Chapter 25

CEILING AND VISIBILITY UNLIMITED

“I can’t see the notch in the hills across the ocean, the notch that I navigate by to get to Perkins Cove, so in that sense visibility is less than perfect; and yet I can confidently tell my kids my life is CAVU—ceiling and visibility are truly unlimited for your devoted dad.”

— my father in a letter to his children, preparing to leave Maine for the winter

On December 26, 2004, an underwater earthquake off the coast of Sumatra measuring 9.0 on the Richter scale triggered the most devastating tsunami in recorded history, unleashing waves of death and destruction around the entire Indian Ocean perimeter. As word reached our family in Florida, where we had gathered for Christmas, the horrible news and video images shattered the Christmas calm of the holiday season in the wake of my brother’s grueling reelection campaign.

The initial reports suggesting that 3,000, then 30,000, then 100,000 were lost didn’t begin to tell the whole story. In the end, over 273,000 lives were lost—more than a third of whom just vanished without a trace. The physical damage to homes, schools, roads, and mosques was just as profound.

A week later, the president stood in the Roosevelt Room of the White House with Dad and President Clinton and announced that his two predecessors would team up to raise awareness of various groups helping victims recover from this catastrophe. Thus was born the political “odd couple,” as Mom calls Dad and President Clinton.

Six weeks after the White House announcement, Dad and President Clinton boarded a U.S. government plane, a 757, and hopscotching to Hawaii and Guam, made a five-day visit to Thailand, Indonesia, Sri Lanka, and the Maldive Islands to tour some of the most devastated areas.

By all accounts of that trip, a genuine friendship was solidified.

“When President Bush and I took that trip, it meant something to me,” President Clinton said. “Whatever there was left from the ’92 campaign, it gave us a way to erase it. His willingness to do this and what we’ve done and how well it’s worked out has been a joy to me and a personal sort of relief.”

“I was very touched a couple of times when I saw President Clinton help President Bush make a hard step up or grab his elbow when we were walking over unsteady ground,” Jean Becker recalled. “He didn’t make a big deal of it. He just did it very casually.”

Dad described the trip in a letter to his friend Hugh Sidey, which read in part:

About eight hours ago, we left the Maldives, the final stop on our four country swing to inspect Tsunami damage. It has been an amazing trip . . .

Let me start by commenting what it has been like traveling with Bill Clinton. I thought I knew him, but until this trip I did not really know him. First of all, he has been very considerate of me. I think my old age had something to do with it. He always waited so we could go off the plane together, giving the greeters the old familiar “wave from the top of the stairs.” You’ve seen that a million times. You wave even if there is no one to wave at . . .

Clinton went out of his way not to criticize the President. He talked about the generous commitment of the USA, of our effective military support, of the money the private sector had given.

Now on to the trip of tears:

I have never seen such devastation. We started off in Thailand at Phuket. Many of the big resort hotels in Phuket are still in operation. But soon after we boarded our helicopters we began to see the real ravages of the tsunami. Many buildings were flattened. Only rubble and cracked foundations remained. Those left standing had been gutted.

We flew to tiny Pukua Pa then drove to Baan Nam Kem village. We chatted with some kids. We watched the building of some new fishing boats, the fishing fleet having been totally demolished. We saw firsthand the good being done by U.S. aid workers and NGOs (non-government organizations) of all sorts.

But it was not until the next day when we landed in Aceh (pronounced Ah-chay) that we began to feel the human side of this tragedy. Our helicopter made several turns over the hardest hit area. Where there had been hundreds of private homes, there was nothing. Much of the rubble and debris had been cleared, the bodies removed; but I kept thinking what this must be like for the families. Mostly fishermen, they lived by the sea, living humbly in tiny homes, but at least they were safe and free to make a living.

