Chapter 22: Weekends at Als

Spring 1987. 

Still living at the beach and The Grateful Dead were coming to town. I'd got on the bus in 1984, attending my first show at the Ventura Fairgrounds in Southern California. As an avid fan of their music, I thought I was a Deadhead fully in the know, ready to have the time of my life. In reality, I knew nothing. I knew none of the words to none of the songs or the crowd participation parts or the communal rituals. I stood to the side by myself, standing stiffly throughout the whole concert; uptight, arms crossed, hyper self-conscious, staring straight ahead, unable to join in the celebration, for I had yet to earn admittance to their tribe.

Leaving the show disappointed and prepared to never come back, a couple in flowing robes serpentined on skateboards throughout the crowd, blessing each fan with a red rose as they passed. As they reached me, instead of handing me a rose, they stopped, asking about my experience at the show. Not wanting to look the newcomer, I told them I couldn't have had a better time to which they smiled and handed me a rose. 

As we parted, they asked if I was coming back the next day. Unaware the band was playing again the next day, I said of course I was, wouldn't miss it for the world. And as they skated away, something clicked within me. For though I didn't have a good time, I sensed the Deadheads possessed something vital I did not. An internal freedom manifested in colorful expression of dress, manner, and dance, all within a sense of community foreign to me, a tribe of misfit minions caravaning from concert to concert in peace and harmony.  I sensed intuitively they had something to teach me and something I wanted. So I came back that next day. And the following day. And I've never left. And as I type these words some 38 years later, I'm a lifetime member of the hippy tribe.

With the Dead coming to town, all semblance of normalcy vanished. Not that much normalcy was taking place to begin with. My leg still funky from the fracture, eighteen months had passed since any meaningful tennis had been played. I'd dropped out of school, yet still lived on the beach with my same roommates, working odd jobs, waiting tables, working at a book store, selling pot to my friends, just enough to get by as I plotted my next move.  

Wandering. I'd been attending school my whole life, yet I hadn't a clue what I wanted to do. So I tuned in, turned on, and dropped out. The only thing I lacked more than direction was ambition. There was an emptiness where my drive should have been. Desperate to fill the void within, I sought out substances. Smoking, Eating, drinking, drugging, all hours of every day. I was transforming, from an athlete to something indeterminate. Out of school, yet I continued to read vociferously, becoming enamored with The Beats and Jack Kerouac and everything counterculture.

With no guidance or direction from home, I squandered my days in a hazy drugged out squalor, with all my energies directed toward feeding my growing habits while taming my ravaged mind. Twenty-two years old, waking and baking, washing down breakfast with a beer. Because you can't drink all day if you don't start in the morning. Yet thinking I was living life, lying to myself that it was just a phase, that I'd grow out of it, unaware with each day the vice of alcoholism tightened, its mold hardening around me as I slipped deeper and deeper in to the prison of addiction.

But if you asked me what I was doing, I'd have told you I was having fun. That I was partying. Living life on the edge. Experimentally. The crazier the better. Because life came to life when I partied, for it was the opposite of my upbringing, that rigid, disciplined enforced conformity. I saw that drain the life right from my parents, vowing at the age of eight years old to never grow up like him. Well, I was doing a fine job of that. Sure showing him, that cutting off my nose off to spite my face.

But was not being him enough? What about me? What was I going to become. And how? Running away from every challenge. Incapable of confronting my haunting upbringing. By day, anxious about how to survive. At night, stressing about my past and my future, trying to figure it all out through a haze of narcotics.

I would spend my nights breaking life down while flipping it around, looking at it from every angle. Pull a thread here, follow it, mine it, try to reduce all existence to a tidy soundbite, but never quite getting there, all night discussions leading to non-conclusions resulting in a perpetual cycle of inaction. My stasis was not through lack of effort. I just seemed to be living life an epiphany short. 

Trying desperately to not be a certain way, ruining myself in the process. Surrounding myself with enablers. Friends you tolerated, because they tolerated you. Rule Number one of The Party Club, stay out of my shit and I'll stay out of yours. The unspoken agreements, the tacit understandings. The Golden Rules. Judge little, accept all. You simply didn't talk about it.  

