F. Clair Brown was born in a modest house in NE Portland on this day in 1923. Today he’d be 94, but he sailed with the Last Patrol on December 22, 1994. His wife, Josephine, preceded him in death by merely two months. It was fitting that my parents were together for the Holidays, since they had not missed Christmas together since the Korean War.

One of Dad’s last contributions was his work with the non-profit organization Save the PT Boat, Inc. He was the first president of that august group of veterans who preserved PT 658 and restored it through monumental efforts to full working status.[1] It is one of the last surviving PT boats and is believed to be the last one in operational condition.

At the organization’s website, under photos, if you select “Last Patrol,” you will find Clair’s photo first on the page[2]—as he was the first of his friends to set sail for the final time. The photo’s quality is not so great. Yet the photo is good enough to see the captain’s character. His friendly smile and kind eyes are handsome. But see if you note his concern just below the surface. His companion Josephine was ailing. All those years since they met at Franklin High in 1939 did not diminish Clair’s dependence on Jo or his devotion to the girl of his dreams—his darling, lovely Josephine. She spent two months in a coma. Seven months of her final year were spent in hospitals. And when she succumbed, he was bound to follow.

None of us suspected Death’s approach. But when it came, it came with haste for Clair—a counter-balance to Mom’s 12-month battle. His aneurysm decked him on the 15th of December. Brother Russ drove Dad to the hospital through rush hour traffic. I met them there. I was in the ER standing by him holding his left hand in both of mine as the doctors administered the ultrasound to see what caused the crippling pain. Russ had driven home to pick up his family and return. Suddenly, the doctor muttered something and yelled “STAT!” into the intercom. Then things happened fast. The doctor quickly explained that there was no time to waste. They had to operate immediately or Dad would die. I was alone.  “Operate,” I said. Then I slipped Dad’s watch off his left wrist and onto my right arm. And they whisked him off for surgery. He survived the operation. But he only lived a week until the heart attack sent him peacefully on his Last Patrol and to his reunion for eternity with his best loved Jo.

She was a pacifist and feminist—a Woman of Achievement. He was a line officer in the Navy Reserve—a veteran of two wars. Together, they harmonized in life, love and marriage.

Buy Bentari here and read how two African parents did not let differences divide them.

[1] http://savetheptboatinc.com/ (click on the photo to open tabs)
[2] http://savetheptboatinc.com/Last_Patrol.htm