My big sister was one of the most popular people in high school. This was great for me, as I was sort of a nerd until I "came into my own" somewhere around my junior year. This was, curiously, right about the same time I ditched my glasses and got contacts. But for those first two years of high school, it never hurt that I was "Lauren's little brother," what with all the older guys wanting to date her and occasionally looking out for me or just saying "hi."
One of those older guys - being an exteremely popular person himself - didn't need to gain my favor, but that didn't stop him from being nice. He was just a naturally nice person. Mark Overholt, "OV" (Oh-vee) to his friends and just about anyone else, was a natural athlete, a good student as far as I know, good looking, happy, always smiling. I'm sure I have friends who've seen him angry, but my friends were better athletes than I was and sometimes competed directly against him. I pretty much didn't grow from 7th grade until the summer after 10th and my athleticism deteriorated with my size relative to my peers. Consequently, I wasn't even in the same locker rooms. Mark dated Lauren for a few years, at the end of high school and for a while in college, and eventually they split up but remained close.A few years after college, Mark was engaged to a georgeous woman who was a model. I don't know her name and don't know that I ever did, but you've probably seen her. She played basketball with a bunch of other women in a commercial for some high-heeled shoes. You know: These pumps are so comfortable you can play basketball in them. So, they were returning home from a wedding shower one night in the farmlands of Eastern Washington - their wedding shower - and the car was hit by a train at an ungated crossing. She survived, but Mark was killed. And those are about the only details I know.----------Cut to me, four or five years later in my second year of grad school in Bellingham, Washington. It's 5:00 am and I'm asleep on my futon on the floor of my apartment. Around me are pieces of a cordless phone I'd been messing with. I'd taken it apart in a sort of "scientifically curious" way to see how it worked. And I'm having this dream. Lauren is in her old Dodge Colt she had during and just after high school - about the same time she dated Mark. She's driving in a rural area and our old dog "Bear" is in the car with her. At the exact same instant the train impacts her car, that old, torn-apart, not-plugged-into-the-wall cordless phone starts screeching a horrible screech like electronic mayhem ("EeeayeayEeeeAAasSCREEaWeeAyyyyy"). I wake instantly, terrified, "bolt upright" (damn, I hate that phrase, but it's accurate), and scramble to stop the noise. I finally rip the battery pack out. Heart racing. Sweating.I call Lauren on the phone despite the time. I tell her to please be careful that day and that somehow, I think I got a "message." She says: "I think this might be the anniversary of when Mark was killed. I wonder if he's just saying hi?" In any case, she was careful that day, and she's still with us.----------A lot of people name their boat's autopilot. It's usually something like "Auto," or a traditional "cheuffer's name," or maybe a derivitive of the brand name (Raymarine/"Ray"). It just seems more comforting, especially for single-handers, I think, to be able to apply personality to the machine that controls your ship (and thus, your life) while you're belowdecks making food, on the deck working the sails, or in the cockpit and need to nod off for a bit. In fact, hardly any sailors who "cruise" as opposed to "race" ever do much hand-steering while at sea; it's all about the autopilot.I'm not sure what happened to that phone that morning, and I can't say I necessarily felt OV's "presence" then or feel it now on the boat. But I can say that OV is much better at keeping a course than I am. With his gyros and sensors he's exceptionally agile and smart; he can feel a wave when it first affects the boat and correct for that wave with the proper amount of rudder before it has a chance to turn us off course. And with the latest in linear drive technology, he's damn strong. More than anything, though, I think if the spirit of Mark Overholt didn't have a nephew's baseball game or his namesake memorial golf tournament to watch or be remembered at, he might like to hang out with me a bit, sitting behind the wheel of Chemistry on the Pacific coast of Mexico while I reel in another yellowtail, eighty degrees and rising as we head farther south.