But I was living on an edge. Always broke, always scrambling. Survival skills. The things I carried. How to walk in to a bar broke and thirsty, how to walk out hours later hammered with new friends on our way to get drugs with a crisp borrowed 20 in my pocket. I just knew what to look for. I could do it in any town at any time of day. I was doing what I had to do. 

In the midst of all my debauchery, I told the folks I didn't want to go to college anymore. Surprisingly, the conversation went well, my Father finally spinning out some parental wisdom, that I had time, but if I hadn't figured stuff out by the time I was 30 that would be a different story. What about 50? 

It was one thing to tell them I was dropping out of college. Sadly though, I couldn't tell them why. It wasn't that I didn't love learning or want to get a degree. I simply couldn't. Hungover or high. Manic or depressed. I could barely make it to class, let alone sit still long enough to do my work. The procrastinating, the irresponsibility. I was good at making it to the Beer Hall, not so good at finding Study Hall. The willful abandoning of myself. College, my last best anchor to a life spiraling out of control. 

Treading water. But all that angst was forgotten when the Grateful Dead circus came to town. Irvine Meadows to be exact. Three nights, three shows. Friday the fun began, by Sunday night it was pretty much armageddon. Destroyed in every sense of the word, I would stagger home, still high from a sheet of LSD, how many hits ingested I couldn't tell you.  

Back to the beach house, but there would be no sleep tonight. So much to process from an amazing weekend. Late at night. Pondering the workings of the world and my role in this big mystery. At times it all seemed like a cosmic accident with no beneficent rationality running the show, a people united but not, with no unifying goal directing our actions. Feeling lost, adrift, I sat alone on our balcony waiting to come down, a cigarette in one hand, a beer in the other, with a head full of acid and speed. But it wasn't happening. So I drank to the moonrise, watched it arc across the night sky, saluting it once again as it disappeared at first light. The rises, the falls. The endless cycling. I could relate. 

The horizon slowly awakened. Birds cleared their throats as the sound of a thrown newspaper hit the pavement, while hungry surfers rushed to the water, eager to be first off at first light. I thought back to my earliest tennis mornings with my Dad. First to the bubble, first to the courts, first to hit a ball. To be first meant everything. To be first was the driving force of my life. Where had that drive gone?

The sun rising now. Another day had begun, just not for me. I would eventually sleep this day off. Another night, another all nighter. Walkers soon appeared from the north. A jogger trotted by from the South. Then another jogger trudged slowly through the soft sand. But it wasn't any old jogger, It was Edwin Moses, world record holder and Gold medal winner in the 400 meter hurdles putting in some early miles on the beach right past our house. He was doing what serious athletes did. Training. I thought about how I used to train. At first light. And last light. And all the light in between. 

I don't train anymore. I drink beer and do drugs now. And watch the world go by. Other aspiring athletes appeared on the beach, starting their mornings full of fire and passion and dreams. They were my antithesis. I began to feel my failings. I could only handle my failings in small doses. They killed my vibe, shattered my moment. I put out my cigarette, going inside to get another beer. Twenty-two years old. Doing anything and everything to keep reality at bay.

An Olympian hero. A washed up zero. I used to wear the USA on my back. Just look at me now. 

How do you get from there to here..

 

Finally coming down, the remaining traces of highness exiting my system, I worked my way to the refrigerator. Fresh cold Schaefer in hand, I saw a note on the kitchen table... 

Call Coach Patton ASAP. Important...

A couple hours pass. What could he want? Was I in trouble? Still not all the way there, I picked up the phone to call. For once, it was good news. He had an offer for me, but I needed to move fast. All time American junior tennis champion Al Parker needed a practice partner for the next few months. Was I available and how quickly could I be ready to move to Georgia. It paid well. There would be travel. A great opportunity to get back to playing.

I'd been laying low, not pushing my leg, hoping it would finally heal. But from not playing, I was woefully out of shape. But I needed this. Another opportunity. Something to be passionate about, to light a fire under me. Tennis had worked before. Why not give it another try, what was the worst that could happen? 

So I said yes, knowing when I woke up the next morning I'd have 24 hours to get ready for a 3 month trip. The next morning I got on the phone to Mid Parker. Flight arrangements had already been made. And with one strung racket left, the next day I boarded a plane, a rhythm devil going down to Georgia, to be a sparring partner to the most accomplished junior tennis player the US ever produced.

