The sky is mostly shadow with glints of sunlight breaking through to shine a moment before being swallowed up again by the clouds. Hundreds, maybe even a thousand mourners stand barefoot on the beach. Dick is out of place in his dark suit, navy tie, and dress shoes among the throng in their board shorts and T-shirts. Hamilton’s sports agent from his competition days organized the ceremony, and the only religion among the attendees seems to be a shared reverence for the ocean and surfing.
A blue egg crate turned upside down in the sand with a microphone in front of it serves as the pulpit, and dozens step up to speak, each sharing funny, touching anecdotes that cause equal bursts of tears and laughter. Like those around him, Dick is moved by the stories and is sad things turned out the way they did. He’s not sure why he is here. All he knows is, when he woke this morning, he felt compelled to be a part of it. Memorials are about the living, an opportunity to recognize the person who was lost and to draw strength from being around others who share your grief. It’s about community, healing, and closure. Which he supposes explains it. He is hurting and hopes this might help.
Jason Skolnick, the kid Hamilton was having a relationship with, is the last one to speak. He hasn’t shaved, and small tufts of sandy brown fuzz pepper his face. He wears blue swim trunks and a T-shirt emblazoned with the RH logo. His shoulders slumped and his tenor voice soft, he says, “I loved Ray.” The crowd murmurs in agreement. “He was my teacher and my friend. Through him, I learned to embrace life and, more importantly, learned to embrace myself. Ray used to say all of us are like the waves, each of us unique in our power and design, each of us irreplaceable, and each of us existing only for a brief moment before returning to the sea. Ray Hamilton will forever be remembered as a great surfer, a great craftsman, a great person, and a great friend. I will do my best to live by his example and to follow in his path.” He places his fist on his heart then lifts it to the sky. “Mahalo, brother.”
The audience responds in a unified salute to the sky, “Mahalo.”
Dick punches the air with them.
There’s a moment of silence, the rhythm of the ocean providing an appropriate accompaniment to the prayer.
When the moment is done, hundreds grab the surfboards that stood sentry around the ceremony and run into the sea. They paddle beyond the break, then turn toward the shore and sit ready. A rolling set crests the horizon, and flank by flank, the mourners ride to the beach, and each emerges from the water, glistening in the shards of sunlight. When they reach the sand, they turn to face the ocean until all of them are looking at the lone surfer who remains.
The man bobs on the water, silhouetted by the glowing silver horizon, and the mourners watch as a swell rolls toward him and as, with two powerful strokes, he joins its force then pops gracefully to his feet. From a sack slung across his body, he pulls out a silver urn, and the crowd bows their heads as Hamilton’s ashes blow out to sea.
It isn’t until the ceremony ends and the crowd disperses that Dick sees him. Steve stands on the boardwalk looking back, his large frame relaxed and his hands at his sides. He wears khaki shorts and a Hawaiian shirt, and it bothers Dick that Steve knew how to dress.
“Hey, Mr. Reporter.”
Dick turns to see Matt with Frankie and the skinny boy.
Dick glances back to the boardwalk, but Steve is gone.
“Are you still going to write your story?” Matt asks.
“I don’t think so.” Dick looks at Frankie. His eyes are the same color as Jesse’s, dark like espresso, and he stands with his ankles crossed, the same way Jim often stands, and Dick feels a loosening in his chest. Turning back at Matt, he says, “You boys take care.”