The influence of a good man: Dr. Sammy Ray

The sad news that Dr. Sammy Ray had died reached me this afternoon. He was 94 years old, a long run for anyone. And yet my hand flew to my mouth and I gasped in surprise. I guess I just expected him to always be there.


We saw him a few summers ago at the grocery store in Galveston. He was using one of those machines to check his blood pressure. He saw Aquaman and recognized him from his time as a student at TAMUG. We didn't want to bother him, but he was glad to see us and we ended up talking to him for 30 minutes, us standing and him sitting on the bench of that blood pressure machine, cane in hand. Aquaman had some questions to ask him about oysters and the drought and water quality. Listening to him speak was like being in a library, flipping through books. I was humbled in his presence, hanging on his every word about the drought and what it meant for Texas, especially the coast. While I had come across Sammy Ray in my work with the Coastal Bend Bays & Estuaries Program, I wasn't a former student like Aquaman, who still has the binder from his Aquamed class in 1990.

Yes. I said 1990.

That's Sammy Ray on the agenda - doing his thing.

Sammy Ray took the time to ask me about teaching and to tell me how important it was. He asked about Aquaman's new job and that led to another conversation about NOAA and the Fisheries Observer Program and then he told us both this:

"Find what you love to do and you'll never work another day in your life." 

It stuck with me. I wrote it down later. I've seen variations of it since, but it meant the most coming from him.

He was legendary on the Texas A&M at Galveston campus. Every time I saw him speak, he received standing ovations from the audience: conferences, meetings, lecture halls. He was brilliant, yes. But what set him apart was that he was approachable. No ivory tower syndrome there. He loved students and always found time to talk to them - to really talk to them, not just lecture. He so enjoyed his work every day that he never really retired, it was in his blood and his very being. It was who he was.

He left a legacy that our oldest son was introduced to this summer. Sammy Ray started SeaCamp, it was his baby and he nurtured it and helped it grow into what it is today. We saved and planned for a year in advance and got on the waiting list as soon as we could (Yep. There's a waiting list.) so that The Redhead could go to the session that focused on Marine Engineering.

Aquaman and I met aboard the Texas Clipper, part of TAMUG's Summer School at Sea program in the summer of 1989. Going back there with The Redhead was quite an experience.

The poster Prep Cadets were given in 1989.

With the anchor from the Texas Clipper in 2013.

Just like my dad before me, I made sure that letters arrived for The Redhead while he was there.

Of course I have Aggie stationery. Don't be ridiculous.

We didn't hear from him all week. We knew this was a good sign. When we picked him up, he was all smiles. He led us around the campus as if we'd never been there.

"There's the library," he pointed out.

"Um. Yeah. I worked there for a year," Aquaman told him.

"And there's the cafeteria," The Redhead added.

"I worked there, too," Aquaman explained.  "My dorm was that one over there and I had classes here and here," he said, pointing.

"Wow!" The Redhead had never been so interested. He continued his tour, telling us the things he had done that week. "So I really, really want to go here now," he told us. "For sure."

And that was the point - it's what Sammy Ray knew. If you got kids hooked by bringing them there and letting them learn and explore, they would stay engaged. If you encouraged their interests, it would pay off. Not just for them or you, but for the greater good.

During my time in Alaska, I learned that when a Tribal elder dies, people often say it's as if a library has burned down. All that knowledge - all the things done and seen - gone forever. It is a catastrophic loss and reason to mourn.

But in this case, because of a body of work and a lifetime dedicated to educating others, I don't think it's true. Sammy Ray may be gone, but his work will never be. That's the influence of a good man.

Well done, Sammy Ray. Well done.

Second generation Sea Aggie.

Jumping in with both feet

The Redhead. 

Tomorrow, our family embarks on a new journey. This is our first time. So it's exciting. And scary. And preparing for it is leaving me an emotional wreck.

The Redhead is 14 and this weekend we will be dropping him off for his first ever official summer camp. This camp was his birthday present, given to him back in March. It's seven days of Marine Engineering at Texas A&M University at Galveston's Sea Camp and he is so excited. They'll look at things like converting electricity from sea waves, marine propulsion, and thermodynamics. This is his passion, what he has already declared will be his major in college. He has been looking forward to it for months.

