George and I always shared a deep love for the water. For me, that meant living along the coastline for fifty years and now settling near two quiet lakes.

For George, it meant the vast ocean of Port Alexander, Alaska—an untamed place where the tides, currents, and winds of Southeast Alaska ruled daily life.

We both grew up in a family where love and respect weren’t evenly distributed, and yes, there were times when we felt alone and even frightened. So, George and I created our own joy—we threw little parties, dreamed of mansions, and clung to each other’s company.

I adored George and admired his simple, steady energy. He never graduated from high school, but he had a spirit that led him to the most remote corners of the world. And though he carried his own longing to be loved, one of the most extraordinary things about him was how freely he loved others.

He never told me what I should or shouldn’t do—he only wanted to see my dreams come true.

One memory stands out to me: I was about eight, George was about five, and we were splashing in our little wading pool in the backyard when Mom called us in for dinner.

George gave me this long, sideways look, his voice low and deliberate as he said,

“Remember this day a long time from now.”

“Sure,” I answered, brushing it off.

But I never forgot.

And now, all these years later, I wonder—what did a five-year-old boy know in that moment, sitting in a shallow pool on an ordinary day?

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