14 February 2025

“Those who find their ‘soulmates’ are indeed fortunate people,” the Old Man said, looking oceanward and fiddling with his pipe. We sat on the cold granite bench with no back at Kuhlman’s Corner in the 90-degree bend of US Highway 80 as it headed south to its termination point on the back river.

The day was magnificent at Tybee Island, the quirky barrier coastal island off Savannah that some call “Mayberry by the Sea on Drugs.” Clear, blue skies and lapping waves from across the Atlantic always put the Old Man in a philosophical mood.

Today, as usual, the waves were relentless in their duty but lazily executing their responsibilities. He was an older man looking for peace of mind, and I was his “Boy” looking for the same.

I’ve been his “Boy” for many years now, old enough to appreciate his meanderings and stories, and that’s why I sought him out today. I was depressed, which was not a good state for me. Life was sometimes challenging for him and me, some days more than others.

He understood the “Old Black Dog” of Churchill’s depression, fought it, and won every battle so far. Maybe that was our bond—knowing I had a friend with whom I could always be comfortable talking and listening. Both of us chose our friends carefully, and we had few.

The Old Man never changed much except for his age and moods.

He wore comfortable and unpretentious clothes, usually shorts or khakis, a black T-shirt, and always a hat to keep the sun from his balding head. More than one cancer had been removed. Now and then, he would smile and say, “You should have seen me with a full head of hair, was born that way.”

He smoked a well-polished 1970s E. A. Carey pipe packed with some Black Cavendish tobacco he kept housed in an old muslin cloth bag with a green symbol that reads, “Rawhide Leather Company.” I always thought it was funny since the bag had nothing leather.

His footwear varied over the seasons; in the winter, he wore old cowboy boots or hiking shoes, and the rest of the time, he wore Skechers or Oofos walking shoes.

The morning I met him in the 1980s, he wasn’t that old, maybe 40—but to me, he had always been that old soul, and as a young man, I trusted few people over thirty at the time. I came to love and trust the Old Man. I want to think he felt the same.

The Old Man looked at me, “Bill, that would be William Shakespeare wrote, ‘True love can’t be found where it truly doesn’t exist, nor can it be hidden where it truly does.’”  The Old Man turned and smiled at me. Somewhere behind the aviator sunglasses, I’m sure he had a twinkle in his eye.

I could tell he was teeing up a story, and interestingly, over the years, I had deduced that there was something for me to learn when the stories flowed.

“I’ve heard of people falling in love but never had that experience,” he sighed. “Always wanted it, of course; who wouldn’t? I fell in lust a few times in my youth. Fortunately, I grew to love a wonderful woman,” he said as we both stared at the ocean, hoping the meaning of love might emerge from the waves like the bottle-nosed dolphins that frequented the beach.

Reaching into his back pocket, out came the familiar flask. It had been his friend Vince’s flask. It was a 101 Wild Turkey silver-clad hip flask. I’d seen it so many times over the years that I would be surprised if it didn’t appear.

“Son, this is yours,” he said as he handed it to me. “Not that my drinking days are over, but it’s time for you to have this, that is, after we polish off the Woodford Reserve Double-Oak Bourbon I filled it with before I came down here.”

I settled, and with patience, I knew the story would unfold …