I met him on a school excursion that Flor, my Dad’s wife had organized. It was maybe 1991. We were the chaperones. Pierre was going in support of some of the the kids in his neighborhood that were in Flor’s class. Flor had asked me if I was interested in coming along with my own kids and meeting some Mexican teenage girls. It was a trip to the Manialtepec Hot Springs. We showed up at Dad and Flor’s at dawn. I hadn’t the least inkling what a life changing experience that day would prove to be. At first impression, there was something slightly odd about Pierre. He was willowy tall and white as a ghost. Though he spoke perfect English in an almost upper – crust vernacular, culturally he was overwhelmingly French. At first I thought he might be gay, but as he warmed up, his back-slapping British soccer fan mannerism was a first reveal of a very deep and multi-dimensional character.
Flor drove us in her truck, throwing my little 7 and 5 yr old half-brothers David and Jose into the mix. Pierre had a cute little Suzuki Jeep (still can be seen bouncing over the pot-holes of Puerto Escondido today) which he filled with his neighbor’s kids. The rest of the journeyers were waiting for us at their Dad’s ranch at the trailhead in Manialtepec. Well it was a test just to get to the village, driving an hour up the mountain on a dirt road. We were greeted by a few more teen girls and a row of saddled horses. It was obvious we wouldn’t be driving any further… except Pierre as it turned out, was offering seating to Flor and myself. But I had my sneakers, prepared to run the distance after my butt gave out on the Mexican saddle. The trek was another 10 interminable miles up the mountain from the ranch. The trail itself was nothing more that a goat path etched into the side of the river gorge, constantly impeded by rockfall from above. Below, Pierre with incredible conviction bumped that little Jeep along up the river bed winding around huge stones, getting stuck regularly and figuring it out to keep going. For the first while I rode a horse that turned out to be one-eyed blind on the downside. But after trying to ‘ride’ him initially, I realize he had way more business being on that trail than I did. So I just sat on him until I could not longer handle the threat of immediate peril. Then I ran the rest of the way. Well, the Jeep finally mired itself, as the increased water flow and steepened pitch of the river signified our approach to the hotsprings. The Mexican and Canadian girls had bonded so well that whether anyone else was there or not mattered less. They were having a ball. We found the hot springs and hung out there for a few hours. Flor lay right out in the springs, ignoring the protestations of her little boys who were understandably bored of this long trip. Pierre and I talked, finding all kinds of things to like about each other.
On returning to Puerto Escondido, Pierre invited us up to his house for dinner and drinks. He had begun moving from Paris to Puerto Escondido and was doing so in steps over a couple of years while he built his house. His wife Martine was still in Europe, liquidating his home and business. He had found an incredible high point on the hill overlooking Marinero Beach. During the wet season the gorge above which his house presided filled with the flood that burst the main PE laguna, flushing it and all the dead and decaying matter collected in the gorge and laguna over the previous year into Marinero Beach, then quickly sucked out to sea. In the winter season it dried up and became the main thoroughfare for all human and animal traffic from up the hill for miles accessing the beach. In later years when the house was finished, the light on the corner of Pierre’s garden wall was the highest landmark visible looking up the hillside at night while standing on the bridge by the laguna. Looking down night or day the view was a unique vantage point of Marinero Beach that one would never know existed without being there to see it from Pierre’s garden.
On our first visit that day, Pierre’s house was in the early stages of construction. There were six or seven teenagers including my two, and the rest the Mexican girls. Pierre had strung up some Xmas/party lights on his construction-zone terrazza, broke out the soft drinks and pumped up the music, The girls were having a wonderful time. One thing I’d like to point out. When it comes right down to it, there aren’t many impediments to a teenage girl party. Language is definitely not an issue. The less verbally understood, the more fun everyone has. And the girls spent the rest of that week together mostly giggling out of control over at the pool at my condo. But that first night on Pierre’s unfinished rooftop under beautiful starry Puerto skies, Pierre and I were establishing a friendship that would bond us together as few ever had for me. I told him about my life as a musician in Canada and he recounted tales of being a French kid attending a British boarding school, hence his crazy accent. Then he spun stories of his years of knowing and hanging out with rock stars like David Bowie and Freddie Mercury.
How the heck did he end up in Puerto Escondido? Well he’d spent time there often, beginning as a young traveller and when the doctors had given him the leukemia 6-months to live death sentence, he and Martine packed everything up, sold what they could and cast their fate to the wind. He said ‘leukemia’ so quickly I nearly missed it – my first personal contact with the word. He explained in a very offhand and inconsequential manner that he had nothing to lose moving to Mexico. He had no faith in the tubes and drugs of the medical system. That was the last we spoke of his illness. He just seemed so invincible. I did not really think about it until shortly before he passed away. Each yearly visit to Puerto, reconnecting with Pierre was the top of my to do list. Before long he became friends with Heather, my Dad and all my brothers.
As time passed his illness became increasingly apparent, but his spirit remained undaunted. His leukemia never clouded my image of him. Even as the end neared and his body was breaking down, he continued working supplying plumbing and electrical services to the growing population of snowbirds landing in Puerto for the winter. I remember vividly the last time I saw him. He was fixing Nolan’s (a friend of my Dad’s) water system. I drove past him and stopped to chat our my way to the airport. His mouth was still bleeding from teeth being freshly pulled by the dentist because of the deteriorating effects of the illness. But he was smiling and insisted he was looking forward to see us on our next visit, reminding Heather that they still hadn’t spent a day in bed together, twinkling his crazy frenchman’s eye. You just had to love that guy.
When my Dad told me he was invited to Pierre’s funeral a few months later I was so devastated and really couldn’t believe it, tearingly phoning all my brothers with the news. At that point in my life I had only felt two deaths so personally – my brother Peter’s passing in 1987 and now friend Pierre’s about 10 years later. How ironic that they should have the same name.
How many times in the past year have I wished that I had had the foresight to learn from Pierre about the nature of the illness from his experience. There’s no more valued opinion could I have had. I have dreamt so often we could have had this conversation. Probably it’s one of the biggest regrets I have today.
Yesterday was a roller coaster of a day. The mixture of