Now as we walked from the chopper a few hundred yards to our briefing point, we went through lines of people. The old and the young, men and women, all lined up as we came in. The saddest part related to the little children. I saw one father holding his six-year-old son’s shoulder. He was standing, emotionless, just holding his boy and staring. I asked the translator with us exactly what happened to this man. His wife and several of his kids were all killed, only this one boy alive, with him, at his side. On and on these tales of sadness went. Kids watching their parents drown, tales of fear, tales of hopelessness. It was so moving and so desperately sad . . .

The news stories from this historic visit to the region together with the TV ads Dad and President Clinton did—to say nothing of the efforts of other nonprofit groups—helped to raise an estimated $1 billion in private donations for tsunami relief.

In the meantime, Dad—with President Clinton’s approval—also started a local Bush-Clinton Tsunami Fund in Houston, Texas, that collected donations mostly from local companies, schools, and private citizens.

Dad wanted to thank everyone who gave money, so his office set up two or three days where they had everyone from CEOs who gave $100,000 to a group of kids who raised $1,000 at their lemonade stand come by. One day, twenty-six different groups came and presented their checks to Dad. One was a group of tattoo-bearing motorcycle riders who had done a bike-athon to raise funds. The Secret Service said that one of the guys had a pretty bad history involving drugs, but Dad didn’t care.

“That’s the kind of stuff he does all the time,” Jean said. “It totally amazes me how he’s so willing to give and give of his time. I’ve been trying for years to tell him that it really is okay to quit. He doesn’t have to raise money; he doesn’t have to lend his name; and he shouldn’t feel obligated anymore. Every time we have this conversation, he’ll totally agree with me—and then the first thing I know, we have two new projects. He’ll say, ‘Well, Jean, how can we say no to them?’”

In May 2005, President Clinton came to Houston, where the local tsunami fund there announced they had raised $11 million. At the Houston event, Mom joked that she had become so accustomed to seeing Dad and President Clinton together that she was going to start calling the latter “son.”

“Those Bushes,” President Clinton replied a few days later. “They’ll do anything to get another president in the family.”

At the Alfalfa Dinner in January, my brother George joked that when President Clinton had awoken from his recent heart surgery, “all of his loved ones were gathered around: Hillary, Chelsea . . . Dad.”

President Clinton also sent Dad and the president copies of a cartoon that came out around this time. One panel showed the president saying, “I oppose gay marriage.” The other panel showed 41 and 42 on a couch holding hands. The president sticks his head in the room and screams, “Dad!!” Later, Bill Clinton sent Dad a copy saying, “George, maybe we’d better cool it.”

The banter continued in April of 2005 when the three traveled together to the Vatican, for the funeral of Pope John Paul II. They were at the U.S. ambassador’s residence. The three presidents were sitting together on the couch when President Clinton, who was sitting in the middle, told my brother, “This is all your fault. You started this.”

The president put his arm around President Clinton, and they took a picture of it. Dad sent a copy of the photo to President Clinton inscribed, “Bill, I don’t like being jilted; but I’m still your friend.”

After Dad and President Clinton started working together, a friend of mine said, “If your dad invites President Clinton to Kennebunkport, then I know he’s really lost it.” Fast forward to June 2005, and sure enough, Dad had extended the invitation.

As Dad told his friend Jim Nantz, the CBS sportscaster, “I’ve invited President Clinton to come over to Kennebunkport this summer. We’ve been spending a lot of time together on tsunami relief, and I thought it would be fun if he came to Maine, played some golf, relaxed—strictly a social visit.”

Dad had been thinking about the meeting, he told Jim, and wanted it to be very comfortable. He wanted President Clinton to have a good time, and he didn’t ever want it to be awkward. Bottom line: Dad thought it would be more fun to include another golfer, Jim, in the group. Jim enthusiastically agreed.

Typical of Dad, President Clinton’s arrival had to be something out of the ordinary. A motorcade wouldn’t suffice. Dad wanted to pick him up by boat at a harbor outside of Portland, Maine—a forty-five-minute boat ride in smooth seas.

On Monday, June 27, however, the conditions were anything but calm.

