Farewelling Pedro

A few weeks ago we farewelled a dear mate, casting his ashes into the sea that laps at our suburb. It was a windy, hot tropical afternoon and the sky was unbelievably blue. I took my turn, taking a handful of the gravelly dust that was all that remained of my tall, strong, passionate, ever laughing friend and waded knee deep into the little messy waves and poured the ashes into the ocean he loved to paddle upon. All I could think was "Who would have believed it would come to this?"

About twenty of his friends gradually gathered on the little beach. His ex girlfriend had made a flag woven with colourful strips of his sarongs and it stood on a tall bamboo pole thrust into the rockwall, flapping in the stiff breeze. Another friend had made a huge cardboard mermaid tail, with dozens of CDs for scales and decorated with jewelstones. It sparkled blindingly in the sun.

His ashes were contained in a splendidly colourful egyptian style urn, which had been found amongst his few wordly possessions. It sat on a big chunk of treestump near the water's edge. A couple of friends brought big bunches of frangipanis from their gardens and laid them at the base of the log, and someone added a single long stemmed rose. A few of us had brought a beer with us, as the man of honour would most certainly have done.

I recalled there that I had first met him on this very bit of beach. I had seen him round the beach before that. He had immediately attracted my attention with his striking resemblance to Billy Connelly! He was a strong, tall, striking man with an incredible windswept mane of long grey hair, and I would often see him walking along the waterfront with a fishing rod in hand. On the day we met I had taken my children (who were four and five years old) casting new lures from the bridge. One of us amateur fisherpeople had tied a lure on insecurely and it came off my daughter's line and it started to drift away. I didn't want the expedition to end in tears so I hesistantly approached this fellow who was casting for bait from the bridge and asked his if he would consider trying to catch it in his castnet. He agreed immediately and for the next fifteen minutes he was engaged in a committed effort to retrieve the lure. He clambered down the rockwall and waded in the water, despite my begging him not to bother, and got his castnet snagged and tore a hole in it.....but ultimately returned triumphant with a huge smile, reunited the lure with its delighted little owner, and waved away my gratitude and apologies.....

The other occasion we shared with him on this same beach was our wedding, about four years ago. He was a very talented photographer and artist, and he took some snaps at the wedding. The following day I realised that I had not seen him afterwards at our home reception, and nor had anyone else. I wondered what had happened to him in the couple of blocks between the beach and our back yard. A couple of days later he dropped in, smiling but apologetic, and explained that he had unexpectedly encountered an old flame on his way to our house, and that she had "offered him an opportunity too good to refuse". We all laughed and agreed that he had done the right thing. A few days after that he came for dinner with a folder of the most intimate, gorgeous photos of our ceremony that I could have imagined. He had perfectly captured the relaxed, glowing, joyous nature of our sunset celebration. He was a man of meager means, but had spent his own money on photographic print paper and refused to take any payment.

Who would have thought it would come to this? It was incredibly easy to imagine him striding up the beach towards us all - he was the ultimate sociable person and would have loved to be amongst this gathering of his friends. And yet, I knew that it was not the slightest bit surprising that he had gone first and left the rest of us behind. He lived an extreme life, driven by unbridled enthusiasms. He loved to ride motorbikes and paddle on the ocean and dive in it and skydive and party seemingly beyond the limits of human endurance. He didn't eat or sleep much and didn't take much care of himself, and yet he seemed strong and vigourous and his enthusiasm and laughter never abated. I often wondered how long I would have the joy of having him in my life. Nowhere near long enough, as it turned out. The unexpected thing about his death was the way it came about.

He had suffered a descent into psychosis, which was heartbreaking for his friends to observe. In the depths of it he had suffered a mysterious event which had broken his spine and left him quadriplegic. He had spent over two years in hospital, had finally left the hospital and moved back to Cairns, and within a month of his return had been found dead in his bed one morning by one of his carers, of a suspected stroke. Who would have thought it would come to this?

I have so many laughing memories of this dear friend. I had more fun in his presence than anyone apart from Eric. I feel social anxiety keenly and felt utterly peaceful and at ease with him. We delighted in the precious little glimpses of his immense musical talent we got to witness in our house. His exuberant appreciation of our cooking brought a warm glow to our hearts on many nights - he thought it was "Choice!!". Above all I delighted in the laughter he brought into our lives - laughing uproariously at our anecdotes and telling us about wild, unbelievable and hilarious escapades. At the end of a long night of feasting, laughing, telling tales, drinking and playing music he would announce his intention to "do the stagger" and gather up his harps and wander off into the night, maybe taking the long way round on a "lap of dishonour". Losing him has left a huge, Hungarian-shaped hole in the universe, and in our lives.

Tegeggi, friend!