Touching down at Hartsfield International, Al's father Mid Parker met me at the turnstile. Bags retrieved, we walked out the sliding glass doors to his car only to be hit by a wall of heat and humidity that took my breath away. Mid Parker and I drove hours south through the Georgia night from Atlanta to Claxton, getting to know each other along the way. I'd spent some time in the South, but only in larger cities within the safe bubble of a tournament site. This would be different. Claxton, Ga.  Population 2200. Claxton was the fruit cake capital of the world. And the Parker family made them. Claxton Fruitcake Company was the family business. Fascinating how families made their fortunes. You simply wouldn't believe how much money there was in fruitcake.

Claxton Georgia. A city of haves and have nots, not unlike any city in America, just on a smaller scale. And the most unlikely of towns to spawn America's most accomplished junior. Claxton had no clubs, no coaches, no academies, no tournaments, and no college program to inspire the young, unless you included Division 2 Georgia Southern, 45 minutes away in neighboring Statesboro. 

Al could have trained anywhere. Bollittieri Academy was a day drive away. But Mid kept him home. Family. The South. Tradition. A stifling slow life. Living for the weekends, trips to the coast or Atlanta, the kids just waiting their time til UGA. The Mom Sally, lovely, classy, sadly beautiful, tired of the small town. But family. Ginny, perfectly cute southern belle proudest little sister of her all American big brother. Father Mid. The goodest old Southern boy. Straight out of central casting.

And it wasn't just the tennis court where Al excelled. A straight A student from his first day of school. Not one B. Not even an A-. There was Al Parker Day in Claxton. There was a framed letter from former President Jimmy Carter. So much Georgia pride. Easiest recruiting job ever for legendary Georgia coach Dan Magill. Al was signed sealed and delivered to be a Dawg before he could even walk. 

In spite of Claxton's apparent limitations, there was a court at a house we could play at. And that house was Al's. 

First day of practice. I'm rusty. He's not. It was rough. And back in the deep south in springtime, conditioning was definitely going to be a factor.

Compounding my problems was Al was really good. He wasn't some freakish athlete (tennis has them) but he had a ton of game. A near perfect backhand, huge, difficult to read serve, tall lean and moved like a gazelle, my only hope was there was a little funk in his semi western forehand. If I could just get the ball in there, I might be able to hurt him. But more than all that, he was one of the coolest calmest competitors I'd ever squared off with. Al knew how to win tennis matches. Important ones. 

We would meet every afternoon after school at his court. Me, Al and his Dad Mid. Mid never missed a session. Mid wasn't much of a player himself, I think my Dad would have whooped him. But he knew his tennis. And he knew his son. And he knew about winning. About what it took to be successful. Mentally and Emotionally. And mostly how to compete. But not like any old competitor. How to compete to be the best.

First couple days of practice are rough. He beats me badly, but I was in the points and getting games. If my leg held up, I sensed I was going to be just fine. Plus our sessions were my practicing fantasy. Al and myself and a couple cans of new balls. No drills, no coaches. Just sets and more sets, as many as we could play, all under the watchful eye of Al's father Mid.

Except my racket situation. I immediately broke a string our first day, having to borrow one of Als' Wilson rackets to finish the session. Mid immediately read the situation, getting on the phone to Head, telling them Al wanted to try a couple Head Graphite Edges. Never in the history of racket sponsorships had rackets arrived quicker. Head literally hired a police escort to get the frames to the Parker's home. I was seeing early and often it was good to be Al.

Being the all time US Junior Champion, (25 gold balls, still the record), gets you on tennis' radar. The  Tennis boom of the 70's still booming in to the 80's, fortunes were to made finding the sports next star. But the stage was crowded. It was the late 80's. The Bollittieri Academy in Florida and Robert Lansdorp in California were cranking out young phenoms like an assembly line. Austin, Jaeger, Chang, Agassi, teenage prodigies were the marketing rave, not straight A students living at home, getting their educations, eager to go to college. 

It was clear Al wasn't turning professional anytime soon, but that didn't deter the top agents from courting him. Bill Shelton from the powerhouse agency IMG had taken a strong interest in Al. He had some wild cards for him to some pro events. And I'd been in Georgia a whole week and we were on our way to New York City.

May 1987. I accompanied Al to the Tournament of Champions, being held at historic Forest Hills. It was my first ever trip to Forest Hills, the former home of the US National Championships. We were staying right in the heart of NYC, the Grand Hyatt on 42st, all expenses paid by IMG, just sign everything to the room. 

