THE SURREALISM OF SUDDEN DEATH--AND SADNESS

Life: four simple letters. El-aye-eff-ee.

Death: five letters--two vowels and three otherwise--that have terrified most human beings since written--spoken--language was applicable.

I went Up North this weekend, with my girl, Meegie, to around the great Manistee National Forest in the upper knuckles of the Mitten, and, meanwhile, on Saturday, I received a voice mail on my overpriced cell phone. I couldn't understand the message, seeing as how she and me was in the Boon-Docks. All that I gleaned from the message--the phone kept cutting out--was "Lake Huron" and "metal-detecting" and "today."

I couldn't understand, so I let it go from my mind; I'd hear the message in full once I was back in civilization.

Well, yesterday, Lisa, a friend from work, called and I answered.

Hi and hello completed, she said something like, "Have you heard?"

"Heard what?" I asked.

"Tom Weaver passed away yesterday."

I think I said something like, "Uh, what?!"

"He died. He drown."

Now, listen: Tom was 39 years young. He was an ex-Marine. He was a big dude--247, maybe?--and he was as strong as an ox. Tom...died? He drown?

"Oh, fuck," I said. "What the fuck happened?"

She said, "He was out on Lake Huron, metal-detecting, and--I guess--he got caught in the undertow...he called for help, and people came, but they didn't find him until 20 minutes later. He was taken to a hospital, but he was dead."

I still don't believe it. I do, I do, but--shit. 39-year-olds, with two precious children and a fiancee--to whom he was to be married on Valentine's Day--39-year-old ex-Marines shouldn't die like that.

Metal-detecting: is there a more seemingly-innocuous pastime? How the fuck does someone die metal-detecting?!

I worked with Tom a few times. He was a lineman and I rode with him during my training. He was a good guy. He could talk a fucking mean streak--talk your ear into putty--but he was a damned good guy. I could tell.

Fuck.

How does this kind of shit happen?

In the title, I mentioned surrealism. Maybe that's not the best word. Shock might be. Incredulousness might be. Shit. Fucking sorrow might be the right word.

Apparently--and the story is still sketchy--Tom was out on Lake Huron on Saturday, bubbling happiness to show his kids how to metal-detect in lakes (Tom was a member of Michigan Treasure Hunters and he had found two or three keepsakes that he got back to the rightful owners)--and...just wait a second.

Life--that four-lettered word--ain't fair sometimes. Death is even more of a bastard.

Anyway, apparently, Tom realized he was in trouble and he called out for help from the people on the beach. Around a hundred people formed a human chain, hands linked, but they found him when it was too fucking late. The guy drown in four fucking feet of water. How the hell does that happen when the guy in question was about six feet tall? Was he wearing waders which could have filled up with water and dragged him under? (People say that he was in a wet-suit.) Did he suffer an brain hemorrhage? Or a heart attack? (Then how would he have been able to call for help?) Did he caught in an undertow? In four feet of water?! The guy was as strong as a bear, he was an ex-Marine...don't you think he'd have been able to bull his way out of the maelstrom?

I don't know what happened. And it's making me very very sad. My heart hurts for his soon-to-be-wife and his children. Things aren't fair, sometimes.

And I've heard this, today, about a thousand times: "When it's your time to go, it's your time to go." Shit. I've said it myself.

Bullshit. It wasn't Tom's time to go.

I just have a hard time wrapping my mind around the fact that the guy that I just saw four days ago is now dead, drown. He ain't on vacation and he ain't taking a sick day or two. The guy is dead. He passed on.

Passed on, my ass. "Passing on" seems so damned peaceful. I'm sure Tom's death wasn't. I'm sure that there was bafflement and then determination and then, finally, mortal panic.

And then Peace, hopefully. I hope that he--or his mortal brain, or his soul--accepted the inevitability of the situation and that he thought of the love of his life and his kids...though I see myself as empathetic and able to think as others do--or would--I think that that is a pipe-dream. I think that, when one is in a life-or-death situation, no thoughts pervail. I think that basically, it is an animal instinct, it is a fight for life and no thoughts are bouncing except for the crocodile brain of Survive.

And that fucking sucks, man.

That really fucking sucks.

I have never had a co-worker--at least one with whom I worked--die unexpectedly.

Winking, blue-eyed. Big-dude golfer, captain of his Marine team. Possessed the gift of gab. Had a big heart. Eccentric. Metal-treasure-hunter. Had a big heart. Tom.

Weaver.

I'm so fucking sorry, man.

Please rest in peace.

God, this sucks.

"In an unrelated accident, a 39-year old Wixom man identified as Thomas E. Weaver drowned in Saginaw Bay Saturday at the Caseville County Park Beach.
According to the Huron County Sheriff’s Office, Weaver was wading in about 4 feet of water while using a metal detector to search for valuables, when he suddenly called for help several times before going under the water.
Weaver was discovered about 20 minutes after he went under and was taken to an area hospital, where he was pronounced dead." --Freep.com