SEA YA!

As I get older, I will need to learn how to receive the news that a good friend has passed away. The other day, something told me to give Bobby Blake a call. When he answered, I heard his troubled voice and asked him what was wrong. “ We lost him,” Blake said. Somehow I knew who he was talking about: Steve “Ryba” Richley.

After I got home, I went out to the backyard and just stared into my pool, reflecting all the moments I shared with Steve. I first met Steve at a party at Mel's house, which we referred to as the fort. Steve had just returned from Semester at Sea; we were both at the front door when  Steve did not care for a person entering the house and asked him to leave. This turned into a confrontation. Steve looked at me and said, "Go kick his ass." My chest pumped out, and I started walking towards the fight. I took two steps, then turned around to go back in the house. Steve asked me what I was doing. I said I needed to refill my cocktail; he just started laughing, then joined me in the kitchen where we refilled our drinks. Never even thought about the disturbance outside again that night.  

We were in our twenties, full of testosterone and on the hunt. Every good hunter travels in a party; Steve allowed me to join his party of Randy Reno, Bobby Blake, and Johnny Warnecke. We sailed many miles together: in 1983 to Hawaii and back; in 1985 Cabo and back; 3 other Cabo races; endless Ensenada races; and every summer Thursday nights beer cans for 8 years, each one with its own unique story. I was his roommate for three years; we hid from the police in the first Huntington Beach riots under the bleachers on the beach. We walked the “walk of shame” down from a hilltop home on the island of Kauai. It was not really a walk of shame for us; it was more of a “Spear-and Magic Helmet Dance.” It did not bother us that we had no idea where we were. On many occasions we could not remember where we docked the Duffy from the night before. At the US Sailing Championships in Annapolis, we returned to the boat with a story of the Three Amigos; the list goes on. Steve was a natural athlete, windsurfing, surfing, tennis, baseball, and sailing. Steve did not just have a high skill level; he was an advanced athlete in every sport he played.

The decade had passed; if the pack was going to survive, it was time for us to take different paths and return on occasion in remembrance and discussions of the new challenges ahead of us. I recall clearly when Steve found his new path when he met Jamie. It was at the end of an Ensenada race; Steve was overly anxious to get off the boat and find Jamie. We were all at the hotel where we were staying when Jamie came running down the hall and tackled Steve. The laughter and joy in his voice was memorable; Steve had found his new path, and they are perfect for each other.

The decades continued to pass while we all raised our families, spending priceless moments together at each other's homes and on Catalina. Each time we all got together, it was a family reunion, and we felt warmth in our hearts seeing each other again. All of these moments we keep in our hearts, and are ours in perpetuity.

I will always think of him when I hear Steve Ray Vaughan or Eric Clapton songs. I will always turn around in hopes of seeing him again if I hear our whistle. We all had a way of saying goodbye to each other:

“ Ok, Steve, I’ll see you later, later, Len. ( A couple seconds later) OH HEY STEVE, STEVE WAIT! Ya Len?

“SEA YA!”