathize) with my Mortlockese grandparents who regularly bemoaned the phenomenon of their children and grandchildren leaving our home island in pursuit of whatever it was we sought (usually school or work, although plenty of us were known to stow away on ships for basic adventure, often for love—true stories for a future article perhaps). In their own words, “If you leave, who will carry my coffin when I die?” I suppose being buried in the absence of their own offspring was in their mind a fate worse than death itself to necessitate the constant reminders to even the youngest among us. The islanders I grew up with up tended to be very blunt and matter-of-fact in their approach to life, death, and dying. Coincidentally, I was away during the passing of my grandmother, but my grandfather died in his sleep a mere five feet from where I also slept—I had the honor (as a teenager) of being able (along with a few of his other grandchildren) to personally lift him into his plywood coffin, hammer the nails in to seal the cover and lower him into the ground for his final resting place.

I have mixed feelings as to how much or how little to traumatize my own children with reminders about the fleeting nature of life. On the one hand they shouldn’t be made to live a life in fear of death and on the other they should be keenly aware that our time here is limited—seize the day! A close friend of mine thinks it’s too bleak to continually state the obvious—“that’s too much pressure,” she says. Maybe she’s right or maybe she’s wrong or maybe she’s neither right nor wrong?

The vast and yet fine line between life and death is riddled with more questions than answers, but what is absolutely clear is that the only sustainable link between the two is love, a binding force beyond space and time. In my life, I can say without hesitation that I know fatherly love—agape in its most true form, unconditional/selfless—and I’ve known love in friendship (platonic or otherwise), conditional for sure, but enduring even after death.

The mystery for me is the love of God—God does work in mysterious ways. Perhaps it’s no coincidence I’m to drawn to be a fisherman by trade as a simple reminder and exercise in faith to “Launch out into the deep, and let down your nets for a draught” (Luke 5:4).

I am no fisher of men and barely a fisherman at all, but at my end in remembrance, may the epitaph read: Here lies a Simple Man—Father, Friend and Fisher Man.

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Jim Rayphand is a former executive director of the Northern Marianas Protection and Advocacy Systems Inc. and recently ventured into a startup fishing business.