A Sailing Friend Remembers David Dunigan
Annapolis sailor and photographer David Dunigan died on January 31. His friend, author Janice Anne Wheeler, sent us this remembrance from Ship’s Channel Cay, Exuma, Bahamas:
The night we got the news, we ate only because it was way past dinnertime. We functioned only because we didn’t know what else to do. We gazed at each other and felt the oppression of loss, the weight of it. Not only for us, but for the world, the sailing world, the photography world, the people he had touched, and his family, most of all his family. I had intended to send him some pictures last week from the Bahamas, reflection photos of a perfect sunrise, his favorite, but I didn’t. And now I can’t. And we didn’t call him, either, as we usually do, for a weather report or, well, whatever. And now I can never send him anything again. We can never call him again.
The first time I met him, he intimidated me, more than a little…welcoming but hard to read. I had never been on a wooden boat, had never been on a boat that someone lived on, with such soul and beauty and sense of itself, a perfect reflection of its owner. That day, he was standing where he would be every other time I saw him on his boat, at the starboard side desktop, opposite the helm. He could see out and people could see in, and he knew both of those things. So, if he was there, you were welcome to join him, and if he wasn’t up there, you probably weren’t. That is what I will remember most, I think, him standing there, such a perfect fit with his surroundings. Such a classic.
The second time I met him, I loved him. Kingfish was hauled out at Severn Marine Services on Tilghman Island and he was corking (caulking) the bottom; there were trails of cotton everywhere, tools, a bit of chaos. It was sunny and I sat on the scaffolding behind him in the shade, answering his gentle inquisition while he smoked cigarette after cigarette and made sure I was good enough for his circle. I answered all the questions to his back that day, so he could consider my answers, I think. I was an outsider, a surprise, the new girl.
David had such a gift with people that it wasn’t uncomfortable, and I knew by the final sideways, crooked smile that I was in. True friends, he only needed a few; acquaintances he had hundreds. It was an honor, and a privilege, to know David Dunigan and count him a friend. He wore his favorite shirt that day, an Annapolis Gelcoat and Fiberglass Repair long sleeve T, of which he sang countless praises.
At the time, it seemed odd to me, but David truly appreciated the little things in life, paid attention to them and treasured them. Good food (butter!), good wine, good people, boats that sail and ice balls. If you knew him well enough, you knew about ice balls. “Let’s go Yachting,” he would say that summer, and then we got the best of him, relaxed, focused, joyful on the open water.
David was ageless. He had wild hair, perfectly ironed clothing, and ever-present Ray-Bans. He was smarter, faster, and more fun than other people. Magnetic. His knowledge of the planet and its inhabitants was vast. He was up at all hours thinking and reading and researching and learning things, adding to his library, adding to his repertoire. Figuring things out. Mechanical things, personal things, political things, boat things. Life things. He added the stories I had written to his library, and nothing could have meant more.
He made decisions after carefully considering all sides of the situation. Or he just jumped in. One never knew which would happen. Either way, if his plans included you, you were lucky. We all knew this. The moments could come and go in an instant. “Gottago,” he would say when he was done with your call. “Seeeeya.” I could picture him, cigarette in one hand and rocks glass in the other, concentrating on something, somewhere.
The ‘Salty Sailor’ is how I describe him to my own, far-flung friends and family, to give them an idea of how unique he was. He dunked his tea mug in the ocean every morning to wash it and he still dropped his butts in the Bay even though it was not politically correct. He guzzled his beer, sipped his wine, talked like a writer, swore like a sailor, worked for the rich and famous, was a champion of those needing a helping hand.
He loved funky salad, seared tuna, and pancakes with sausage for dinner. We never had an uninteresting conversation. The topics often took me by surprise, made me think about things differently with strong arguments and even stronger opinions. He was not afraid to tell someone they were wrong, not afraid to broach subjects that most people didn’t. If you told him he was wrong, well, he respected that, too. Most of the time.
“Our angel isn't watching over us anymore,” Steve said to me. "I know," I replied, the tears threatening to spill over again. Steve and I live on our own old wooden boat, and David always knew where we were in the world, kept track of us no matter what, seemed to know what our next move might be. And had already checked the weather for us. Already knew what we should or shouldn’t do, to be safe. After we had researched to the best of our ability, and contemplated our situation, we’d always call David for the real story on whether we should sail or wait for a better window. And he was always right.
Yes, David J Dunigan was an incredibly interesting man of high achievement. Far more importantly, he was our friend, our confidant, our guide, our sounding board, and our favorite character. He was the guy that had the key to our lockbox and the one the Coast Guard would call if we were in trouble because he would always be there and he would know what to do. He could also call to talk about absolutely nothing at all, to let you know he was thinking about you. David was that guy. You never knew exactly when you'd see him or where he'd be going, but sooner or later, there he was. Until now. And as the days pass, we realize just how many segments of our life he had integrated. We only wish it had been longer. Much longer.
We will always remember you, Sir David. Thanks for all the great big good times. And all the fabulous quiet contemplative times. We will forever miss your guidance, your laughter, your random contacts, and your unquenchable energy.
February 1, 2023, Ship’s Channel Cay, Exuma, Bahamas
Friends may make memorial donations to CRAB. Celebration of life details are now posted to this page. Find a Farewell to Friends article in the March issue of SpinSheet (on the last day of February).