I could get used to this being courted thing. 

We arrived at Forest Hills to get some practice. Beautiful slow green clay courts as far as the eye could see, flanked by grass courts on the side, with a giant bowl shaped stadium anchoring the club where the Finals of the US Open were once played. By now, I'm feeling pretty good. I've got my new rackets, my leg was behaving, and I was starting to hit the ball, taking a set from Al everyday if not two. 

Taking it all in. The professional tennis player life. I feel airdropped here. I see all my peers from my junior days. I see their names up and down the draws. This could be the Hard Courts or JDC tryouts or any of SoCal's tougher junior events. Same players, yet 5 years older, everyone all grown up now.  

Next morning, we arrived for the Qualifying Sign in. Its the process by how players enter tournaments. Its somewhat primitive. The opposite of glamorous. A room, a table, a tournament official. You sign your name to a lined sheet of paper, the highest ranked sign-ins making the cut. But the room was oddly quiet for such a marquee event. With only minutes to spare before the cut off, the room was empty. Mr Shelton soon appeared. He greeted us warmly. Gracious, gregarious. He's totally hooking us up. Walking down the clubhouse hall, I'm taking in the memorabilia when I saw Mr. Shelton and Al talking. They were discussing something in earnest, yet both kept turning and looking my way. They were obviously talking about me. My heart began to sink. Was I in trouble already?

How much did they know..

Al walked over, informing me the qualifying draw still had openings and Mr Shelton thought I should sign in. I began to stammer. But but but, I don't have a ranking, I've been hurt, I've only been hitting a week, I haven't played a match in 18 months. Are you sure? I wouldn't be able to watch you play. I may not be able to warm you up. How could there not be enough players? This was one of the biggest tourneys in the world. There's no way I should be in it. 

Al shushed me. Just put your name down.

So I did. I walked to the tournament desk and signed in. And I got in. JFC. Ten days ago I was tripping on LSD at the Grateful Dead. Now I was playing the Tournament of Champions at Forest Hills. Not exactly Doc Ellis, but noteworthy. I locate the draw. Becker, Noah, Cash, Gomez, all the world's best players with my peers from junior and college tennis sprinkled throughout. 

The tournament officials closed the sign in, disappearing to a back room to make the Qualifying Draw.  Overcome with excitement yet nervous as all hell. The draw comes out. I draw an (African) player first round. He's hurt. Probably shouldn't have been playing. Not a true test and I won easily. Second round, I draw Larry Stefanki. He'd won the prestigious Indian Wells event just two years prior. I thought of calling my Dad, to share my good fortunes, wondering if he'd say once more that'll be it for you.

Match time. The conditions were heavy. Wet, cool, foggy, damp, green clay, miles from the indigenous fast concrete courts of California. But Stefanki was a Californian attacker too. With the court playing like mud, I won a close first set. He woke up, running me off quickly in the second. Third set starts and I assumed it would go just like the second, for he's a seasoned professional who knows how to win close tennis matches.

But I got off to a great start in the third. Pulling ahead, pulling away. I looked across the net and saw in his eyes he was done. He didn't want to be there and I could so relate. I wanted to give him a hug. I wanted to give him the match. This was his job, his profession. I was just visiting here. I tried to keep calm, on the brink of my best win ever if I didn't panic. With absolutely nothing to lose, I stepped to the line to serve it out. Playing with house money, I managed not to panic, closing out the match.

With Al taking care of business too, we were both in the last round of qualifying. We went out to celebrate that night in the city. Dinner was fun. Winning was fun. We got invited to a Player's party in Manhattan. My name was on the list. Welcome Mr Buss. For once, on the right side of the velvet ropes.

Spreads of food. An open bar. Me and an open bar. Bad combo. Restraint not my longsuit, I stuck to beer. I set a limit. I promised to only have two. I missed my goal by three. At the present stage of my alcoholism, I considered that a win. For I had a huge match the next day. Ricardo Acuna, A stylish Chilean, 1985 Wimbledon quarterfinalist. All to reach the main draw, for cash and prizes and a coveted ATP ranking.

