One wonders what goes through others' heads during Historic Moments. This morning, we walked up the street to the polling place. It was raining, and had this been 2004 or 2000, I'd have taken it for a mourning sky. Today it felt like a spring shower, the water falling to wash away the detritus of a particularly harsh winter. It would have been easy to get lost in that particular metaphor, but while checking off various names and yes's and no's, a name popped into my head, of someone I hadn't thought of in years. Dan Sullivan.
I was 15, living in Alaska. A Boy Scout - crazy, but true. I was a Junior Assistant Scoutmaster, and had a modicum of responsibility over a bunch of kids. The older guys and I taught these kids how to survive in the woods - how to build a fire, construct a shelter, find food and water, navigate through the wilderness. We dug caves in the snow and slept in them, we rappelled down the flanks of raging waterfalls, we hiked silently across turquoise glaciers and through aged forests. We taught those kids these things and Dan Sullivan, he taught them to us. Dan was our Scoutmaster. Dan was our hero. He climbed Mount McKinley, the highest peak on the North American continent. He flew F-15 fighter planes for the Air Force, during the heady days of the Cold War when we were convinced that the Soviets were poised to swoop down into Alaska; Dan would be there to send them back, ablaze, to Moscow. But more than this, Dan was a kind, decent guy who taught us some elemental values. He'd show these on camping trips, always there to help out the younger kids who were struggling with a certain knot or a heavy backpack. Respect each other. Be good to each other. Teach each other well. Leave no one behind.
His funeral was my first. This is what happened: shortly after takeoff, his plane suffered some sort of fuel leak. The squadron commander, in a voice that struck me as unbelievably calm, told the assembled mourners that Dan died a hero. He made a split second decision to fly the plane straight up, rather than attempt to land or eject. The plane was a flying bomb, and setting it down on the runway...the explosion was massive, and had it occurred on the ground it would have undoubtedly killed numerous ground crew and other pilots. So he took the plane straight up, and he died. I didn't understand the commander's calm voice then, but I do now. It was a calm born of awe.
I'm not sure who Dan would have voted for today. I think he'd have found goodness in both candidates. I know that regardless of the outcome he'd have wanted me to remember what he taught me more than 20 years ago: Respect each other. Be good to each other. Teach each other well. Leave no one behind. We talk of voting as being a celebration of our democracy. We talk of this particular election as a moment unmatched in our country's history. Soon I'll be heading home to watch history unfold, in the company of friends and family. This morning I cast my ballot and thought of a long gone friend who dedicated and ultimately gave his life to make possible this country, this moment, this celebration.
