I was asked to write this column for several reasons. The first is I knew Ed my whole life. The second is I share a passion for the outdoors similar to Ed’s. The third reason is I was with Ed on his final adventure.

Ed’s idea behind this particular column was to take a snorkeling adventure. His approach to writing was to do a little research, have some fun, and write about it. Usually, I observed this process from a safe distance. He might mention an idea for a column over a beer, and the next thing I knew, I would be reading about his latest misadventure.

Ed asked a small group of us to join him, admittedly an uncharacteristic gesture on his part. The destination was the Virgin Islands, and the idea behind the column was to snorkel around Buck Island in St. Croix. We all signed up to tag along, in no small part due to Ed’s contagious enthusiasm. He had already started his research, and described how we would be making our way through canyons of swaying elkhorn coral, floating through schools of thousands of DayGlo fish, and drinking the delicious Cruzan Rum, distilled in an old sugar mill on the island.

He had us at the elkhorn coral.

Buck Island Reef National Monument is mesmerizing. You can see it from Christiansted, a beautiful and historic harbor town on the north side of St. Croix. Buck Island is a tiny piece of sedimentary rock rising to just over 300 feet, edged with snow-white sand and topped with vibrant green plants and palm trees. Its main beach is said to be one of the ten most beautiful beaches in the world.

Ed had set the itinerary, and this included a morning snorkel, spending the afternoon exploring the small island, and finally returning to the boat for a sunset snorkel before heading in to explore the bars and restaurants in town.

The morning snorkel was like jumping off the boat into a phantasmagorical trip with Alice down the Rabbit Hole. Only wetter. The guide briefed us on the finer points of snorkeling because none of us had ever snorkeled before. After two minutes of instruction, we were tossed into the water. The guide laughed as he said something like, “we’d all be fine as long as we could breathe.” I remember Ed glancing at me with his patented lemur-caught-in-the-headlights look that evolved into raised eyebrows simultaneously framing a crinkled-up nose. That quickly morphed into an ear-to-ear grin and he flopped over backwards into the turquoise Caribbean.

Swimming through swaying 30-foot-tall canyons of elkhorn coral, as Ed described when we were eating lunch and washing it down with rum and orange juice, was like “jumping into God’s punchbowl.” I distinctly remember Ed pausing for a moment, and then continuing: “Hey, if it’s God’s punchbowl, it’s okay to have all those fish in it.” He chuckled, amused either by the visual image of God putting a snorkel and mask on and falling backward into a fishbowl the size of the Indian Ocean, or by the real image of his fourth rum and orange juice the color of caramel.

The afternoon kept getting better as we set foot on Buck Island. Manned with wide-brimmed hats, shorts, and a day-pack complete with ice cubes, orange juice, and even more Cruzan Rum, we explored that little paradise for hours. We took frequent rest stops to “re- hydrate” as Ed described it, with more of the local spirits coursing through our veins by the minute.

The captain of the boat found us camped under a palm tree on the far side of the island, as we played our version of Knock the Coconut Out of the Palm Tree, which was closer to Who Can Even Pick Up the Coconut? Ed was in rare form, juggling three coconuts while balancing on a log. This might not seem like a big deal, but given the amount of rum Ed had consumed, we were impressed that he could stand up at all.

It was time for the sunset snorkel, according to the captain, and we slowly made our way back to the boat, splashing and stumbling through the small waves on our way to the rubber life raft that would taxi us out to the boat. The walk to the raft and splashing in the waves had a remarkably invigorating effect on all of us, and the effects of the
rum diminished with each wave. By the time we got to the boat, the sun was getting low in the sky, painting broad strokes of orange and crimson near the horizon. Ed commented on the purple and green stripes flashing across the waves, which, upon reflection, none of us had noticed.

We were told we had 15 minutes of light left, and we should all stay together in a group. When we heard the whistle, it was time to get back on board. Of the 15 people on the entire outing, only six of us chose to go back in the water. Everyone else settled into cocktail hour on the boat. Ed and I went in together, and cruised along on the surface, occasionally diving down 10 or 15 feet to join a school of local parrotfish. I had never seen Ed so focused and childlike, at least since we were 10 and shooting bottle rockets at the neighbor’s house.

I was on the surface, and heard the whistle for us to return. I couldn’t spot Ed, and figured he must already be on his way back. When I got close to the boat, I turned back and saw Ed much farther out than I had journeyed. I signaled him to come in. He waved, and said something about going to the seashells. He looked around, and went back down.

I have that last vision of him burned in me like a glowing coal. I saw him wave, turn, and dive straight down, the spray from his flippers sparkling in the final rays of the sun as
he disappeared. I went to the boat, not thinking much about it other than that he would be back within a few minutes.

I climbed aboard, was handed another rum and orange juice, and became consumed by the conversation of the day. Fifteen minutes later, the captain said we were one short of our count. I looked around, and realized Ed had not returned.

I told the captain, and we motored in the direction of where we had last seen him. It was dark, and there was no sign of him. There were a few other boats in the area, and we asked if anyone had him on board. Everyone said no, and we all pitched in with lights to search. It was clear we would not find him at night, and we hoped he had hopped on board another boat, and was waiting for us at the marina. He wasn’t.

After a sleepless night, we were back out at first light with the local police and a group of divers. We never found Ed. Several days later, someone found swim trunks washed up on the shore of Buck Island. That was the closest we ever got.

It is appropriate that Ed was doing something he really enjoyed when he left us. All I can say is: Thanks Ed, and I hope you are enjoying swimming with the fishes.

Edwina Bass,
Ed’s twin sister, kindly wrote this farewell note to Ed.

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