To my amazement it held fast.
With wings bent awkwardly
and feathers twisted awry,
it struggled to ride the shearing winds,
unwilling to be beaten back.
As if defiantly claiming its right to the beach,
to this paradise,
it stubbornly hovered right above me.
I thought, how triumphant this new visitor.
A contrast to the unwanted and ill-tempered other one.
In my soul, I sensed the gull balanced the storm.
They seemed to equal each other in strength and intensity.
Slowly, I felt the serenity raise within me once more.
So steeled, I too, stayed.
We silently rode out the storm together.
After a time together we parted.
Distanced by lives and nature
but none the less woven into an unseen web,
we were one that gull and I.
Once, while busy living, another storm blew in.
Shrouded in stealth, ALS closed in.
It too was also terribly turbulent.
There were times when it was all I could do
to just hang on.
A vicious and unwanted vortex swirled about me.
Things slammed in from all directions, like the pebbles of the first storm.
I was pelted. I was stung.
I was being beaten down. My stance tilted
as the earth moved under my feet.
Again I was being forced to yield.
I was so small and this was so big.
Like a hurricane, ALS was knocking me down
and sweeping me away.
I was afraid once more.
Then someone simply took a moment, to just “fly by.”
Maybe it was to only say hello,
perhaps lend a helping hand
or to let me know that they were still there.
So unexpected but dear God, so welcomed.
It was you. How did you know? Did you even realize?
Do you see? You were my gull,
forever soaring right overhead.
Your presence renewed my strength
and rekindled my wonder.
Distanced by lives and by nature, certainly unplanned, we were also woven into a web of life.
Know this my friend: we can weather the storm,
hold fast to our beach
and maintain that abiding peace.
But then we too must part.
May God always bless you
by sending you His gulls during your storm.
In 1970, the first year I taught, one of my students, Danny Conroy had surgery requiring a long convalescence. I became his home tutor and went to his house daily after school. I grew close to his entire family including five siblings. Twenty years later, the district hired one of his younger sisters as an elementary teacher. She was assigned to Dickinson Avenue. Jeannette was an active, environmentally focused teacher making frequent outdoor trips with her class. She often went to the beach and brought back specimens for my classroom’s numerous salt-water aquariums in Habitat House. We chatted many times about the marine environment. We shared a deep love of children and the sea. One day, standing outside the door of my room chatting, I launched into an extemporaneous ocean poem. It evolved into this poem. I dedicate it to Jeannette and her family.
The lesson in this was it may only take a simple ‘Hello, how are you today?’ to make a difference to people barely hanging on. Be proactive and reach out to someone. They may need it beyond your understanding.
Dying to Dive
As summer neared its end in 2018, my wife and I wanted to get in one more fun activity with our 11-year-old grandson, Patrick. Since he and I are both avid anglers and nature lovers, she made a suggestion tying both together.
“Let’s go to the aquarium,” she said.
We visited the shark tank, fed stingrays and marveled at the butterfly exhibit. Then we came upon the large, brightly lit, open reef display. I sat in front of the huge thick glass, hypnotized by the reef’s gloriousness. Bittersweet memories of my tropical diving days came flooding through. The last time I dove was in 1997, four years after my ALS diagnosis.
At the time of that dive, Christopher, my son, was 12 years old, the age youngsters can qualify for a junior diving certificate. For my son’s January birthday, I surprised him with scuba diving lessons. Over the winter, I took him to classes to qualify for his certificate. He was the only child in the group geared for adults and managed to pass the written exam. Then, he followed up with an open water test and received his certification in the summer. He was ready.
As a father and a diver, I desperately wanted to share that world with him before that happened. Now with his certification, it was within reach. The undersea world is like visiting a different planet. It is an alien world, a place where we are only visitors. There, life is so fundamentally different. Shapes and colors are as remarkable as they are unreal.
I began exploring options for a trip. I chose St. John in the Virgin Islands. It had a national park where we could camp, and a world famous water environment. Because of my paralyzed arms and hands, along with weak legs—combined with Christopher’s age—I expected to have a difficult time getting a dive shop to accommodate us. I called a few local scuba shops explaining my physical condition and they declined my request. Growing worried my calls took a more frenetic urgency.
Out of the phone came, “Hello.”
I opened with, “I know this will sound crazy, but please hear me out. I am dying from Lou Gehrig’s disease and I want to take my 12-year-old diving before I die. My arms are already paralyzed but I still can swim well under water.” I continued before he could respond negatively. “He is all set. I took him for his certificate. He has his open water dive completed. He is a good swimmer and mature for his age.” I wrapped up with, “I understand my request is unusual and will be a headache. It means the world to me for a chance to dive with my son. I need you to help make the dream a reality. Please work with me.”
After listening, the owner replied, “Mr. Pendergast, if you want to dive that badly, we’ll do whatever it takes so you get to dive with your boy! Come down and we’ll make it work.”
“Oh, thank you for this chance. You made my summer. I can’t wait.” I shot back.
Over the Jewish Holy Days in September when school closed, we headed to the Virgin Islands. As my wife watched us trudge off towards the plane dragging our luggage, with my son doing most of the work, she wondered out-loud, “What did I just do?” The sight of us actually leaving made it real. “I sent a paralyzed man off on a diving trip out of the country accompanied only by a twelve-year-old child!”
“How are you doing?” I asked him.
“Okay, Dad. Let’s go or we will miss the plane.” He looked back to hurry me as we walked towards the gate
We headed for an adventure of a lifetime. I had no idea it would be an epic experience-a forever memory.
The harbor resembled a sheet cake covered with blue frosting.