I’ve been rereading the Aeneid lately, and have been struck by the character of Achates-or fidus Achates, as he’s always called, faithful or trusty Achates, Aeneas’s right-hand man. Think of “ A Farewell to Arms” or, even better, the crazy, bantering comradeliness of “ Catch-22.” Or else there’s just silence. Most male friendship-literary male friendship, that is-seems to take place during wartime, and it consists mostly of badinage. The great exception is Huck and Jim, of course, but that’s not a friendship between equals. Almost everything I know I know from books, and in all the ones I’ve read there’s not a lot about male friendship. “They don’t talk about feelings.” She may be right.
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“Here’s the whole problem with men,” she said. I once interviewed Jane Fonda, and somehow we got off onto the differences between male and female friendship. Who knew you could do that with a sailboat, and how could you not want to be friends with the guy who thought of it? While we watched from shore, he started towing her home. She was in her bathing suit, and, when they got out into deeper water, Chip tossed out a line and Alison jumped overboard and grabbed it. The boat glided to a stop, sail fluttering, and Alison waded out and climbed aboard. A jibe like that is easily the trickiest maneuver in sailing, one fraught with opportunities for embarrassment, if not outright catastrophe-and this was as handsome as any I had ever seen. Coming near to our side, he stood up, pulled quickly on the sheet, and then ducked as the boom snapped around from one side of the boat to the other. It was low tide, with lots of exposed marsh grass and mudflats, but Chip swooped through effortlessly. I hadn’t known it was possible to get from one side to the other like that. They were all keen sailors-we’d picked that up even before meeting Chip and Gay-and here came probably the best of them tacking smartly through a squiggly channel in the marsh. At the foot of the hill were a dock and an anchorage where his extended clan moored their boats. From our place you could just make out the hint of a roofline. It was high on a hill-the shore on the other side was much steeper-and almost hidden by trees. I had learned by then that his ancestral homestead, the place his grandparents had built back at the end of the nineteenth century, was right across the river from the house we were renting.
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Gay had dropped her off by car, but, when it was time for Alison to go home, Chip arrived in a sailboat. What really sealed our friendship-for me, anyway-was the time when, after one of those early get-togethers, Chip’s daughter, Alison, came over to play with our daughter, Sarah. At that point I can’t say I knew Chip all that well.
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They even knew how to do the Black Nag, a contra dance so insanely complicated it made me dizzy just to watch.īut because our kids got along we started spending some time together and shared a couple of meals. They were both, I noticed with dismay, very good square dancers. They did, and Nancy and I met Chip and his wife, Gay.
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My wife, Nancy, and I went for the sake of our kids, thinking that it might be a place for them to make new friends. I have memories of being steered around like a floor lamp by a stern, impatient woman who kept shaking her head at my clumsiness. I hated square dancing and also wasn’t very good at it. There were square dances every week at the Methodist church in the little Massachusetts town where we were renting a summer place on a tidal river. We met-or, rather, our families did-at a square dance, of all places. I was a draft dodger who hated taking orders from anyone. He was a Vietnam vet (Coast Guard, with service in the Mekong Delta) who opposed the war but loved the military. I grew up in a two-family house in Brighton, one of Boston’s working-class neighborhoods. He was five years older and had grown up near Phillips Exeter Academy, in New Hampshire, where his father taught classics and briefly was headmaster.
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In most other respects, we couldn’t have been more different. This Chip and I both had six-year-old sons named Ben-not majorly weird, but a little-and nine-year-old daughters. I’ve been known as Chip most of my life, except for a brief period in college when, for a reason I can no longer remember, I tried to reinvent myself as Charlie. My friend was called Chip, and so, to start with, we shared a name. I thought I was long past making friends of any kind. In the summer of 1983, when I was thirty-six, I made a new friend-something I never expected to do at that point in my life.