The Viking Ship

No Politics Today

Last Sunday Morning Here —

Been here at Atlantis Paradise Island for the past two weeks in a beach villa, sitting on a patio, mostly, between two palm trees — it’s a view that affords me a marvelous, straight-on view of a wide sky and the almost olive waters of the Atlantic which often seem to be running sideways. In a diary my son kept when he was younger, he wrote that when he died, he wanted a Viking funeral, wanted to be put on a burning boat and sent out to sea, while his friends and family shot flaming arrows overhead.

I never knew what that was about, why a boy thinks of things like that, still don’t, but your son dies at 24 (drugs) and writes he wants to be “buried” at sea, you bury him at sea — or do the best you can with such a request; so, nine years ago, a month after he died, Nina, his sister/my daughter; her friend, Sarah; and my dear friend Richard Bethel, who owned the comedy club down here, a place I’ve worked for more than 20 years, walked down to the beach outside the then-named Jungle Bar with some of Paul’s ashes that I had smuggled into the country in a large Tylenol-3 prescription bottle and sprinkled them in ocean.

The bottle I buried in the sand.

For the past two weeks, with the exception of the shows at night, I have, by design, done nothing, really nothing, but sit on this patio for hours each day and look at the ocean.

My son’s out there. I’ve been watching him and looking out for Viking ships.