“The trip up there was almost frightening,” Jim said. “It was raining sideways with the wind and choppy conditions. We would go up over a wave and, boom, we’d bottom out into the next wave. It took a special mariner to figure out how to get up the coast. President Bush was using all the electronics he had on board.”

At a couple of points, it was so foggy and rainy that the group couldn’t see the Secret Service boats that were flanking them.

“Next thing you know,” Jim continued, “according to the navigation system, we were in the area where we were supposed to make a turn toward the coast. So he slowed the boat down, and we came to a crawl. With all the fog, it looked like a scene out of a movie—or a spy novel.”

President Clinton had come off heart surgery the previous fall, so after he arrived, Dad explained how he was concerned that the boat ride going back might be a very rough ride, and President Clinton right away properly opted to go by car.

Walker’s Point was abuzz waiting for President Clinton and Dad to arrive. Tricia Koch, who helped me with this book, came with me for this historic visit as part of our research, and our kids decided to make welcome signs. When we saw the motorcade approaching, everyone on the Point came out to greet them.

Out of the car came 41 and 42—a sight I never expected to see in Kennebunkport. Jim Nantz followed, videotaping the visit (the first time I had seen Jim behind the camera!). President Clinton smiled and greeted everyone warmly.

Upon the first ten minutes of meeting President Clinton in this private setting, everyone was mesmerized. He is engaging, and knows a lot about everything. Simply put, he fascinated us to no end.

What I love about Dad is that, whether or not his guest is a head of state, you get the same welcome—“my house is your house.” That night, he and Mom hosted a small cocktail party for President Clinton. The party had barely started when suddenly Dad decided to show his special guest the “You da man” video, which I should explain.

A few years back, Dad convinced himself that he actually coined the phrase “You da man” back in the early 1960s. He maintains he was inspired to shout it to the Houston Astros’ Rusty Staub as he rounded third base following a home run, and it slowly caught on from there.

Sensing that few, if any, in his own family believed him—grandchildren included—Dad pressed his case with Houston Astros owner Drayton McLane, who had a very funny piece of videotape created celebrating this unknown piece of baseball lore and played it for the crowd at Minute Maid Park during a game at which Dad was present. The crowd clearly enjoyed it.

So Dad showed the video to his distinguished visitor. President Clinton already knew that Al Gore invented the Internet, but not until that night did he know who first came up with the expression “You da man”!

Dinner that night was at Stripers, a new restaurant that is a local favorite, after which Mom and Dad retired for the night while President Clinton played cards with some staffers.

The next morning, Jim Nantz, 42, and 41 hit a few putts on the practice green right outside the living room windows near the Big House. (Jim and his University of Houston classmate Paul Marchand, now head pro at the Shadow Hawk Golf Club in Houston, had the putting green built as a present to Dad for his friendship through the years. “What do you give a guy who has given you so much?” Jim said to me.)

From there, it was on to Cape Arundel Golf Course—a course Dad has played most of his life, and where he claims to have won the 1947 club championship. Ken Raynor, the head pro at Cape Arundel, told me, “As the story goes, he took on a local by the name of Chad Brown, who was a post office worker down here. And your dad’s pride was not only winning the club championship, but closing him out on the eleventh hole. But nobody quite knows whether Chaddy was really sober or not during this match, because he was known not to be. The championship may be tainted a little bit.”

Anyway, on that day with Jim Nantz, Ken Raynor, and President Clinton, it seemed the entire town—and even a few members of the news media—turned out to watch the foursome tee off. The featured match that day pitted Dad and head pro Ken Raynor against President Clinton and Jim Nantz.

“After President Clinton birdied the second and third holes,” Jim recalled, “I was leaning on a putter and whispered to President Bush, ‘Of all the golfers you’ve had here through the years—Arnold Palmer, Greg Norman, Davis Love, Fred Couples, José María Olazábal—how many of them were two under par after three holes?’”

“None,” Dad whispered back.

