Farewell, My Love

About a year and a half after Alex’s return to Belize, Bucher was diagnosed with cancer. Alex was able to take over the business during the six months when Bucher and I traveled back and forth to Atlanta for radiation and, ultimately, Bucher’s death.

Bucher and I parted knowing that we had more happiness than anyone has a right to have. I never have felt that he was very far away.

 

Excerpts from letter dated January 13, 1979

You will want to know about yesterday…everything was easy, gracious, and as it should have been for Bucher.

As you know, our plan was for Alex and me to go out privately on the Oso Negro to scatter Bucher’s ashes. However, driving home from the airport when I returned from Atlanta, Alex explained…no way! Bucher’s two other tugs, El Torito and Water Dog, were to follow, regardless, and a number of other people had asked to join the flotilla. My first reaction was horror…then understanding…then amused acceptance. Since there had to be a delay, both because of the weather and because El Torito was off on a job, I had time to get used to the idea. The more I thought about it, the more fitting it seemed. I did make two conditions…Alex and I would be alone (with the crew) on the Oso Negro, and we would go ahead alone for the final moments.

As we were leaving the house yesterday afternoon, Alex mentioned that I might be surprised at the people accompanying us. I was…and touched. On El Torito were the office staff (Roy Pandy, the new accountant; Missy I; and Eloisa); Eloisa’s brothers Junior and Bert Bradley (Junior provisions our boats and Bert is our Customs Broker); Sid Turton; Roy Canton, who does not go to funerals; Captain Gough, who is home on leave; Jack Guild, a local boatman who has worked with Bucher for years; and probably others. On the new little tug, Water Dog, were Captain Bulley and his wife; Mrs. Louis Locke (wife of the chief pilot; Louis came out by skiff from English Caye to board the tug); old Chief Flowers, the engineer who ran El Torito for a long time and then was our Chief Engineer for all the boats; his brother Donald, who was our mechanic; old Bill Garbutt, who operated tugs for years (usually for Lester Reyes, as I remember); and the most touching of all, Desmond Vaughn, the president of the Christian Workers’ Union (he and Bucher fought during union negotiations and were fond of each other). Tuto Alamilla and Mike Williams went out on Mike’s new tug, Dangriga. And B.E.C. sent both the Juanita and the Bay State. Walter Robison had asked to send a Storage tug, but there was a problem at the last minute so, though they didn’t go, the sentiment was there. I am sure I’ve forgotten some people. On shore to wave us off were a crowd from Customs and the Roes (who had found out about our plans).

We started out in line, with the Oso Negro leading. Somehow it was comforting, not sad, to take this last look at the shoreline behind us and the cayes ahead. Before we had gone too far, El Torito called over the radio to say that the boats wanted to steam alongside and I gave permission. So the six tugs swept slowly out the English Caye Channel abreast.

We had taken my chaise and put it in the crew’s cabin (although both bunks were made up with immaculate fresh linens). Alex added a 2-inch thick foam pad he had bought for himself when he made a fourth crewman on the trip to Colombia last year. It was divinely comfortable, alongside an open door that made me feel practically on deck, yet in privacy. Actually, I spent over half the time standing on the bridge just below the wheelhouse. I had War and Remembrance with me, which seemed especially suitable, though I read very little.

At English Caye, the other boats stopped and we went on a mile or so out into the “blue” beyond the reef. Fortunately we had a west wind so the seas were running out rather than in. Captain Earl Young swung the Oso Negro in a slow 180-degrees, I read the prayer for burial at sea from the Prayer Book, and together Alex and I did the last courtesies. Afterwards I tossed in Louis’ silver dollar.

Alex asked how I wanted to log it, so I put the entry in the tug’s log myself:

1550  Hove to beyond English Caye to consign the ashes of Bucher Scott to the sea he loved. May he rest in peace.

By the time we were back on course, the other boats had started back to port and it became a race. We had gone out keeping pace with the slowest boat, Water Dog. Having everyone steam flat out on the way back was a lovely relief and a lighthearted ending. It took a while for us to overtake the leader, El Torito, and we were fairly close to town before we did, but Earl was beaming at docking the Oso Negro first.

Alex and I stayed to speak to the people who had gone along with us and I think everyone felt that the afternoon had been a suitable and gratifying farewell.

The Youngs and Robisons came by after we got home, which made things easy. I had asked Betty and Al Bevis, but Betty was sick with sinus trouble.

 

Things are going smoothly and I am doing far better than I had hoped. The bad times are brief because I have been able to pull my thoughts away from the self-defeating paths.

I have a strong feeling of Bucher’s love being with me and helping me.