In the spring of 2021, I was asked to eulogize my dear friend, Captain Kendall Morse. Over the last week or so, my mind has frequently turned to Kendall—his name just keeps coming up. This feels to me like it's more than time to take that eulogy and make it part of my blog here. I don't post enough or often, but when I do, I like it to mean something, and this prose means a lot to me.
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| Kendall by Spring Point Light |
We are gathered here this morning to bid a loving and fond farewell to the captain himself, Kendall Esten Morse. Kendall came into this world on May 10, 1934 in Machias, Maine, and he spent the better part of the next 87 years trying to get back out.
On a deeply personal note, before I dive into my reflections about my dear friend, I’d like to personally thank Kendall’s daughters, Elaine, Deb, and Rebecca as well as his beloved Jacqui for inviting me to share with you today and helping me with some of the more arcane tidbits as I was piecing these remarks together. It is a great honor for me to be able to share with you the magic of what exactly was, to me, the essence of Kendall. I hope I can do justice, not necessarily to the details of his life, you can read his obituary for that, but to the complicated character who was, for all the world, just a can of spinach away from being a super hero to me. That is, if you could convince him to eat his vegetables.
Kendall led a blessedly privileged life, visited foreign lands, tasted of the finer things, but never truly developed a taste for the ostentatious, pretentious, or over the top. Starting to believe one’s own press is an ever-present occupational hazard in show business; one to which Kendall never fell victim. Where he was from always meant more to him than where he had been. Whom he called “friend” always meant more to him than what he owned. There was nothing phony or put-on about Kendall. He was the real deal…a Down-East boy who grew up on the edge of the sea and internalized its subtle siren call. A mariner at heart, a singer and folklorist by nature, a natural and witty entertainer by genetics, and a storyteller by default, Kendall never lacked for a clever and appropriate phrase—or inappropriate for that matter—at any moment in his life. Even with the loss of his voice to cancer, he was somehow never left speechless.
“Humor is the opiate of the melancholy.” I think I heard that phrase every time I saw Kendall during the last few years. It’s an original Kendallism, patterned after Karl Marx’s similar quote “Religion is the opiate of the masses,” with which I have no doubt Kendall also agreed. Somehow that simple thought filled Kendall with pride, and with those words I believe he felt that he was summarizing his life’s philosophy and work.
My dad, Tom Rowe, and Kendall were close friends for years. I have no doubt that, if my dad, whom we lost all too soon, were still here, he’d be standing where I am at this very moment. After my dad passed in 2004, I looked Kendall up as a way to maintain a kind of indirect connection to my father through his dear friend. I found out that Kendall took my dad’s death about as hard as I did, so initially that was our common bond. Before long bloomed a friendship that consisted of countless lunches, boat trips, and even a few concert appearances together, here and there—most notably a mini tour we took to northern New Jersey three years ago. It was a whirlwind four-day trip that both energized and exhausted him. I had never seen anyone look so tired and happy at the same time.
Kendall Morse was a lot of things—brilliant, driven, fiery, gentle though quick-tempered, a stalwart friend, a folksinger, an author, a comedian, a father, a grand-father, an uncle, a husband, a husband, a husband, a captain, a sailor, a Coast Guardsman, a warden, a Mainer, a storyteller and seasoned liar in the tradition of his beloved Uncle Curt—but one thing Kendall never quite seemed to master was satisfaction or happiness. That innate restlessness oddly was one of his endearing charms: the way his spirit was constantly squeezing life’s seemingly never-ending supply of lemons into a bottomless glass of lemonade in the form of humor. His dry wit, laser-like sense of the absurd, and impeccable comedic timing combined to be his North Star.
“Humor is the opiate of the melancholy.” That was Kendall. The glass was never half full, nor was it half empty, but if it had scotch in it, it was good enough, and if you laughed at his jokes or giggled at his quips, so were you. He had no use for the humorless and even less use for the simpleminded—or as we say around here, “numb folk.”
“’T'ain't polite to just come out and call someone numb,” he’d say, “so we’re more apt to say, ‘his porch light is out,’ or ‘he’s not threaded all the way on.’