On the fifth hole, Dad pulled his tee shot onto the steep embankment that runs down the left side. He discovered his ball tangled in a thick patch of grass. To reach the green a hundred yards away, Dad had two choices: risk that he could muscle the ball out of the rough and over the creek that also ran down the left side of the hole, or pitch out safely back into the fairway.

Spying Dad’s predicament, President Clinton jumped into a cart and drove to a point up the fairway. “Hit it here, George,” he shouted, waving his arms at the 1947 club champion. Dad followed the advice, hit a perfect recovery shot, and went on to save par.

The match ended dead even.

Most recently, Dad and President Clinton have teamed up to help raise funds to assist the Gulf States in their recovery from Hurricanes Katrina and Rita. Though these storms raged ashore within weeks of each other in 2005, anyone who has driven through the lower Ninth Ward in New Orleans, or through Pass Christian, Mississippi, knows it is going to be years—and possibly even decades—before some communities resume any sense of “normalcy.” Together, my father and his successor have raised well over $100 million to lend a helping hand, so their productive partnership endures.

Looking back, what I noticed, first and foremost, was that Dad and President Clinton like each other. In fact, I formulated a theory about their relationship—that if Dad hadn’t extended the hand of fellowship and made it okay for them to be friends, they wouldn’t have what I saw to be a comfortable friendship.

Even today, however, some aren’t certain whether the friendship is genuine. To be sure, the sight of Dad and President Clinton coming together as they did stunned a great many people, particularly those who worked so hard on both sides during the 1992 campaign. How could two men who fought so hard to beat each other bury the hatchet and start a working partnership as if nothing had happened?

Some also wonder if there is an element of 2008 politics involved.

To be candid, my brother Jeb maintains Dad is being used. “President Clinton’s advisers have figured out that, in terms of character and integrity, a rising tide lifts all boats,” Jeb said. “So I could see President Clinton’s motivation. Apparently, he is a very likable person. I believe Dad does it because it was important to show the world that partisanship stops when there’s a crisis, and I think the tenor in Washington is such that having a nonpartisan relationship between two former presidents is good.”

Part of what makes the Dad-President Clinton relationship such a fascinating thing to watch is that they both have family members who are active in national politics. The fine line that they have to walk as former presidents—and occasional partners—is even more complicated.

“President Bush is obviously very protective of the president and Jeb,” President Clinton said, “and on the other hand he knows I have to be protective of Hillary. He knows that we have to air our disagreements some, partly because we’re still in the game—but I try to leave most of this stuff to her. 41 is probably better at this than I am.”

“President Clinton is in a different spot than I am,” Dad offered. “He’s still young compared to me, and he’s got a wife who’s politically active, so he seeks out more press and more attention for the wide variety of causes he pursues. I periodically catch grief from family and friends and people on the right—just as President Clinton has caught hell from the left—but what we are doing together transcends politics.”

A few days after my brother George launched the 41–42 partnership for tsunami relief in January, he and the First Lady also hosted my parents and over one hundred family members and close friends at the White House to celebrate Mom and Dad’s sixtieth wedding anniversary. Of course, that very special occasion marked an important milestone for our family, but it was also a noteworthy historic event. No other president and First Lady had lived long enough to see their sixtieth anniversary. Abigail Adams died three days after she and President John Adams celebrated their fifty-fourth, which now stands as the second longest marriage of a First Couple.

Laura came up with the idea for the party, which touched Mom and Dad. The evening was a formal black-tie affair, and the entertainment featured the Marine Corps Band, as well as performers Ronan Tynan, Michael W. Smith, and the U.S. Army’s Alvy Powell, who sang at Dad’s 1989 inaugural.

The hardest job that night, assembling the guest list, fell to Dad, while my brothers and I had the easiest job that night: deciding how to salute our parents. We chose George to speak on our behalf since he was the oldest, but I’m not going to lie: the fact that we would be in the White House and he was the president may have also factored into the decision.

