I am retired. Really. Retired.

It feels odd to write that, especially after the whirlwind of the last 10 days surrounded by family and friends. I would not have made it through this transition as gracefully as I did without the love and support of everyone who was a part of the past week and the past two years.

I am truly grateful.

Update:

Since the FB Live did not work in the moment, hangars being giant metal and concrete boxes and all, I’ve cleaned up the audio as best I could and posted the videos here:

https://vimeo.com/showcase/11216195

You can also view photos from the day here. (Note: if you wish to add a photo or video, please let me know and I will grant you access to upload them.)

What we know

1. Our house is under contract (yay!), and we’ll be heading north to Boston in early August.
2. Lillian and I will be heading to Boston in two weeks for my next scan and do some sniffing around for a place to land in August.

What we don’t know

• As we are still catching our collective breath as a family, we don’t have any specific itinerary yet.

Perspective

A friend told me yesterday that for him, the hardest part has been the silence; he calls it “the empty”... and I couldn’t agree more.

For me, the most glaring thing has been that when the DEERS office issued Jess, Lillian and I new “retired” ID cards I immediately lost access to my CG email account! Didn’t see that coming, but it does feel like a void in my day no longer having any obligation to check for a message... or shave, or put on my boots any longer...

It’s going to take a bit to adjust all that’s transpired, and I’ll will post my reflections and updates as they come.

The Tradition of the Shadow Box

The tradition of presenting a shadow box to a retiring sailor is born of early British custom, it was considered bad luck for a sailor, upon final departure from a ship, to allow his shadow to hit the pier before he himself departed the ship.

Therefore, the sailor’s shipmates would construct a box of the finest timber and place within it all things that reflected his accomplishments—thereby symbolically creating a “shadow” of the sailor.

My shadow box was handcrafted by Dave Corcino, and is magnificent! (See picture). There are many, many amazing details he skillfully wove into this beautiful piece that spans my entire Coast Guard career. Each item has a story behind it, and I am just over the moon with how it turned out (as you can see in photos captured when I saw it for the first time at the ceremony)!

Many have asked about the significance of the rock in the middle... I picked that rock off the ground when we visited Little Diomede Island in September, 2017 while deployed to FOL Kotzebue. The international border between Russia and the United States passes between Big Diomede Island on the Russian side and Little Diomede Island on the US side. The weather was nice, and our crew was tasked with a arctic domain awareness patrol and training flight, so I jumped at the chance to at least fly out there... and we were fortunate that the weather and winds conspired to allow us to land—25kts from the north made for the most perfect approach to the helicopter pad. We were enthusiastically greeted by the people who live there, many of whom proudly wore hats and jackets from their time serving in the armed forces.

It was a moment I will never forget.

Lillian Stole the Show

And I love her for it!

When she told me a few months back that she wanted to speak at my retirement, I was thrilled and honored.

Here is her poem, but I strongly encourage you to watch her performance, it begins around 53:50 of the video linked above...

In the vast expanse of the ocean blue,

A coast guard pilot, a hero, through and through.

His eyes, they sparkled with pride,

As he navigated the clouds, his heart his guide.

He was a father, a protector, a friend,

A beacon of light, till the very end.

I watched him take flight,

My heart filled with love, My eyes with delight.

The years went by, the memories piled high,

Of stormy nights and sunny skies,

Of rescues made, and lives saved,

A legacy, a story, forever engraved.

Now, as the sun sets on his final day,

He looks back, with a heart full of awe,

For the ocean, his home, his love,

His duty, his passion, his life above.

He'll hang up his wings, and retire with grace,

A proud father, a hero, in his own space.

I will carry on his name,

My heart filled with love, my eyes the same.

For in my veins, runs the blood of a swimmer,

A coast guard pilot, a father, a protector, a trailblazer.

And though he may leave the sea behind,

His spirit, his courage, forever will shine.

So here's to the pilot, the father, the man,

Who gave his all, to the ocean's demand.

May your retirement be filled with peace,

And may your legacy never cease.

With love and hope,

Fly and be safe!