Next morning, we arrived to the site. Walking through the player's lounge, I'm a star struck looky-loo. Trying to play it cool, but cool was the last thing I was, fortunately I left my autograph book at home. Just pinch me. I'd put these players on a pedestal my whole life, and now I got to shake their hands. As an equal. I needed to win one more match, just two more sets and I was in the big time.

Al and I walked to the practice courts to warm up. There were unwritten protocols here that I did not know. When the big boys showed up to hit, you stepped aside. 

 Al and I were started hitting, splitting a court with a couple other players when Becker, Zivojinovic and Tiriac walked on.

As they stretched by the bench, we kept hitting. The two guys we shared the court with packed up and walked off. Yet we keep hitting on our half. Soon Becker walked on to my side, with Zivojinovic taking the other. Then Tiriac walked on. We were now five on a court, how was this going to work?  

I'm hitting next to Becker and feeling pretty good about myself. Of course, I'm coming out of my shoes on every ball trying to impress him. Zivojinovic hits a ball to the middle of the court between us. Becker slid over, sliced a backhand back, then stayed right there in the middle. Apparently Becker doesn't share a court. And that was the cue. Our practice was now over. Becker doesn't share a court. I now knew the protocol.

Match time. Taking the court with Acuna and I can do no wrong. Quickly up 5-2 and serving for the first. Then I got to thinking. The first round money for making the main draw was a cool 2200, a not small amount, considering I had about 20 dollars to my name. More important than the prize money were the ATP points for qualifying. On the computer. A world ranking. Distracted, I played a couple loose games. 

Now five all and a crowd began to appear. Focus. Keep your head down. Don't look up. I looked up. There's Becker and Tiriac again. Stopping. Watching. Only one thing to do. Try to impress them. I played a great game to get up 6-5. Looking toward them, they're still at my court, talking to each other. What were they seeing. Were they scouting me? What could they know? Did Becker play the winner of our match? Is that why he was watching? We reach a tiebreaker, yet I can't stop watching Becker watching me. After every point I looked his way. It was like being eleven again with my Dad watching, looking up to see if he was clapping. All these years later, still seeking the approval of others. Would I ever cross the rubicon to maturity? 

I lost the first set in a close breaker. I was playing real professional tennis players now. They found a way. Second set starts and I was feeling satisfied. I didn't embarrass myself at this level. Far from it. My losing score would look respectable. Still stuck in a losers mindset. Apparently it just doesn't go away on its own. 

Al would qualify. He didn't have a losers mindset. He would lose to future top 10 American Jay Berger in a tight two-setter. Mr Shelton was pleased with us though, so much so he offered us a main draw wild card in to the doubles. I was having a ball and wanted to play for cash and prizes and points and all those NYC main draw perks. But Al was missing school. With his finals and valedictorian graduation approaching, he couldn't miss any more classes. Either way, it would have been nice. It was all nice, but we had to decline. We thanked Mr. Shelton for his graciousness, and began packing up. 

And in the span of a few days, in the most unforeseen and unimaginable ways, I was back playing again and playing well. And it all felt right...

Back to Claxton. Manhattan to Claxton. From the big city to the small town. But I was feeling good. My head clearing, my leg behaving, my game inexplicably back. The downhill part of the run. Back home. Back to our routine. Me, Al, and Mid. We head out to practice. I'm outplaying him now. I straight set him our first day back. Next day I come out playing even better, bageling him in the first.

At the changeover, Mid was all about me. Telling me how good I was and that I could really play and if I got in great shape, I could do some damage. But mostly Mid was happy he was getting what he paid for, someone to push his son where he couldn't, from across the net on a tennis court. 

But Mid had other methods. As we headed back out to play, Mid under his breath said bagel him again. Al immediately spun back toward his Dad, barking what did you say? Mid walked right up to him, chest to chest and said,, I said bagel him again. He's better than you and I don't think you can take him. Al snapped back.. You think what??!! Voices raised, at first I was embarrassed for them. But that quickly turned to envy. What I'd have given to have a Dad like Mid, on my court every day, pushing me to become my best.

It was the dance they would do. As they got louder, it started to get awkward. I tried to break them up, saying lets go. But they weren't done yet. Mid finally turned away, saying I don't think you can beat him. Al walked to his side of the court saying I'll show you. 

And as we started the second set, Al showed him. And he showed me, running me off real quick like, and the third set too, showing me why he was America's most accomplished junior player ever. 