The president spoke before dinner, and after dinner he invited others to make brief remarks. One toast that stood out came from David Rubenstein, cofounder of the Carlyle Group. David started by noting he was probably the only person there who had worked in a Democratic White House—at which point a few eyebrows were raised.

“Wait a second,” David continued. “If it hadn’t been for me getting inflation so high in the Carter years, 41 would not have been elected vice president of the United States; and if he hadn’t been elected vice president, he might not have become president. If he hadn’t become president, 43 wouldn’t be president!”

Both my parents gave moving remarks that night.

“To have your family around you,” Mom said, looking back, “and to celebrate in the house where your son serves as president—that’s not a bad deal.”

That night, Dad observed that it was amazing to give a speech where you looked back at a life where you fell in love with a special girl, went to war and got shot down, got pulled out of the Pacific Ocean, and somehow went home alive. Then you married that special girl and together set out on an incredible journey marked by tremendous challenges and heartbreak and joy that led to the White House and beyond. Then, to be able to give such a speech in the White House because of what your son had accomplished . . . well, let’s just say the tears flowed.

You could say that the Bush “Bawl Patrol,” a phrase Dad coined referring to the fact that we cry a lot, has been on constant alert in recent years—as there have been a few weddings to celebrate.

First, in March 2004, Mom and Dad and Marvin and I were on hand to see my brother Neil remarried to a fellow Houstonian, Maria Andrews, who volunteered in Dad’s office. The ceremony and reception were held at the beautiful home of Neil’s friend Jamal Daniel, and the bride and groom looked radiant. This happy union not only brought three new grandkids into the family—Lizzie, Pace, and Ally—but it also meant I had another very kind, very smart, but very tiny sister-in-law! (By the way, I’ve learned to stand next to my tall brothers in photos, rather than their tiny wives.)

We reached another milestone in August 2005, when George P., the oldest grandchild, became the first grandchild to wed, marrying Mandi Williams of San Angelo, Texas. George P. and Mandi met at the University of Texas Law School and they make a striking couple.

The wedding at the church of St. Ann’s by the Sea in Kennebunkport, where my grandparents had been married in 1921, was beautiful. The father of the groom, Jeb, said, “It was a huge day for Columba and me. Having the wedding in Maine was such a blessing, and seeing our son, fully in love, getting married in front of family and friends was one of the greatest joys of our lives. Mom and Dad were such incredible grandparents for their first grandchild.”

All of the grandkids were clearly excited to see the first of their generation “take the plunge.” Mandi thoughtfully included Gigi as the flower girl, and Sam and some of his cousins served as ushers. Also, in honor of George P. and Mandi’s alma mater, the University of Texas, everyone in the wedding party wore tuxedos and dresses accented by burnt orange.

The new couple held their reception on a specially built platform at Stripers Restaurant, using the Kennebunk River as a backdrop, and Ariel made the groom’s cake. Even though he is not a big dancer, Dad danced with the new bride.

One final wedding story: During the summer of 2004, Dad invited golf pro Phil Mickelson and his wife, Amy, to Maine for a visit that included not only golf but also a boat ride.

“We thought it would be a lovely little cruise along the Maine coast,” Phil recalled. “Very quickly, we found out we had two choices: hold on tight or become lobster bait.”

On our way back to the dock, Dad noticed a wedding party on the grounds of the Nonantum Hotel, and said, “Do you think we should say hi?”

The Mickelsons laughed, but the next thing they knew they were trailing along as Dad docked and shouted to the party, “I guess FedEx lost my invitation!”

“Here was the forty-first president working his way through a gathering, shaking hands, taking pictures, smiling all the way,” Phil said. “Then in front of this group, he wished the wedding couple a life filled with happiness, humor, and love.”

One of the great honors of my life came when Dad called a few years ago and asked me to serve as the sponsor of an aircraft carrier being built—one that would bear his name. I had no idea what was involved in being a sponsor; but if Dad was asking, again, the answer is always “yes.”

