Sunday night I recieved a message from Craig, AKA “the Pilot”, that our mutual friend Matt was in a helicopter that disappeared in the Himalayas. A search party from the government of Nepal was looking for the aircraft. Monday morning I read the news that the wreckage had been found, no survivors.
Monday afternoon, I met Craig for the first time. I’d heard stories of him for nearly 4 years, but for reasons of geography and skepticism, we hadn’t met. Craig was the closest thing to “the love of his life” for Matt. Their own relationship was complicated by the traveling that Matt did for his contract jobs in the Galapagos, Virgin Islands, India, etc. But wherever Matt was, the Pilot made a trip to see him. And whenever Matt was back in the States, he spent time at the Pilot’s home in Cincinnati.
I’m in NYC before heading back to France in a few days and Craig moved to Long Island only two weeks ago. I went down to Penn Station to meet Craig’s train. I recognized him instantly from pictures Matt had shared, and from the pain in his face. We cried on 7th Avenue for a few minutes and then wandered aimlessly, awkwardly for a time. Laughing, then crying, then laughing some more. Eating, coffee, drinking. We ended the day having dinner with my friends Luswin, Mark, and Michael. Surreal zombies at the table.
Matt was a Mormon, and as such he rarely drank. Which made our friendship convoluted. I was dubbed his “drinking buddy”, ridiculous that I’d have a beer while he’d be sipping Sprite, we stuck with milkshakes. But when he did have a drink, typically to be social or polite, he’d order an amaretto sour and hold onto it all night. So, Monday night, we went into a bar and ordered a round of them. I’d never had one before. I’ll never have one again. They’re horrible. “Matt’s getting the last laugh,” Craig said.
Matt was in Nepal for his job with the World Wildlife Fund. Authority over a national park had been given to local organizations and he was returning from the exchange ceremony. Six other WWF staff members were passengers on the helicopter, in addition to Nepali goverment ministers, foreign diplomats, members of the press, and the flight crew. In total, 24 died. He’d been in Nepal for 6 weeks, scheduled to return to the US today.
When I moved to my sister’s in Columbus for the summer Matt joked that we’d switched lives. His job at WWF was only 3 months old, and it was the first time he had his own apartment. His work experience up to then involved a few months on a beach in the Caribbean counting sea turtles, some time in the Galapagos Islands teaching school children, a 9 month internship with a conservation agency in India, not to mention his 2 year missionary stint in Chile. His life had been divided between the guest room in his sister’s home in suburban Boston and intermittent assignments overseas.
I spent the last month this summer in the US waiting for him to get back so we could talk and laugh about living with relatives. I had stories to tell him about the surrogate friends I’d made in Columbus. And now, I want to tell him about finally meeting the Pilot. But those are phone calls and emails that won’t be made. And I’m angry about that too.
