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These are remarks of Tom Swartwood at memorial service for Rick Sunshine on October 9, 1998.
Rick Sunshine was my friend, and I am richer for that.
Rick and I were classmates and fraternity brothers at Dartmouth College. This year marked the 20th anniversary of our graduation.
I am here a good 40 years too early, to urge you, and I hope, to help you, to remember Rick at his best. There is a lot to remember.
First, something basic:
This is a fly rod. I have never looked at one without thinking of Rick. Twenty years ago he and Dave Speer taught me how to use one of these and it has been one of my greatest pleasures. Already friends, we became something more through sharing fly-fishing at the Dartmouth College Grant in northern New Hampshire. Rick visited the Grant at least once a year every year for 22 years.
The most indelible image for me is one of Rick hip- deep in cool river waters, patiently, relentlessly, hap- pily stalking the wily and elusive trout. He normally found his way to some pool or eddy none of the rest of could reach, and he regularly caught more and bigger fish than all of us. Analytical by nature, I believe he learned to think like a fish. In fact he is something of a legend, not only among his fishing friends, but also in the annals of the Grant for catch- ing the biggest damn fish anyone has ever seen up there. None of us were surprised.
As with many things he did, Rick was a purist when it came to fly-fishing: he disdained drowning worms and truly believed the trout deserved a fair chance. He respected fish; like the father in A River Runs Through It, if he had his say, nobody who did not know how to fly-fish would be allowed to disgrace a fish by catching him. Rick introduced me to that story, by the way, which was written by a Dartmouth grad, Norman Maclean.
Rick ran the New York marathon; he did triathlons and he fished everywhere. He made a mean pepperoni spaghetti sauce, a fishing trip tradition, and he taught me to swallow aspirin without any water— aspirin and antacid being necessary after eating his spaghetti sauce.
Of course he was successful in business. Again, as with most things, he chose a direction and pursued it patiently, relentlessly, and happily. Many friends became clients. I relied on him often. I could talk to him about anything and I did, knowing he would listen and not judge. He had a knack not only for lis- tening, but for making me feel that he understood and cared and sympathized. Which is not to say that he simply offered sympathy; he offered something better — his thoughtful assessment and honest opinion. Unable to make the simple complex, he was the source of sound advice and guidance for many of us. He did not lecture; instead a few well-chosen words were more likely. A friend of mine we fished with in New York six or seven years ago remembered that Rick had quietly offered a discreet, simple suggestion about casting, which to this day is helpful.
An ardent Dartmouth alum, he did not wear Dartmouth Green ostentatiously; instead he supported the College and Dartmouth graduates through his actions wherever he went. He sought out and employed Dartmouth alums throughout the country and I am certain that, to a person, they believe they were lucky to work with him. He never felt he was doing anyone a favor; he simply supported those around him through his actions. He trusted us to do the right thing, and because of his faith in us we could and usually did.
I cannot recall Rick uttering a harsh word or nega- tive sentiment about anyone. Of course he must have —we all do, but it wasn’t his style. He did not begrudge others their success; he seemed to envy no one, and he was modest about his own achievements. He was a doer.
Rick did not worry about what he didn’t have or what he couldn’t do. He just did everything he could with what he had. During our many conversations and a couple visits over the last six months he did not com- plain, he did not look back, he did not wonder why: instead, he continued to patiently and relentlessly pursue his life. In that pursuit he had great partners in Susan and Regen. I never observed a cross word, resentment, nor even so much as an exasperated look among any of them towards one another. He was happy with you and proud, very proud of you.
My wife, Terri, remembers him as full of life and adventurous in his own quiet way. He was not one to pass up a new experience. Terri reminded me of a time when I asked Rick to help me cut down a tree that was growing too close to a small barn on our property. Rick had come to fish but I remembered that he had been in Cabin & Trail, a very gung-ho outdoor group at Dartmouth active in woodsman competitions. Well, we dove in with axe and chainsaw and prepared to fell that tree. But for a last minute, all-or-nothing pull on the guide rope, we would have destroyed the barn. Momentarily speechless, a rare affliction for me, I asked Rick what the hell had hap- pened. He kind of shrugged his shoulders. Haven’t you done this before? I demanded. No, he said, smiling. And then we went fishing.
Smart, focused, strong, and thoughtful, he was also as nice a guy as you could know. He instilled confidence in those around him; he lived life to its fullest; he loved all his family; he was the truest of friends. He offered me sure footing amid life’s often turbulent waters. He was a bright light. He smiled and laughed a lot. He told me I was a good fisherman.
I loved Rick Sunshine. I will remember him always. He was our best friend. I am richer for that. I will always be richer for that. We are all richer for knowing him.
Picture him with this fly rod, along the banks of a beautiful river, content in the moment, patiently, happily pursuing life.