Patrick Carey

Much noise has been made of the auspiciouness of the 13th full moon falling on Friday, 13th. Here in Nova Scotia, we got our helping of auspiciousness six days early with the arrival of Hurricane Dorian. For me personally, this date is always auspicious but on this occasion, particularly so. My dad died 25 years ago and he led a highly auspicious life.

It began when he came back from the dead. One of a set of twins, the product of a complicated delivery, he was pronounced dead on arrival and stuck in a corner while his slightly older brother got all the attention. An uncharachteristic wail convinced those present that he was very much alive, opinionated and bound for great things.

True to form, Dad notched up a number of firsts. He was the first of his brothers to eschew acting and embrace cinematography. He flew on the first Comet jet to India, and was part of the crew to film the first ascent of Everest. He put Irish documentary films on the map, pioneered documentaries with natural sound as commentary, and gave natural scenes their place in second unit direction.

Heeding the warning signs, he was one of the first in his outspoken advocacy of the environment, long before Global Warming became a watchword. Political opinions aside, Dad was never happier than when he was let loose with a camera in a far flung land, be it the high Arctic or Burma or Kenya, working either on his own documentaries or as the second unit director on features for the likes of Stanley Kubrick and Fred Zinnemann. His efforts were awarded a dazzling array of accolades, which were of little relevance to him, unless they could be leveraged into funding for his next project.

Dad was a gentleman in every sense of the word. A soft spoken perfectionist with the patience of Job, he could wait for days to get just the right shot, and a good deal of celluloid ended up on the cutting room floor, when he didn’t feel he had quite caught it.

Some would say that his death at the age of a week past his 78th birthday was premature but dementia was making inroads on his highly intellectual mind and his distress at being unable to wander about with a tripod and camera in tow was becoming acute. Many who knew him would love to plumb again his encyclopedic knowledge of flora and fauna; to lean in closer as he commenced an anecdote with the immortal words “When I was in Katmandu…”; to catch a glimpse of him hugging a tree while sporting his traditional fashion accessory, a pair of binoculars. While this is sadly no longer possible, we can content ourselves that he was spared the state of the world as it is today and his auspicious, well-lived life ended when it was best for him.