But now we're right up on it and we drive tomorrow and drop him off the day after that and I'm a wee bit anxious. I've reviewed the official list of what to pack a dozen times. The Redhead glanced at it once. I've been washing clothes for days, marking all of his belongings with a Sharpie. He pulled out a small bag with everything he thought he needed:

Not enough. Not even close.

This concerned me. How in the world could he possibly think that is all he needs? I went to Target to get trial size toiletries for him. I might have gone overboard.

That's more like it.

 

I think I amused The Redhead when I returned from the store. Guess what item he was most impressed with?

It will probably never be opened.

Yep. The First Aid To Go! kit. What 14-year-old wouldn't be impressed with that?

Aquaman was not impressed. "He doesn't bathe at home! You think he's going to pay attention to personal hygiene when he's at camp?"

I dismissed this. Aquaman simply does not understand. The Redhead will probably need tissues and mouthwash and Advil ("You're trusting him with that?" Aquaman added.) He will probably need the Gold Bond medicated powder if he gets chafed from being in his swimsuit all day. (The Redhead was uber embarrassed when I brought this up.) And he'll probably need the two washcloths and towels and extra swimsuit and sneakers I'm putting in his bag. What? Don't judge.

This may look like overkill. I'll admit it. But that's only if you don't know The Redhead. In addition to these everyday items that any parent might pack for their child heading off to camp, we have to pack this:

Lifesaver.

Oh, it looks innocent enough - I'll give you that. But what this fanny pack contains is serious business. Have a peek:

Oh yes. It's serious.

How's that for serious?

I don't seem so overboard now, do I? Not quite so much of a Nervous Nellie, right?

These are the big guns, people. This is what keeps me up at night. The Redhead has life threatening food allergies and asthma. So we don't just send him off to camp with toothbrush and toothpaste. (Neither of which I think he's used once all summer, anyway. There. I said it.) That's why he's 14 and going off to a camp at a college for the first time when most other kids have been going to camp for years.

The Redhead is allergic to all kinds of food. It is easier for me to tell you what he's not allergic to than to list what he is allergic to. The life threatening ones are nuts and fish. That's why we carry the EpiPen.

Scary needles involved.

Notice I said "we" carry. Only now? He will be solely responsible for carrying it. In fact, he'll have to carry all of this:

A whole pile o'lifesaving goin' on.

All of it. All the time.

And he'll have to navigate the college cafeteria every day. He'll have to be super careful about everything that he puts in his mouth, everything that is prepared by someone else and might have something in it he is allergic to. He'll have to be absolutely certain that the nugget he thinks is chicken is in fact, chicken. Not fish. He's made that mistake before. (Why did you have to bring that up?) He'll even have to be careful of those eating around him, especially if they're chowing down on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

While he's out in a marsh kayaking or in a science lab building an underwater robot, he'll have to make sure his fanny pack with his life-saving medications is with him. It's a lot to ask of a 14-year-old that doesn't remember to put on deodorant.

So it's a lot to ask of a mom to pack him off and hope for the best. To let him grow up a bit and be around other kids who share his interests and have faith (and cross my fingers) that everything will be alright. He will remember to take his medicine at night, he will be ever vigilant about what he eats, and he will keep that fanny pack with him wherever he goes.

The Redhead will be at Sea Camp and his brothers will be at their grandparents, about 45 minutes away. Aquaman and I (Alone! Just the two of us!) will be an 8-hour-drive away, in a different state altogether, to attend another gathering of marine-minded folks at the National Marine Educators Association conference in Mobile, Alabama. This is what Aquaman and his family do in the summer. We do water-y things. The Redhead (aka Aqualad) will be at a camp doing the same kind of stuff we will be doing with a bunch of adults on the Alabama coast. Thing 1 and Thing 2 will be on the Texas coast with their grandparents, fishing and out on a boat much of the time.

The grandparents will be the closest ones to respond to any emergency. And while I know they are perfectly capable and love their grandchildren, it makes my heart hurt just a little bit. Because I still picture The Redhead like this:

The Redhead at home on Mt. Eyak in Alaska at 16 months. He's smaller than the 28-pound Beagle.

And that means I'm leaving my baby. In the care of strangers. And I'll be far away. And bad things could happen.

And this is what it is to be a parent. It is my stomach churning out of fear and excitement, at the same time. It is me thrilled for a week alone with my husband and scared for my child's first week solo. It is wanting to hide and wanting to venture out. Wanting to protect and shield and knowing that I have to let them go.

Here's to jumping in with both feet. In the deep end.