This may have been one of Kendall’s most hilarious comedic exercises to me—coming up with new ways to call people numb without coming out and saying they were numb. He’d even say that: “I’m not saying he was numb, but…let’s just say”…and then would come some clever turn of phrase like “you could put all his brains in a thimble and still get your finger in without spilling any.”
And it was a contagious exercise. I remember my dad had one he came up with and couldn’t wait to share it with Kendall. As I recall, my dad took him to lunch just so he could say, “You’ve heard of MENSA, the organization for people with very high IQs. Well, that feller there is a card-carrying member of NUMSA. NUMSA pounded thumb. NUMSA hake. NUMSA box of hair.” I know they must’ve had a good laugh when dad sprung that one on him.
Kendall’s and my time together was exactly what you might think it would be: a lot of fun—at times, side-splittingly hilarious. We met often for for lunch. Kendall was not blessed an adventurous palate. If it looked injured, he wouldn’t be eating it. Give the man a hamburger—not a cheeseburger please—with no condiments or toppings, just a patty and a bun with a Guinness on the side, and he was, for a moment, very happy. For a while, he liked going to the Super Great Wall Chinese buffet in South Portland because it was quiet—which became important to him as his voice left him—and they had shrimp. …… A buffet.…… With shrimp……. He did like his seafood, and if they’d have had lobster on that buffet, he’d have come dressed in oilskins and armed with a wheelbarrow. When the management at the Chinese buffet eventually said or did something that stuck in his craw (and he never would tell me what), we started meeting at Friendly’s as well as a couple restaurants near his Scarborough home. Our lunches were something neither of us would willingly miss.
We’d swap jokes and stories—one for one. Many were repeats because we’d forget if we’d told it before. Occasionally, I’d tell one he hadn’t heard before, and that always pleased him. Between bites, we’d both laugh until our sides hurt.
Kendall collected jokes and stories the way some people collect seashells, stamps, or coins. Nothing had more value to him than a good, honest laugh. His humor was intelligent and thoughtful. He disdained the all-too-common gratuitous use of vulgarities and curse words as a replacement for clever, well-conceived, or original observations. If you could “see the punchline coming,” it wasn’t funny to him, and if it wasn’t funny to Kendall—let me just say this—it truly wasn’t funny.
Kendall liked to own his jokes and stories. Never start with, “Have you heard the one about.” Too obvious. Say, “There was this one time that…,” as though you’re conjuring some relevant memory of which you were just reminded. His favorites were any stories he could tell in the first person. He didn’t care if he made himself the butt of it so long as it got uproarious laughter when the punchline hit, and he knew damned well that you’d never believe that he owned a talking dog anyway.
Kendall was a man of principle. A card-carrying, yellow dog Democrat, which is to say, he’d sooner vote for a yellow dog than ever vote for a Republican, which surely made life interesting when visiting some of his relatives. He was an avid letter writer to his elected officials and considered both Rep. Chellie Pingree and Sen. Angus King to be friends. He had derisive names for politicians whom he saw as reproachful, most of which aren’t suitable for utterance in mixed company—and, to be sure, Kendall was generally adamant about never saying the inappropriate in mixed company, at least until his legendary temper might get the better of him.
All of these things were essential to who Kendall was, but he was also deeply spiritual—not to be confused with religious. He had firm belief in what he referred to as the “great spirit,” and believed the great spirit had spoken to him on more than a few of occasions.
As time marched on and the inevitable losses of loved ones and dear friends were mounting, especially the passing of his brothers Les and Erlon, Kendall began feeling like, as he put it, “the last man standing.” He seemed truly perplexed that the great spirit had left him here without these folks who were so much a part of his past, while taking the power from his voice and leaving his hands with ever-worsening tremors. He began openly contemplating and discussing his own mortality with far greater frequency, and shared with those around him what he might like to be said during this very time.
What follows are the words of poet, William Cullen Bryant, written in 1814 at the tender age of 17. It’s the final stanza of a poem called, Thanatopsis, a Greek-derived word which, I’m told, roughly translates to “a consideration of death.”
So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustain'd and sooth'd
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave,
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
Kendall felt his talent for entertaining was a sacred gift given him by the great spirit with the purpose of bringing happiness to people, and he took that responsibility very seriously. As illness and age slowly whittled away at his ability to sing, speak, and play musical instruments, he still was trying to make people laugh. He learned to somehow speak without vocal cords, and we all hung on to his every word as he managed to still make us laugh with his gravelly whisper.