Zephyr

P.S. As the audio from the FB video is at places very difficult to hear and I was a blubbering mess at times, here are my retirement remarks as I’d planned to present them:

First, I can think of no better or more fitting place to send me off into the wild blue yonder than the cradle of the Coast Guard’s search and rescue chariot of choice, the home of the mighty big iron, the H60 Jayhawk and the Medium Range Recovery Product Line which you see here behind us. Thank you CAPT Lineberry, CDR Flint, Al Radtke and LCDR Justin Lewis for allowing this disruption to line. I am eternally grateful.

Let's hear it for Kristi, Ryan and Freddie and OPS for making this all possible. Thank you so much!

When I imagined the day I would hang up my flight suit for the last time, I did not imagine it would be under these circumstances. Yet, when I learned I had a mass on my brain nearly two years ago, I knew in my soul that I was on the starting line of a very long and difficult marathon, and that this would be the outcome.

Elizabeth Gilbert wrote:

Grief does not obey your plans, or your wishes. Grief will do whatever it wants to you, whenever it wants to. In that regard, Grief has a lot in common with Love.

I find this to be true, and it also resonates with my experience of all the big emotions that accompany my grief over the diagnosis and the loss of my Coast Guard career and the thing that always brought me childlike joy: flying helicopters.

Grief is it not linear, and I find myself reliving all the stages at random with varying degrees of intensity. So, you may be wondering: how I am I able to be standing here at the precipice of my next chapter?

Hope.

And the amazing medical teams at Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, Brigham and Woman’s Hospital, and the Fisher House of Boston. Dr. Reardon, Jenn Stephanik, Meghan Cifrino, Alexandra Torres, Ben Pierce, GROW Support group, and the whole team at DFCI; Dr. Chiocca, Dan Briggs and the Neurosurgery team at BWH; Dr. Rahman and the Blue Machine team, and the countless MRI techs who’ve endured my endless dad jokes about communing with magnets; Jenn Deluca and the team at the Fisher House of Boston for being our miracle in the darkness (Apartment 22A!):

I am alive and standing here at a new starting line because of you. I am grateful beyond words.

In the book Cured, Dr. Rediger puts it succinctly like this:

There’s something transcendent about facing death and not backing down. In not skirting around it but walking through it—a fire that burns away everything but the most essential parts of you.

I find that fire is an apt metaphor.

I’ve learned that Hope is forged in the fires of adversity, wrought of resilience, tempered through determination, and honed by an unshakable faith that our potential is limitless and we can do hard things.

The fire of adversity may be an acute event, like a traumatic SAR case or a close call in the aircraft, it may be a sustained period of tremendous pressure in your life, or staring your own mortality in the face. 

Whether the fire is a brush with death in a single moment or an ongoing journey with an uncertain outcome, having lived both, I know those fires well. What it has revealed to me about the most essential parts of life is that the most important thing is our connection to each other through our given and chosen families alike.

As human beings, we are social creatures. Facing the fires of adversity in any form, as many of you already know very well, reveals the depth and strength of those bonds. Moreover, these bonds transcend our differences because they are forged by shared moments in the Arena, daring to do the deeds in the face of great uncertainty.

While I did not choose this marathon that began on Father’s Day nearly two years ago, I choose everyday to take the next strides, no matter how difficult it may be or how small a stride I have the strength to take.

What does Hope look like?

Hope looks like a helicopter appearing overhead out of the darkness on my worst day (thanks Air Station Cape Cod, Boston MedFlight and especially Doug Atkins for the timely helicopter motivation!).

Hope looks like a conversation with a friend or loved one where I feel seen and heard (there are far too many of you to thank individually, but you know who you are!).

Hope looks like turning toward things I can control and releasing that which I cannot.

Hope looks like an unshakable faith that I can do hard things and make a positive difference in my next chapter.

Hope is being ok with not being ok. To acknowledge we are not ok takes personal courage; and to seek help when we are not ok is a strength and a superpower.

Hope is believing the people around me see my grief and pain.

Hope is having grace with myself when I falter in life and demonstrate that I am human.