On December 9, 2002, Secretary of the Navy Gordon England officially named a new carrier being built after Dad, owing to his service during World War II and his service as president. The new aircraft carrier will eventually replace the forty-seven-year-old USS Kitty Hawk (CV–63). The George H. W. Bush (CVN 77) will be the tenth and final ship in the Nimitz class, and the first carrier of the twenty-first century.

Next, on September 6, 2003, Mom, Dad, and I went to the Northrop Grumman shipbuilding yard at Newport News, Virginia, for the keel-laying ceremony. The keel is the horizontal part on the hull, or bottom, of the boat which steadies it and helps with steering. Dad went there to “authenticate” the keel by chalking his initials onto a steel plate, which was then welded and permanently affixed to the hull. As sponsor, I had to “certify the keel to be true and fairly laid.”

In July 2006, the ship’s huge island—its command and control center—was lowered onto the massive hull. A set of Dad’s navy wings and those of the ship’s captain, Kevin O’Flaherty, along with a bound set of galleys for the present memoir, were sealed into a time capsule that was then placed onboard.

To be christened in October 2006, the George H. W. Bush is three football fields long, weighs 97,000 tons, and carries seventy-five combat aircraft. It is among the world’s largest warships, possesses state-of-the-art technology, and is powered by two nuclear reactors, making it capable of operating for twenty years without refueling.

Being a sponsor, I quickly discovered, involves more than you might think. The sponsor’s spirit remains with the ship for as long as it is on the water, and sponsors develop a special relationship with their ship and keep in contact with it over the years. At the ship’s christening, I will smash a bottle of champagne over the bow and say, “In the name of the United States, I christen thee George H. W. Bush.”

In 2008, when the ship joins the fleet and is officially commissioned, I will say, “Crew of the USS George H. W. Bush, man our ship and bring her to life!” The entire crew, assembled onshore, will yell, “Aye, aye, ma’am!” and sprint up the gangplanks onto the ship. The radar will start to rotate, the gun turrets will spin around, bells will ring, alarms will sound, and ship whistles will blow. The Navy Band will play “Anchors Aweigh” and the fighter jets will fly overhead. The ship truly will come to life.

Dad just can’t wait. He has a model of the ship on his desk and shows it to every visitor who comes to call. The day after the keel-laying ceremony, I received this e-mail from him:

Doro,

Yesterday was a very happy, meaningful day in my wonderful life and that you were at my side in that starring role made it perfect, even beyond perfect. Love from your admiring devoted DAD.

In an active life filled with change, Mom and Dad have lived in more than thirty houses during their marriage, but their home in Kennebunkport has been the one constant. Dad has spent a part of every summer there except one—in 1944, when he was at war in the Pacific.

Just as my grandfather Prescott was viewed as the unofficial mayor of Greenwich, Connecticut, Dad has also come to support a wide range of local causes in Kennebunkport.

To give you an idea: In recent years he has picked up some local scuttlebutt at H&B Provisions, the local grocery store, that some of the newcomers to Kennebunkport felt somewhat unwelcome and were having a hard time meeting people. After he heard it a few times, Dad decided he wanted to do something about it.

He told his aide Tommy Frechette, “Let’s invite everyone in our neighborhood that we’ve never met before and introduce them to some of the old neighbors. We’ll have them all come in together.”

The event was soon dubbed the Old-New Party. Everyone that received an invitation showed up, but figuring out whom to invite required Dad’s staff to go door-to-door to see who lives there.

“Whenever he encounters a barrier,” Tommy said, “his natural inclination is to break it down.”

Dad is at his best when he’s on Walker’s Point. When he is not there over the winter, he gets antsy by February—talking about his boat every day.

“Let’s talk to Bill Busch just for the heck of it,” he’ll say to Tommy Frechette.

“I know it’s February and it’s freezing, but how’s Maine looking?” he’ll ask Bill. “Are we ready to go? Any patterns on the fish?”