“Doctor, when this procedure is over, will I still be able to play piano.”
“I can’t see any reason why not.”
“Good because I never could play it before.”
Five years ago, I bought a motor yacht on Sebago Lake and Kendall joined me out there on the waves many times. He loved being on the water, and I loved having him aboard. One time, Stacey and I took he and Jacqui up the Songo River, which can be quite shallow in spots. The boat seemed a bit large to be on such a narrow, shallow waterway, and more than once he was sure we were going aground (we didn’t). He kept saying it reminded him of the Suwannee River.
While we were underway on the river a thunder shower came up just to add to the excitement. We cruised up river as far as the Songo Lock before turning around. All along the way the flybridge of the boat was ripping at low-hanging branches—we ended up with decks full of acorns, twigs, and leaves. When we finally returned to the lake proper, he asked for a pad of paper and sat at the table and wrote an alternate lyric to the traditional topsail halyard chantey “Blow Boys Blow” while the rain pelted the cabin top. He’s chided me ever since for never performing the song he wrote about that trip, so here goes:
Was you ever on the Songo River Blow boys blow that shallow water makes this old man shiver, blow me bully boys blow.
The trees hang down so low on the river blow boys blow the pilot house tore them all asunder blow me bully boys blow.
Who do you think was the Captain of her blow boys blow, why, Bully Rowe was the Skipper of her blow me bully boys blow.
A storm came down on the worst of the river blow boys blow but it was no match for Captain Rowe blow me bully boys blow.
I'll sail with Captain Rowe forever blow boys blow,
But, never again on the Songo River blow me bully boys blow.
Being at the helm was probably the only other place in this world he was more at home than the stage. I loved handing him the wheel and letting him point the boat wherever he’d like to go. The stories of being at sea would inevitably come out. He recounted to me about his days on Coast Guard vessels and even the time when, in 1970, he witnessed the attempted defection of Lithuanian fisherman, Simas Kudirka from the Soviet Union to the United States. He told me of the anger he and his shipmates shared toward the fleet admiral for handing the man back to the Soviets. The happy ending, if you can call it that, was that Kudirka’s mother was a US citizen, so he did eventually get his wish years later, but I’m sure not before receiving some good-old, Iron-Curtain-style discipline.
The stories of his time as captain of the 1949 Maine Marine Patrol boat, Explorer, in the 1960s. All the characters he met. All the hazings of his mates and crazy stunts they’d pull on him as well. After hearing about his time on the Explorer, I’m not sure I would have enjoyed being under his command, though I probably would have gotten into the fun and short-sheeted his berth or practiced my knots on his shoelaces when he wasn’t looking.
I enjoyed hearing his story about navigating with potatoes. Of course this was in the time before radar was on any but large commercial and military vessels, and the fog was thick. He claimed he ordered his mate to throw potatoes off the bow and when they heard a thud instead of a splash he’d cut the wheel. Of course, like most of Kendall’s stories, I felt it was likely apocryphal, so I researched it—by which I mean: I Googled “navigation in fog by potato.” I found that this was an actual method of navigation employed by, of course, the Irish for hundreds of years. Whether Kendall and his crew actually did so, only he knew, but I sure do laugh at the idea of it. I doubt the Explorer could have held enough potatoes to get him very far on Penobscot Bay in a pea soup fog, but he claimed it did.
His seven or so years as captain of the Explorer were somehow some of his happiest memories. He loved that boat and frequently told me he would have given anything to be aboard her just one more time.
As the years wore on, Kendall became acutely aware of his age and mortality. He had long ago left behind the imperviousness of youth, and as the years took their toll, his thoughts inevitably turned to what comes next. He wrote a poem called “Hazard to Navigation,” of which he was enormously proud and would frequently recite bits of for me. One day, as he was leaving the boat, he shoved a carefully folded copy of the full text into my hand and said he wanted for me to have it. Somehow that copy managed to survive my tendency to round-file entire piles of paper when my desk inevitably begins to resemble, well…Kendall’s. I’d like to read that for you now.