Hope is facing uncertainty and taking imperfect action and knowing in your soul you have the strength and fortitude to get it right, not just be right.

Hope is beginning the marathon with only the conviction that our potential is limitless.

Hope is running past the spot where I collapsed dozens and dozens of times in training and each time being overcome with gratitude for being capable of walking much less running.

Yes, this is about running.

It's about running and flying it and it's about connection and the things that bind us together. It's about hope in the face of darkness and flying into the storm of adversity, undaunted.

And yes, this is about life.

So, as you go about the rest of your day, I ask you to contemplate what hope looks like for you and how you can create, hold, and spread hope to others...

There are many people who have influenced who I have become as an officer, a pilot, a leader, a coworker, and a friend, and I would like to thank a few of them now. So many have touched my life, please forgive me if I don't mention you specifically in the short period of time I have remaining. Plus with a hole in my head, my memory and recollections are faulty at best!

ALC: CO’s CAPTs Wilson and Lineberry, ALC XO's Phil Thisse and Sean Groark, CMC's Ann Logan and Greg Miles, Kevin Garcia, Danny Hale, Mark Wice, Meredith Ellis, and the whole BOD team, Jeff Gardner, Amy Donahue, Kristi Langenbacher, members of the LDAC, and so many others here at ALC; I appreciate everything that you have done to support me not only after I got sick but during my whole tour here; together we accomplished great things.

The whole CG-41 Office of Aeronautical Engineering and CG-711 Office of Aviation Forces: since I first began my ENG-15 journey all of the many people past and present who served in those Offices have been role models, mentors and friends; most especially Rebecca Fisher for never actually telling me that my question was suspect at best, and always gently pointing me in the right direction.

Dr. Kimberly Hess, PhD, CDR USCG Retired, for the crazy idea that I might still be useful while undergoing chemotherapy and CAPT Brian Erickson of the Coast Guard Office of Data and Analytics for giving the chance to participate in some groundbreaking work fully remotely and on terms that allowed me to heal while still contributing what little I could, all the while keeping my career on life support while the med board’s outcome was still unknown. Also, Kim is not going to be thrilled I called her Dr. Hess, but I’m just thankful to be in her orbit! (IYKYK)

AST Master Chief Joel Sayers, who pulled me into his office in Cape Cod and point-blank asked me what I was going to do with my officer career and then looked at me like I had two heads when I replied, halfheartedly, with: “I don't know maybe ops or safety...” I earnestly hope I have lived up to the potential you saw in me when you said I'd be a great EO and “strongly encouraged” me apply for the program. If you know Joel Sayers, or most Chiefs for that matter, you know that a strong suggestion is not really a suggestion at all.

To the hangar deck and the fixers and flyers: I have been privileged to have worked alongside so many amazing and talented mechanics, tweets, and swimmers. I am grateful that your dedication to your craft kept me safe every time I strapped on a helicopter and rocked into a hover. I never thought twice about the safety of the aircraft, and I always knew there were two people in the back who wouldn't hesitate to challenge me, often asking: “Who’s flying?” “What’s our altitude?” or “What the hell are we doing?” Seriously, it takes a lot of guts to speak up like that, especially when the boneheads up front are senior officers and the crew is relatively junior. So, for me when someone pipes up from the back like that, I always listened. You are all consummate professionals and I’m humbled to count so many of you as friends.

To the Chiefs: Brad Smardo, Neal Cahoon, Tito Sabangan, Fernando Sanchez, Jeff Brundage, the Cape Cod, Kodiak and ALC Chief’s messes: Your knowledge and counsel are essential to the success of any unit or hangar deck, and I owe a debt of gratitude for your timely course corrections when I got ahead of myself, and for supporting me when times were tough and we needed to seize the initiative or else it would be dictated to us.

To the Wardroom: Adam Davenport, Jeff Jacobs, Nate Coulter, Jane Pena, Garin Kirkpatrick, Seth Craven, Chris Breuer, Zach Wiest, Andre Moore, Matt Delahunty, Kevin Riley, Sam Pulliam, Joe Miller, Josh Nelson, Jon Bartel, Jenny Lowd, Steve Cervny, Jeff Bolling, Justin Lewis (we shared my last flight!), and all the aviators and officers I’ve had the privilege to fly with and/or serve beside: thank you for being a friend and often a sounding board when I needed advice and most of all for modeling what leadership looks like.