When people come for a visit, Dad’s whole outlook changes. He gets into what I call kid mode and gets very excited. He gets everything ready, and whether the visitors are heads of state or a grandchild, he’s waiting at the door for the big arrival. Then it’s on to the activities, whether fishing, boating, or sports events. “Let’s do something fun,” he’ll say. “Let’s get them out here on the banana boat and we’ll spin them around” or “Let’s see who can jump in the cold water first.”

My dad’s nephew Hap Ellis sums up life at Walker’s Point this way: “Nothing beats fishing the rocks at Walker’s Point at all hours. And if your dad sees me, he invariably comes out on the porch and shouts to get my attention and then, in that timeless fishing gesture, holds his hands wide apart as if to ask, How big? I honestly think he gets enormous pleasure out of knowing those bass are there, and that we are out there battling for them, even though the Secret Service won’t let him out there anymore. It is as if one little piece of what Walker’s Point is all about for him is intact for that moment that day: family, fishing, Walker’s Point . . . and then it’s on to the next event.

The times Dad spends in Kennebunkport are his happiest times—not the years at the White House, or in China, or at the CIA, as much as those places and institutions mean to him. Walker’s Point is where his heart is, and where he can do all the things that are most important to him. It is there that he can give back to others, he can spend precious time with friends and family, and can “get into the grandchildren business big-time.” It is there he can go to the church of St. Ann’s by the Sea, he can spend time on the ocean and breathe in the salt air.

One time, a friend asked Dad about my brothers’ decisions to enter public service. “What is it about public service and your family? Is it something in the water up here in Kennebunkport?” he asked. “I’ll tell you what’s in the water,” Dad said. “Bluefish!”

To Dad, life is not about looking back to the presidency, but looking forward to all the adventures still to come. Every family has its history, and most people think the most important part of our family’s history involves the presidency. But we think what’s significant about our family history is what Kennebunkport has come to symbolize for us: faith, family, and friends.

On that note, it seems fitting to close this chapter, and this book, with an excerpt of a letter Dad sent to his five kids:

This is my last day in Kennebunkport after almost five months of great happiness. There is something about this place that gets into one’s very soul. Don’t you agree?

Here’s what I want to tell you at summer’s end.

I had a little plaque made. It says CAVU. CAVU was the kind of weather we Navy pilots wanted when we were to fly off our carrier in the Pacific. We had little navigational instrumentation, so we wanted CAVU—“Ceiling and Visibility Unlimited.”

At Gar Hole’s funeral this summer—he was our exec in the Pacific—I saw a wooden plaque that read CAVU, so I had a little bronze one made up for the end of our house here, the end where the seas pound into the rocks the most, the spray most likely to weather my plaque. It will then blend nicely in and guests will no longer say “What does CAVU mean?”

When it has blended in, outsiders might not notice it—fine by me. But I will not pass by it without realizing how lucky I am, for the plaque describes my own life—as it has been over the years, as it is right now.

I used to seek broad horizons in life, and I found plenty. Now I don’t care if I can’t even see Ogunquit [a town thirteen miles south of Walker’s Point]. Limited horizons are OK by me just so family is in view.

I don’t want to sit at the head table or be honored or get a medal or have stuff named for me. That’s happened and I have been truly grateful for some of the honors, but no more need come my way.

I sit on our deck, out of the wind, near the sea. And I realize that because of all five of you and yours I am a very happy man. I don’t need anything. I don’t want anything—only your love.

Because of your love and your caring about us and the joy your kids’ laughter and even the sadness a tear reveals, I know my life has been very full and happy. And your mother feels exactly the same way.

Your mother and I sit out here like a couple of really old poops, but we are at total peace. She does crossword puzzles, real puzzles, reads a ton of books, plays golf, calls people up on the phone, writes letters, and occasionally gets mildly (to use an old Navy expression) pissed off at me. I can handle it though—no problem. I fall back on bad hearing and changing the subject. Both work.

Because of the five of you whose hugs I can still feel, whose own lives have made me so proud, I can confidently tell my guardian angels that my life is CAVU; and it will be that way until I die—all because of you.