Salt Point: 1979 or 1980. Keith Sanders and abalone. Now that I look closely at this photo, I'll admit it looks incriminating, but we were not poaching. Please note that even though Keith is wearing a scuba tank, we were not using scuba gear when we obtained the abalone. That was--and is--illegal in California.
Rather, we'd gone free diving for abalone earlier in the day outside and south of Gerstle Cove, and then we went scuba diving afterwards inside of Gerstle Cove, a protected area teeming with fish and invertebrates. (Nowadays, it is not legal to have scuba equipment on hand while in possession of abalone; then, it was permissible to have both the gear and the shellfish in the trunk together.) I had Keith hold up part of the day's catch while still suited up.
Here, specifically, we'd just finished our second or third dive of the day, and I took the shot. If I had waited any longer, Keith would have had his gear off, and I would have missed documenting Diver Sanders. I had to force Keith to pose, by the way, for he was impatient with any photo-taking. Now, of course, I wish I'd taken more photos, no matter his resistance.
My Tribute: Keith Sanders (1961-2011)
Last week, on March 7th, my best friend died, suddenly and surprisingly, at a mere age 49. Keith Sanders and I had known each other very, very well for about 35 years. We were the kind of friends who don't need to see each other: a rare blessing and a curse. We were living at a distance --Alaska vs. California-- but the distance didn't hinder or defeat the friendship. We would rather have been neighbors, sure, but we could go a month, two months, three months, six months, or even longer, and we'd still finish each other's sentences, picking up where we'd left off, usually in the middle of an argument. Through the years, the separations didn't ever seem to matter: brothers not of blood, but of the heart.
We were connected, simply put, and that grew from all those early years as friends: through high school; through studies and sports; through scuba diving Monterey and abalone-diving the Sonoma County coast; through adventures camping and fishing; through college at Berkeley; through working our way through college and sharing an apartment; through countless long nights and long drives arguing and debating anything and everything (and I mean that literally, not as an easy cliche); and through sharing our ambitions and our dreams.
Keith was my peer, my rival, and my model. My champion and my challenger. We were companions on the road. We learned together, we fought with each other, and we were friends. Together, we had dealt with growing up, with becoming adults; more recently, together, we'd started dealing with growing older. I was looking forward to teasing him about turning 50, looking forward to having him tease me; I had planned on us diving together at age 70, or even older. The future feels less certain, less doable, with Keith gone, though I have to go forward with a long stride, with openness and hope, as he would, as he would want me to. No stepping backward for Keith Sanders, and I wouldn't want to disappoint him even now.
Keith was the friend I turned to in times of trouble. Keith would listen, listen closely, and then debate; you didn't get a free ear with Keith. He'd be sympathetic, yes, and generous of spirit, yes, but he'd also be critical--attentive to what made sense and what didn't, what was wisdom and what was prideful stupidity. And he'd call me on the latter, every time, which is what I needed, though I didn't always want it. I needed Keith to be Keith, to be that best friend.
I tried to do the same for him.
More than with any rough moments out in the ocean or in relationships, I treasure how Keith helped me with the loss of my father. In April 2004, my father died, suddenly, at age 70, of a heart attack. Keith flew right down from Alaska to be there, to honor my father (who had called him "Shoot-Fire") and to support me, to honor our friendship, and I still don't know how much trouble that made for him at work. At the time I was too distracted and overwrought, and later I knew better than to ask; Keith was helping me, and he would have smoothed out the work difficulties anyway. Keith knew about losing a father, and so he helped me without question.
I also treasure --and will ever treasure-- a fairly recent trip in 2008 to Maui, an indulgence, just the two old buddies, diving and talking for a whole week. That was one of those trips friends talk about taking and often never make time for, but we did. We made that trip happen, and I'm so glad.
I've barely touched on the ways that Keith was my friend--or that Keith was Keith--and those people who also knew him can supply their own memories, their own stories. I have written out pages and pages of adventures and stories, but I shall just list the many Keiths I knew and then move to his favorite poem.