Kendall wrote:
Each day I hear the siren’s call
To go back out on the bay
I ‘swallowed the anchor’ years ago
For a job with better pay
In the autumn of my life
The lure of the sea is strong
But I’m stuck on the shore with my time passing by
And I’m not where I belong
And I tell myself ’tis an old man’s dream
Your youth has passed and gone
And that ocean rolls as it always has
It doesn’t care that you’re not home
After years of struggle to take my pay from the sea
I went ashore and didn’t look back
That bitch would never kill me
Through fog and rain and pitch black night
I answered the call of the sea
But she stole my youth, now I face the truth
The land is no place for me
And I tell myself ’tis an old man’s dream
Your youth has passed and gone
And that ocean rolls as it always has
It doesn’t care that you’re not home
But fighting the sea is a young man’s game
Too much for an old fool like me
But, by God, I’d rather die on my feet
Than to live my life on my knees
I tied the boat up years ago and turned my back to the sea
It just didn’t pay out there on the bay, I needed more for the kids and me
Too many winters in a drafty old boat made me old before my time
I worked day and night but, with a wife and kids, I couldn’t save a dime
Driven by duty I left that life for a better job ashore
I raised the kids and left my wife and finally walked out the door
Now the kids are grown and out on their own
My duty to them has been met,
In the autumn of my days I stand and gaze
At the ocean ’til I’m cold and wet
And I tell myself ’tis an old man’s dream
Your youth has passed and gone
And that ocean rolls as it always has
It doesn’t care that you’re long gone
I think of a Viking funeral,
The dead in his own longship
They set it afire, then set it adrift
With a dog at the warrior’s feet
That’s how I would go if I had my way
To sail to the great beyond
But it can never be because, you see
There are too many laws in this nation
They never would allow such a funeral now
’T'would be a Hazard to Navigation.
Almost three years ago, Stacey and I sold the Sebago boat and purchased a larger one on the ocean. Last summer we did some cruising on the coast of Maine. We took her up to Boothbay Harbor, and I spotted her: Kendall’s beloved Explorer is still afloat, now as a private yacht.
I snapped a couple of photos of her and chatted with one of her owners over the rail. Gone is her forest green warden’s paint in favor of a friendly gray hull and cabin. I framed the photos and gave them to Kendall once we were back on dry land. Even just a week ago yesterday, while I visited with him, troubled by Alzheimers, confused, and a shadow of the man we all knew, I showed him those pictures on my iPhone screen. He sat up bolt-straight in his chair when he saw her proud lines. I said, “Do you remember that boat?”
He replied, “Oh, yes!”
Of all his relationships and marriages, all his antique cars and guitars, it is safe to say that the Explorer is the “one that got away.” She was somehow never far from his thoughts. Whenever the subject would turn to the sea, as it inevitably does when two mariners get together, he’d bring up how much he missed that boat.
He was her captain. In his dreams he was at her helm, the wind blowing, the sea doing his bidding, and he was free of the stresses of life on land.
That’s why we go to sea, after all…to get away from the strife of day to day life: the commitments, the difficult and often fraught relationships, the worries. It all seems to melt away as the lines are cast off: the smell of the wind, the language of the gulls. A man can be with his thoughts on the sea, without his thoughts needing to be with him. There’s a freedom there, a freedom from the melancholy of the day to day.
“Humor is the opiate of the melancholy.” Kendall’s life was a continuous expression of escape from his melancholy. It was his demon. It was his muse. It was his jailer and his freedom. It was his driving force. It was his very essence, and without it, he would not have been the complicated character we all dearly loved and will dearly miss.
“Into the Night”
So Kendall, I give you the helm this one last time
You gave us all far more
Take the wheel and throttle up
And point her far from shore
The waves will rock you, the wind caress
The voyage is just beginning
The galley’s full of all you need
And the terns for you are singing
The sea lays down beneath her prow
There is no fog in sight
And as I watch from my Earthly perch
Your Explorer slips into the night
She’ll carry you, Kendall, wherever you will
A good ship, like no other
She’ll answer to your steady hand
And your mates to your every order
And when, during this final watch
Old Charon beside you might stand
Tell a wry story and make him to laugh
But don’t ever give up your command.
Fair winds and following seas, Cap.
