Three Nautical Miles
A Reflection on Holding On and Letting Go
“At the still point, there the dance is.” ~ T.S. Eliot
Today is Tom’s birthday. He would have been 72.
I never quite know how to honor him. So, I spend the day in small acts of avoidance: cleaning out my email inbox, planning vacations I may never take, watching random YouTube videos.
It occurs to me that this may be why it took me seven years to release his ashes, after they rode in the trunk of my car all that time.
Shortly after he died, I drove to Groton, Connecticut with Jim, our mutual friend. Tom had always said he wanted his ashes released at the submarine base where he went to sub school. He loved being a submariner. Even after he was medically discharged, he spoke wistfully about that time as if it were home.
We didn’t think to check whether what we were planning was even allowed. Grief has a way of narrowing your focus like that. Later, we would learn there are rules for these things — permits, distances, lines drawn in water you’re not supposed to cross. But at the time, all I could think about was getting him back to the sea.
We checked into a cheap hotel near the base, planning to go the next morning. We stayed up late sharing funny stories about Tom — he always had a way of making me laugh — before going to our respective rooms to try to sleep.
The next day, we drove to the base to scout locations. I don’t know why it never occurred to me, or to Jim, who was also retired Navy, that the area near the submarines would be off-limits, heavily guarded. After all, they are nuclear submarines. We were on a mission, grief-stricken and not thinking clearly at all. Retreating to the hotel, we began searching for a way to release Tom’s ashes that would still honor his request.
That’s when we decided on the University of Connecticut, Avery Point, where the Thames River meets Long Island Sound. We would take only a small sampling of his ashes. Jim, a smoker, carried a small round candy tin that he used as an ashtray when he traveled. Since Tom was a smoker, it felt like the perfect choice.
That night, we opened the container for the first time.
I had never seen human remains before. I remember thinking they felt heavier and more substantial than I expected. I wasn’t prepared for what I would find — that among the ashes, there were fragments. One small piece that looked unmistakably like bone.
Neither of us said much. It was too much. After a few minutes, we retreated to our separate rooms to recover, each of us alone with the reality of what we were holding.
Driving out to Avery Point, I could see why Tom loved this area so much. It was a brisk, sunny November afternoon. The campus opened onto an expansive stretch of waterfront — a wide beach that welcomed students and visitors alike. On that Sunday, we nearly had it to ourselves.
Carrying the tin, I walked out to a jetty. As the water washed against the rocks, I bent down and gently released a part of him into the sea. I stayed there for a while, crouched on the rock, watching him dissolve into the dark water.
It would be years before I released the rest.
For a long time, he stayed with me — first in the trunk of my car, and later in a closet when the car finally gave out. Life moved in uneven, sometimes difficult ways during that time. I changed directions. Let things go. Started over more than once.
And all the while, he was there.
Eventually, I made arrangements with my friend, Chuck, who had a sailboat. We went out into the Chesapeake Bay — the place we had once called home.
Chuck cut the engine and the boat drifted. It was completely still. No conversation, no instructions. Just open water, sun, and sky.
I brought the container with me and held it for a moment, unsure what to say, or if anything needed to be said at all. Then I opened it and released him into the water.
We stood there in silence.
After a while, a Monarch butterfly appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. It moved lightly through the air, circling near the boat before continuing on. I remember noticing the timing, the quiet beauty of it.
For the first time, it felt complete — like he was home.
Today is Tom’s birthday.
I still don’t always know how to honor him.
But sometimes I think of a dream I once had, of feeling both released and still shaped by what had been. I wrote about it in a piece called Dawn at the Midnight House. And I realize that, in some quiet way, this is how he continues on.
In the work I do now, especially with those navigating substance use, I feel the imprint of that time.
And perhaps, in that, he is already being honored.
If you enjoyed this reflection and my other content, please show your support with a❤️, comment, restack, and/or recommend to spread the word. And consider subscribing, free or paid. It helps me keep writing pieces that invite presence and meaning.
Additional Resources:
I’m excited to be offering a recurring 10-Week Mindfulness for Stress Management series through The Mindfulness Center. Sessions are recorded so you can join anytime. The Spring session runs from Tuesday, April 14th-June 16th, 2026. Learn evidence-based practices to reduce stress, build resilience, and reconnect with a sense of calm and clarity. Perfect for beginners and seasoned practitioners alike. Learn more and register here.
Join the Monthly Wellness Class, an exclusive event for Founding and paid members of Mindful Reinvention, for an opportunity to pause, relax, and reset in community. We meet every 2nd Wednesday of the month.
Invite your friends and earn rewards
If you enjoy Mindful Reinvention, share it with your friends and earn rewards when they subscribe.
I heard a wonderful articulation recently about how our relationship with a loved one who dies never ends, it just shifts from a "relationship" to a "vibrationship" which can be just as much a vibrant, changing part of our lives as before the left the body.
🫂💕🌈