Keith the family man: his wife Rhonda and his children Katie, John, and Mark were the absolute heart of his life, but he was also fully devoted to his mother, his siblings, and their children. (That devotion led to many trips south from Alaska to California, which meant he and I would meet in person yearly, if not more frequently.)
Keith the professional: the most beloved lawyer I have ever heard of. (Thanks, John, for this realization.)
Keith the athlete: the sprinter/miler and cross-country runner, the hiker, the diver. (When my main dive partner Keith moved to Alaska, I quit diving for years rather than find a new partner. Eventually, I started diving solo and later sought out new people to dive with; these new underwater partners are all dependable, fine folks, but they aren't the original team mate.)
Keith the thinker: the skeptic in the classic sense --not a person who scoffs and scorns, but a person who thinks matters through.
Keith the worker, with his many jobs growing up, often at the same time, and his loyalty and commitment to each job, each position and its responsibilities, no matter how humble or exalted, throughout his life. Keith the do-er, the man of conviction and action, driven by a solid set of ethics.
Keith the giver: the man of such congenial and beneficent spirit. The full church at his memorial service attested to the many, many people who recognized that generous nature and who benefited from his efforts and concern. Keith was a very friendly, helpful man.
Of course, there is Keith the storyteller.
Those who knew Keith, or even merely met him, recognize and appreciate his narrative gifts. So many stories, so entertaining, so guiding, and so often at his own expense. Fundamentally, there is a sort of folklore of Keith, and I will again merely list a few of my favorites: losing his wedding ring; exploding eggs, accidentally and on purpose; dropping the anniversary gift into the snow; getting the flat tire on the way to the final exam; defrosting the freezer with a Hibachi grill (the ice cubes tasting smokey for the next month); and after that first serious date, L-O-V-E, spelling out (with his signature) his immediate passion for his lifelong love, Rhonda. (Three weeks later engaged; a few months later married.) Keith was a master at telling stories, and the stories of himself were some of the most entertaining I know. I miss his laugh as he would share the details of his most recent adventure.
Keith was also one of the most intelligent people I've ever known, even if he occasionally lacked absolute common sense. He was a man of principle, before all else: a man of principle in practice. Knowledge was not only obligation to Keith, but also a blueprint for behavior, and though he actively questioned everything a person can possibly question in this world, his sense of fairness, of justice, remained constant throughout his life. He was proud of his achievements, which were many and considerable; yet he was humble, so humble that people lacking acuity might underestimate him, though never twice.
His favorite poem pulls all of these qualities together. Keith was a bit suspicious of much modern poetry, but he liked rhymes and ballads (stories!), and he loved practical philosophy. I've heard Keith recite Rudyard Kipling's "If" in different moods and manners, walking down the street, standing in kitchens, riding in cars, sprawled in front of campfires, and even out in the surf as we kicked our way shoreward at a dive's end.
As I reread this poem, I can hear Keith's voice in my head, laughing and yet serious, invoking again and again Kipling's model of integrity and balance, of independence and mindful effort. Particularly, Keith relished the poem's if this, if that, if . . . approach to being the best self you can be. For that mattered. For all his humility, being the best self mattered to Keith, and helping others to be their best selves mattered too.
IF
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise;
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with wornout tools;
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on";
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run -
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
--Rudyard Kipling
If anyone aimed at "keeping [his] head" in the midst of chaos, if anyone worked to "fill the unforgiving minute" with the "full sixty seconds worth of distance run," Keith Sanders, the track man, certainly did.
Rest in peace, my friend. I miss you.
(Note: This is an expanded version of the tribute I was honored to deliver at Keith's memorial service at the Community Covenant Church in Eagle River, Alaska, this past weekend. Wherever you are, Keith, your family, your friends, and your community miss you deeply.)