And our practices continued to go well. Al and I were connecting, becoming friends through all our sparring. As soon as tennis was over, we would jam in to town to sneak in 9 holes at the local course before dark. It was a good life, training in the lap of luxury. But it was temporary. Fleeting. A life I wasn't born in to nor was ever able to sustain on my own. With summer soon approaching, where was all this heading?

Winding down another week, Mr Shelton called again. He came baring gifts. More wild cards. This time for a 25k up in Raleigh, NC. He had a main draw wildcard for Al and one for the qualies for myself.  But we couldn't get there in time for me. We arrived the next day, getting the full treatment again. All expenses paid, just sign to the room. And the tournament hotel just happened to have the most happening bar in town. Life on the road, with too much time to kill. A player can only hit so many cross courts. Before long, I was settled in at the bar, seeing old friends while meeting new. 

Al had a great week, makes the Finals. Which meant I was there through Sunday, with each victory more prize money he couldn't take, leaving all the more for my expenses, namely my bar bill. Tourney over, we trekked down to Athens for a week off to watch the NCAA's. A homecoming of sorts for me, with a dash of a reunion. I saw countless old friends and colleagues from my playing days. And there I was, rolling with Al in Athens, practicing great on his future home courts. We would battle hard, myself enjoying being back, and being seen with him there. Al was Georgia royalty. He referred to me as his Coach and that felt good.

Back to Claxton. It had been an exciting month. But now the grind began. Just me and Al and no tournaments on the horizon. We had front loaded my stay. Now it was hard work time. The tennis was fine, but I started getting antsy. It was a slow life. And it was not my life. I began to miss California and the beach and all my crazy ass friends with their insatiable zest for life. 

Mid sensed I was getting antsy. He started arranging fun getaways for myself on the weekends, trips to Atlanta and the beach. We played at Atlanta's Driving Club. I had tea with Griffin Bell, Jimmy Carter's Attorney General. The following weekend they sent me to Savannah with Al's cousins to their beach compound. We hit the town pretty hard that night, with myself drinking way too much. I almost got in a fight with an Army Ranger that wouldn't have ended well. Beginning and middle wouldn't have been pretty either.

I woke up the next morning pretty wrecked. People in our group I barely knew started referring to me as the alcoholic. Hey alki, can I get you something? First person to every call me an alcoholic to my face. Was he playing with me or did he know something I didn't?

Next week, grinding again. Now it was getting harder. No more tourneys, no more weekenders. Just more grinding until Al left for the summer. Straight uphill and dead in to the wind part of the run. Then what? What was I doing all this for? Was I going to go out on tour? I had no money, no backing, no discipline, no plan. Yeah, I could play at this level, but it was so much more than that. Could I somehow commit to a disciplined way of life so foreign to me?

Mid tried to help me out, looking for other traveling coaching jobs. He tried his best. But to no avail. So we kept grinding. Now I was really getting homesick. I missed everything about California. But mostly I missed my freedom. To come and go as I wished. Which obviously meant partying too. At the Parkers, I couldn't drink the way I wanted to. Or needed to. Something soon had to give.

Getting antsier. Me and the Parker family. Thrown together. A house guest with game. But it had run its course. Mid wanted me to stay another month, maybe something would come up. But I felt the pull of home. We had to move out from the beach. I had to relocate, find employment, basically start anew. 

Final week. I'm losing steam. To grind with a goal was hard. To grind without one was unbearable. I needed to get home. I felt terrible. Mid was disappointed. But to home I went, not realizing that I just turned my back on my last best chance at becoming a player. For though I still had game, I had a growing problem I wasn't in full acceptance of. My need to drink was trumping all of the dreams I once held dearly.

And back to California I went, where I immediately scored all the drugs I could. Back at home, I partied everybody out. Up all night again. Just like old times, back to the life I had left mere months ago. To the beach. To the partying. Staying up late, oblivious to life, to the reality I was drinking and drugging what remaining talents I had away. 

And the sun rose over the horizon again. I'd been up all night. And morning came. Birds chirped, surfers attacked. I watched it all pass by. 

Then Edwin Moses appeared. Putting in his hard miles, what professional athletes do. His approach used to make me feel uneasy, reminding of my failings. But that morning was different. 

I watched him come. I watched him pass. I watched him disappear down the coast. Yet I remained immaculately numb.

I felt nothing...