Jon, just so you know: it was me that pointed out your performance of Beauty and the Beast to Zach for the Dinning In—I think you have a promising future in musical theatre!

In aviation one develops a thick skin out of necessity and survival because when we do boneheaded things, as we inevitably do from time to time, someone will give you a nickname for it and it will stick whether we like it or not. I earned the “Kombucha Joe” monicker curtesy of Steve Cervny, but I’ll let him share that story. Cervs: I’ve got a fresh Exchange chilled kombucha waiting for you right here after all this is done!

Dave Corcino: Wow! Just wow! Thank you so much for your artistry and craftsmanship. I don't have words right now.

Carina and Scott: You were there at the beginning for Jess and I, and you have been a constant presence ever since. I am so grateful you’re here.

Gabe: my bother, I am tremendously grateful for your unwavering friendship over the last two decades. Thank you for finding a way to be here. 

Steve and Sue: It was a surprise of the most awesome proportions to see you pull into my driveway Wednesday; I honored you are here.

Fred and Rachel: Thank you for making the drive from Maryland, I love you both and I'm so happy you are here.

To Karen and Marlene: thank you for being a part of my life, and for unconditionally welcoming me into your family as if I had always been a part of it. I am a better father, husband and person because of you both and Ray and Melissa.

Mom and Dad: thank you for unconditionally supporting this journey for the last 22 years. I know you didn't often understand what or why or how I was doing any of this but maybe that will become a little more clear as you get to know some of the many people that are here today.

Lillian: watching you grow up and into the amazing soul you are (quite literally over the last few months as you’re almost as tall as Mom!), and witnessing how your bright light has flourished through all of the trials and tribulations our family has faced, not just the last two years, but since you were born, is a testament to your resilience and independence. I am proud of you and I love you. You are my bright light of hope. Thank you for the morning runs and the reminders to take my meds. You make me a better person.

Jessica: You are my guiding light through all the storms of life. Since the very beginning you have opened my eyes the potential I have inside to grow. And you possess the strength and grace to hold me firmly to account when I fall short or falter as a partner and father. Never once have you given up on me or Us, even when more than once you had to resort to the metaphorical 2x4” to my head to get my attention through all my BS (we all know that Mays men can be very blockheaded).

Your wisdom, courage and resilience in the face of all the unexpected sudden shifts in the weather and wind, have been the lighthouse beacon by which our family has safely navigated the dangerous shoals, stormy weather and dark nights of life.

I would not be standing here, alive, after 22 years of service and brain cancer were it not for you. I cannot wait to step off the precipice of our next adventure, holding your hand as we set off on the Fool’s Journey once again. I love you more than words can express.

I was asked recently why I joined the Coast Guard. It's a question I've often answered, as most of us do, without giving it much thought: I wanted to help after September 11th and I felt a call to serve which eventually led me to the Coast Guard. As I contemplated this question, I realized that whether we admit it or not, this desire to help people through our service is what binds us together.

Each of us in our own way finds the work rewarding and that makes us a community bound together by shared sense of purpose and devotion to Duty—no matter our differences of opinion or background or experience. Knowing we share that bond allows us to go do the most amazing things in the face of tremendous adversity.

The through line from the contractors and civilian employees who hold the organizational memory that makes this a unique place to work, to the active duty, reserve and auxiliary members: the support, admin and supply personnel, the air- and boat- crews in the field, the Cutter crews underway for months away from their families and loved ones; it takes an unshakable belief in that in that bond from all facets of the organization to make everything we do possible.

I’m so deeply honored to have been part of the Coast Guard and to have served beside and flown with so many amazing human beings all to make a helicopter appear overhead on someone's worst day.

It is bittersweet to be leaving the service, but I am hopeful for the future.

Semper Paratus, and fly safe!