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Notes from the Apocalypse

In My Time of Dying

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By Charles Morgan III

 

Plans for my funeral have been documented in excruciating detail. It includes boxes of poisonous snakes, rainstorms, sobbing mourners dressed in black, and a stupid amount of flowers. I even indicated exactly where I want Goose to be located in the massive gathering.

 

What I haven’t specified is the arrangement of my actual death.

 

Many people prepare for their passing with wills, life insurance, and schemes to bypass the tax liabilities for generational transition of assets. I have always found that stuff boring and, in my family’s case, unnecessary.

 

What is more exciting and important to me is to control the actual process of my farewell from this earth.

 

Suicide has such harsh connotations and tends to be messy. Euthanasia is already allowed in most European countries and is gaining acceptance in the United States. I’m fairly certain that Bahamians don’t even know what euthanasia is.

 

My farewell will take place off the coast of Guana Cay. It is an island in the Bahamas that I’ve visited every year of my adult life.

 

There are a lot of things you can’t count on in the Bahamas. Water, electricity, phone service, transportation, and getting anything done are iffy. But there are two things that are reliable.

 

There is always a black fin tuna bite of the western end of Guana in the early morning and in the late afternoon. You just follow the feeding birds.

 

You can also count on sharks. If you spend an hour free diving the reef off of Guana you will see a shark, guaranteed.

 

I’m not sure about shark populations around the world, but there is no shortage of them in the Bahamas. Black tips, reef sharks, hammerheads, tiger sharks, lemon sharks, makos, and even great whites cruise the islands.

 

In what is surely a misguided attempt by the Bahamians to keep tourists busy, there is Nunjack, a remote cay that draws thousands of people each year to feed sharks. It is just past No Name Cay where you can feed the swimming pigs. Another unusual way to spend the day. This scenario is fraught with future complications.

 

The relatively small sharks that are hand fed by drunk tourists will grow up to be big sharks. They will associate people with food. If the people are in the water and they didn’t bring food for the sharks, the sharks will be pissed off. And that’s not good. Unless you have a plan that involves angry sharks.

 

When I am ready to close this chapter of my life on earth, this is how it will be.

 

Friends of mine from around the world will be invited to Guana Cay. The people I’ve fished with my entire life will gather at 5 AM, take boats and run through the cut between Guana Cay and Gumellimi Cay. They’ll troll for black fin tuna. They’ll catch fish, butterfly the tuna, save the entrails, and prepare for the ceremony.

 

There will be a massive gathering of friends and family at Nipper’s Bar at 4 PM. I will be taken in the Hey Baby, and the boat will be anchored just off the reef in front of Nipper’s. A chum line will have been set at noon with the macerated tuna. There will be blood in the water—lots of it. The butterflied fish will be used as teasers. There will be sharks—lots of them. The sharks will be teased to the stern of the boat.

 

I will be covered in blood and adorned with carcasses of the tuna. With my best smile and a gallant wave to the crowd, I will perform an awkward swan dive into the ocean. You won’t be able to unsee this.

 

There won’t be fireworks since it’s a daytime event. There will be loud, earth rattling bombs that will be detonated around the golf course at Baker’s Bay. Complimentary rum, psychedelic drugs and conch fritters will be provided. Edwin McCain and Milo Pinder will sing a mash-up of the American and Bahamian national anthems. Drones will be used to take fascinating footage of a remarkable death. It will probably be on You Tube.

 

It will be a good death. A remarkable death. An organic death.

 

My, my—what a show.

 

Plans for my funeral remain unchanged.

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