Losing Jobs

Or, "Oh Captain, Our Captain!"

On October 5, I received a sad e-mail from my college sailing friend Cindy. I suspected the contents of the e-mail merely by the subject: "Captain Hurst".

My suspicion proved accurate: "Hi everyone-- BD [our sailing coach] just called to let me know that Captain Hurst just passed away."

Captain Hurst was the first coach of the Dartmouth College Sailing Team, and a staple at home regattas years after other coaches took over the reigns. Together, Captain and Mrs. Hurst would show up to practices, with all sorts of different flavored, delicious cakes Mrs. Hurst had made for everyone--to celebrate the birthdays of that month. They were the stand-in grandparents for each member of the sailing team. They remembered our names--Mrs. Hurst was particularly good at remembering each of our names, no small feat for a team that in my time once exceeded fifty members.

That night, when I was in the kitchen, KJ and my parents yelled for me to come in to the living room. On TV, the news anchor was delivering the news that Steve Jobs had died.

I'm a "Mac guy," in the sense that I grew up on the IIc and IIe in elementary school, had a IIgs at home, had the first edition iMac in college, and I am writing this blog on my 2009 MacBook Pro. And yes, I have an iPhone and two different kinds of iPods. My wife is the same way, has an iPad, etc.

I like Steve Jobs for the same way the millions of us do: we equate him with Apple innovation, and of being a "hip" CEO, of giving us adults toys we can't fathom we could ever live without. And I'm a big PIXAR fan. I love the history of the company, and perhaps more than many I am at least familiar with Jobs' role in what is arguably the best animated studio the world has ever seen. And maybe ever will.

It is disingenuous, though, for me to claim that I knew what a wonderful human he was, or how smart, or forward thinking, or progressive he might have been (or not), or what a heroic American figure he is. I believe those things, but I'll let the experts wax poetic with more specifics.

The title of this blog, "Losing Jobs," especially considering the political nature of previous posts, might more appropriately be the title of some diatribe in which I blame a certain segment of the population for manipulating economic rules to their own gain at the cost of others' security. I'll return to those feelings later, perhaps. But not this moment.

What makes me write this particular blog entry is the feeling I have when I remember two men I knew--albeit in a very small way--or knew of. These are the first people whose names I knew who died after my daughter Louisa was born. And the sort of "one-two" punch of the news of two very different men's deaths affects me in a way I don't think it would have before I became a father.

Perhaps the one regret I cannot fully expunge comes from my knowing that the life my wife and I gave to our daughter means her inevitable death. I know it is an awful thought to have; Louisa is not yet three weeks old. But I can't shake the very real sadness that--whether it happens before or after I die--my daughter will die. And I don't really know anything about death, about a soul's prospect of an afterlife. I have my convictions and my suspicions, but I worry it is not fair to impose life--and therefore death--on a child based only on my convictions and suspicions. This is one of a number of uncertainties that makes fatherhood a mentally torturous experience.

I am glad I have a daughter. I love her with all my heart. And I would change nothing. But there is something significant to me about the deaths of two "great men," Steve Jobs whose impact on the world is visible and monumental, and Captain Hurst who was a Naval Captain and much more than just a grandfatherly figure to a bunch of well-to-do college preppies but was nonetheless a loving and caring and important person to those of us like me who knew him and who were blessed to know him and his wife.

Perhaps it is one of those trite moments to savor life and remember the good, and to look affectionately at my daughter and appreciate her potential.