Douglas' Remembrance

For those of you who weren't able to attend Stuart's service, or weren't able to hear, or just would like to read my memories of Stuart, here you go. We were overwhelmed by the crowd who were able to come. Thanks for all your support. What a tribute to Stuart. I think about him everyday.

Thank you all for being a part of this very special day. And I’ll get it out right up front – I’m the crier in the family. My plan is to get through this, and I’d appreciate it if you did the same. No sniffles, no kleenex. No wailing, no moaning, no gasping for air.

As most of you know, Stuart and I spent a fair bit of time together. There was all week at work, most weekends talking about work, spring time getting the boat ready, the fall winterizing the boat, and of course all the major holidays that required us to stop working and sailing altogether, and just be together. That’s what happens when you own a business together, own a boat together, and happen to be brothers. You become best friends.

Growing up, our garage was the place to be. There you could find mini-bikes, mopeds, and go-carts – in various stages of repair – and Stuart, always at the center, the one keeping them all running. Stuart tinkered and I was the little brother holding the flashlight.

Stuart’s modesty was legendary. I asked him to be my best man, he said, because I had “too many friends” and couldn’t choose just one. I named my son Stuart, he said, because our dad was named Stuart and because I had “so many great friends named Stuart”. When I told him it was to honor him, he thought I was joking. When I finally convinced him, he was downright giddy. The two Stuarts shared a wonderful bond – a fun-loving uncle with the same name was an absolute delight in the eyes of my son Stuart.

Stuart and I were passionate about many of the same things – family, building, sailing, and boats of every single type – big or little, wooden or fiberglass, old or new, power or sail, any boat but an ugly boat. Spring weekends for 14 years were about cleaning and scraping, varnishing and painting together at the Mattapoisett Boatyard. That was when I felt closest to Stuart – the companionship, the banter, just the right tool for every job – we were the envy of every other boat owner in the yard. Every Memorial Day weekend, he and I would sail the boat from Mattapoisett to Waquoit, sometimes with Ben or Matthew, but always with each other. Through Woods Hole, Quick’s Hole, tucking into Hadley’s Harbor, sometimes overnight at Cutty Hunk or over to Menemsha... it marked the beginning of summer, another season to do what we loved the most, a joyful, exhilarating experience… and that weekend was nearly always 45 degrees, foggy, rainy, and windy.

We also made each other laugh – sometimes at the most inopportune times. Shortly after the start of our partnership, we were hired to build a house. Not a basement, not a garage, not even an addition, but a completely new, custom home. Those clients must have been out of their minds. We met them at the site to mark tree removal. We were trying really hard to sound and act like we had years of experience. It was a warm evening and the bugs were coming out. As Stuart spray-painted markings on the trees, I ran for a can of bug spray in my truck. I sprayed myself, the clients helped themselves to the spray, and then I gave it to Stuart to use. I considered making some crack about not mixing up the two cans he held, but, again, I was trying hard to exude calm confidence. Sure enough, right in front of the clients who’d hired us to build their dream house, Stuart proceeded to spray paint the entire length of his leg. Well, that was it for us. The clients attempted to carry on with the meeting, as if nothing really funny had happened, but it was a lost cause. We’d momentarily regain our composure, only to collapse in hysterical laughter, tears streaming down our faces. Those were the early, shaky days of Whitla Brothers Builders. And for 18 years, no two partners worked or laughed as hard in the process of building a business as Stuart and I did. We always strived to do it well and to have fun.

A frustrating problem became an interesting challenge when we tackled things together, and we gave each other the confidence we often lacked in ourselves. When one of us couldn’t see eye to eye with a client, together we could; when one of us couldn’t get the engine going, together we could; when an architect’s drawings simply didn’t translate into the 3-dimensional world, together we could make it work.

Stuart was good natured and easy going – though occasionally his calm demeanor would crack. Rarely did anyone else see that – but I’d just remind him of what he’d always told me – that things always work out.

Don’t get me wrong, Stuart was not a saint. But he always strived to do the right thing. And that legacy lives on in his kids, who are so blessed to have been raised by him; in me, as I carry on our company without him; and in our crew, past and present, who embody so much of what he stood for.

I have truly been blessed to have known him so completely. I am thankful that I do much of what he spent his life doing. As painful as it has been to go to the jobsite or the boatyard without him, these places are full of wonderful memories and people who knew him and adored him. I don’t need to tell anyone “about my brother”. Everyone knows him, knows how close we were, and “gets it”. I can rest assured that his spirit will live on, in the fond memories and hilarious stories we can all share together – and that when I bring my son, Stuart, on the jobsite or to the yard, they and he will appreciate that special connection and how wonderful it feels to say that name.

In his toast at our Rehearsal Dinner, Stuart referred to me, as he often did, as “The Eternal Optimist”. He then added that often, the more optimistic I was, the more nervous he got. Lately though, he was the one with the hope and determination. Late last fall, Stuart and I went to the boatyard to winterize the engine on Tradition. At that point, I had learned enough about renal cancer to be really scared. I didn’t let on to Stuart, but I knew in my gut that this would be the last time the two of us would be on the boat together. I watched him admire the harbor, assuming he was agonizing over those same dreaded thoughts himself. Instead, he turned, caught sight of a brand new red Beneteau, and remarked with a smile, “Maybe our next boat should be a brand new boat.”

Thank you.