The timing of each story feels almost fated — as though George himself is guiding my writing. His final days still bring tears to my eyes, but I picture him now soaring beyond sorrow, weightless, laughing, and completely free. People understood George in their own ways, filtered through their experiences and the times they lived in. Life has a way of distorting the view — time and space can turn truth into illusion.

After our mother died, we became spectators of our own story, moving through a strict chain of events. It was only our unshakable bond that helped us hold on. Through something mysterious and unseen, we both managed to shape our own lives.

Much of it felt unplanned — as though life unfolded one uncertain step at a time.

George and I were first introduced to fishing in 1963 while visiting our aunt, uncle, and cousins in Washington.

At age seven, he caught his very first fish from our uncle’s boat out on Puget Sound — a moment overflowing with excitement, pride, and laughter.

The photo of him holding up his catch, grinning from ear to ear, captures it perfectly.

That day wasn’t just a childhood milestone — it was the beginning of a lifelong love of fishing.

Catching your first fish is a milestone — a moment that feels larger than life.

That day, George looked at me, eyes shining, and declared that he was going to be a fisherman when he grew up. I laughed and told him he couldn’t predict the future.

With that signature grin, he shot back, “Oh, yes, I can.”