Page 46 September 6, 2013
DAN’S PAPERS
danspapers.com
Falling into a Workout Schedule M ost East Enders agree: We were robbed of summer this year. The temps didn’t rise to a traditional summertime hot until just before the 4th. I recall weather forecasters announcing at the end of June that that particular day was the hottest on record since Tumbleweed
Tuesday 2012. Since winter stretches beyond its allocated calendar time on the East End, we’re all crossing our fingers for that seemingly elusive Indian Summer. If the pervasive clouds that shrouded Labor Day weekend ever pass, we could be in for a lovely September. Stranger things have happened… The Atlantic and other East End waterways are currently at their warmest of the year, and the time is ripe for autumn stand-up paddleboarding (SUP). Over the past two weeks, I’ve had the opportunity to try my hand at the 10-foot-2 Coco Mat SUP, available at Global Surf Industries (surfindustries.com). The board is made from coconut husks, a byproduct of the coconut industry. The material is lightweight and durable, and the board’s thickness makes it perfect for balancing on flat water, surfing smaller waves and participating in the increasingly popular stand-up paddleboard
Fort Pong Bay, Montauk yoga. A great all-around board, Mecox Bay, Water Mill the Coco Mat SUP makes SUPing Peconic River, Riverhead available to people of a wide New Suffolk Waterfront, New range of fitness levels. Suffolk Dips in the Atlantic are welcome de-stressors, and the board has With lower humidity, fall is allowed me to enjoy my first foray also prime running weather. Take into ocean SUPping. I made my advantage of the daylight that still way through the whitewater, stretches beyond the 9 to 5 and and then paddled parallel to the prep for one an East End 5K. shore. Even calm ocean days have Coco Mat SUP (wrong paddle!) more chop than you would think, September 7: West Hampton Dunes BBPA and the board’s stability allowed me to conquer them. It’s easily maneuverable, and I was able 5K. 7:30 a.m. registration, 9 a.m. race. 906 to keep myself paddling near shore, regardless Dune Road, West Hampton Dunes. Co-Hosted of the currents. Next up, I’ll try my hand at by Island Running and the Barrier Beach stand up paddle surfing. Will report back with Preservation Association. Register online at how many paddles I lose. islandrunning.com. $30 When the weather becomes too chilly to enjoy immersing yourself in the ocean, flatter September 14: Hampton Bays Ponquogue estuaries and bays can provide a tranquil on-the- Bridge 5K/10K. 9 a.m. 10K Run, 5K Run/Walk. water workout. As an added bonus, parking Register at the Hampton Bays Middle School on regulations expire soon, so East Hamptonites, Ponquogue Ave. from 7–8:30 a.m. Participants Southamptonites and North Forkers can come are bussed to the starting area art Warner’s Park on the south side of Ponquogue Bridge. Drop off together to enjoy the SUPping world as one. and parking available at Ponquogue Beach. $25 Check out some of my favorite spots: before Sept. 10, $30 race day, $10 children 14 Accabonac Harbor at Landing Lane, Springs and under. Hosted by the Hampton Bays Lions Sagg Pond at Bridge Lane off Sagg Main Road, Club. Register online at islandrunning.net. Sagaponack Three Mile Harbor at the end of Hands Creek September 22: Flying Point 5K for Autism Landing, East Hampton Awareness. 9 a.m. Flying Point Beach, Water Georgica Pong at the rest stop on Route 27, Mill. $25 Advance registration, $30 day-of flyingpointrun.com East Hampton K. Laffey
By kelly laffey
Guest (Continued from page 41) We discovered quite serendipitously an organization called Compassion and Choices, which counsels people over the telephone on legal “end of life” management. They coached us about how and when to involve hospice, and the methods that could be utilized to help Jim swim with the tide, only faster, while at the same time remaining comfy. This appealed. Our helpers in that organization were very impressed with the cooperative, forward-thinking spirit of East End Hospice. The May morning that the hospice nurse and social worker were scheduled to pay us an “informational” visit, I wheeled Jim to the sink so he could shave and ready himself. He turned to me and said, “I look too good for hospice. They might reject me and not be willing to help! I’m not going to shave, I can look stubbly that way.” Remember, he was the handsomest man in America. His blue eyes (on forms asking for eye color he would always write “compassionate blue”) were sparkling, his complexion rosy, his silver hair sprang gorgeously from his head and feathering down the back of his neck charmingly, as always. He was wearing a black T-shirt. He said, “Get me a white T-shirt and some coffee.” I did. He spilled coffee down the front of the T-shirt so he’d look like one of those men in the Price cartoons in The New Yorker, with the bare light bulbs hanging over a disordered table upon which sat a scary-looking cat. Then he asked me for some flour, which he sprinkled all over his black cotton Puma sweat pants. He looked quite schlumpy and waited for the hospice people in
a wheelchair instead of reclining on the sofa. They spoke with us about how medications could help him be comfortable when the time was right, and to let them know when that was. During the weeks leading up to the hospice visit, we’d spoken at length about his plan to stop eating and drinking. He often remarked that we only lease our bodies anyway, and that he didn’t mind dying…that he’d had a lovely life, had painted enough paintings and caught enough fish. He just didn’t want to suffer. He expressed gratitude thoroughly and often for my support of his plan. I would have done anything to help get him out of the torture chamber his body had become. It was the last act of love I was able to lavish upon my lovely husband. I was eager to go join him in the plan, but again, feared I would fade first and leave him alone, helpless. We decided I’d better stick around until he was tucked away. On a Saturday morning, when the family members from afar had visited, Jim stopped eating and drinking. My husband excelled at everything he chose to do, even looking disheveled for hospice. He had been dead to his own life for several months before he actually left it. I had grieved these losses of function with him. There was a pulling feeling in the center of my body as I’d watched him struggle with the simplest movement. So we were able to grieve together in advance of his physical departure. By the time Mr. William Deering Yardley Jr. arrived in a blue suit and tie with his American flag lapel pin at 4 a.m. to wheel
Jim gently away, I had already experienced the lowest dip of the grieving curve. What I learned being with Jim was that death is natural, as natural as an exhale, as natural as a cry from the maternity ward. Also, Jim is not any deader than I am, he is just not in this room with me (though his ashes are). He might just as well be fishing in Accabonac Harbor or Gardiner’s Bay. He might just as well be in a poker room in Atlantic City playing Holdem. I watched him take his last breaths, shallower and quieter as midnight, and then the morning minutes accumulated. Seeming even handsomer, even younger as his breathing quieted, I sat with him concentrating on his every inhale, every exhale. I knew hospice would come if there had been panic or unease in his breathing. I whispered to him that I was memorizing the shape of his earlobes, the silkiness of his hair, the texture of his skin as I stroked his forehead. I imagined, as I watched his face, that I could see where he was going, that he could see where he was going and he was concentrating with great focus on getting there. And it seemed as though it seemed to him to be a place of great appeal, full of stillness. Each fading breath punctuated another paragraph of my love for him. It was a privilege to be with him throughout our 30 years, this man who loved solitude and inspired a blessed stillness with his presence and with his paintings. Take a breath. Allow the exhale. Notice the stillness at the end of the exhale. Rejoice with me in the stillness that was Jim’s legacy.