One day my cohorts George, an exploitation film director of mixed Japanese, Filipino and American heritage, and Canute, an ebony-skinned Ph.D. from Jamaica, came to visit. Both were very superstitious men and an idea occurred to me. Offhandedly, I asked if they would like to meet my father. They looked quizzical but had to agree, whereupon I went into the closet, retrieved the box and placed it in Canute’s lap. He looked confused for a moment, then his eyes grew enormous and he literally jumped out of his chair as it dawned on him what he was holding. He tossed it to George who was just getting the message and he let out a manic yell as he lateralled it to me. Later, upon leaving, they both collapsed in laughter on the stairs leading up to the roadway. That was a very Irish gesture on my part.

Bear with me because it explains how the old man finally got his wish, sort of. I remembered Ed Lowe had a houseboat and was getting ready to put it up for the winter. I called and told him of my father’s request and he seemed interested in the entire proposition. The Irish have peculiar notions about death, but that would fill another book.

The blustery day in October arrived. I met Ed and brought along the ashes and the Episcopal Book of Common Prayer, which has the wonderful service for burial at sea. Ed agreed to read that section as I did the honors with the presumed ashes. Problem was, Great South Bay on Long Island’s south shore is very shallow indeed and somehow we both knew it wasn’t really the ocean at all but rather a lagoon, so we opted to berth the boat, climb the sand dunes at Gilgo Beach, and place his remains into the surf.

It was an interesting experience to say the least. Here was Lowe standing on the strand as I, waist deep in very cold water, checked the wind several times before opening the box, a very wise thing to do on a windy day. The reasons for that should be obvious.

Ed was determined to be properly solemn and his voice was well modulated and rich despite the traces of a New York accent. I checked the wind yet again and proceeded to slit the tape on the cardboard box. Don’t ask me what I expected but it certainly wasn’t old copies of the Tucson newspaper wrapped around a “baggie!”

Without thinking I said in a loud voice, “Son of a bitch, they put him in a “baggie!” and Ed abruptly stopped reading and stepped from among about a dozen locals who sensed something was going on that was out of the ordinary.

Ed Lowe had the same sense of outrage I had and we both discussed the meanness of the bastards in the funeral home who had spent about five cents on the departed’s last, or nearly last, resting place. By this time there were about two dozen people and the word had spread that this was a funeral service and a couple took off their hats.

Well, Lowe proceeded to read the service again, and at what I deemed the proper moment, and wind direction, I turned over the plastic bag and the old man’s mortal remains went into the trough of a three-foot-high wave. I proceeded back to the sand... and so did my father. We hadn’t once considered the tide and both of us looked stricken. Jesus, what to do if it was incoming? The next wave took the remains back out and we breather a little easier but the following wave returned papa to shore.

This went on while Lowe, myself and the crowd watched in absolute fascination. I thought, “Maybe he didn’t want to be buried at sea after all. Maybe he resented being dumped into the surf!” Slowly, all too slowly, it became evident that it was an outgoing tide. We looked at each other, Lowe handed me the prayer book and we proceeded to the car his wife had stashed at a nearby parking lot.

We were rather quiet, as I recall, when I said, “Well, that’s one Long Island story you won’t write about.” Later, at a saloon, Ed said, I can’t really write about it, but I’ll never forget it.” And that’s the way it happened, ask him.

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