My family had a reunion on the Fourth of July in 1990, and my brother drowned. Ever since he died, I've dreaded the holiday, and don't celebrate.
Courtesy Janet Funk
When friends invite me to a Fourth of July party, I decline. I hate this holiday. While the rest of America is celebrating, I'm reliving the day my brother drowned, the day my family went from eight kids to seven.
Being the last in a long line of Funk kids was my whole identity growing up. Four boys and four girls were born in the span of 12 years: Paul, Sue, Tom, Carol, Ellen, Robbie, Dave, and me, but our dad introduced me as his caboose.
It was 1990, the summer before my last year of college, when my oldest brother Paul rented a beach cottage on Lake Erie for a Fourth of July family reunion. My brother Dave and I drove up together on July 3. My sister Sue was already there with my two young nephews. Grocery bag after grocery bag was unloaded into the small cottage kitchen, and we had enough alcohol to host a fraternity party. After my brothers Tom and Robbie arrived, we all ran down to the beach.
The weather was perfect that afternoon. We jumped waves and body-surfed in the bath-warm lake. We drank beer on the hot sand, passing cheese puffs and Pringles, telling jokes, and gossiping. We stayed up late around a bonfire, Robbie dazzling our nephews with his dramatic stories about magic and monsters.
The morning of the Fourth was hot and windy. After breakfast, we basked on the beach, enthralled by baby turtles washing up on the sand. The water was rough and dark, the color of chocolate YooHoo. My parents were due to arrive midday.
Courtesy Janet Funk
"Do you hear that?" Robbie said. "Somebody's yelling for help." He popped up, trying to locate the sound.
"They're out there!" Robbie shouted as he started running. Paul, Dave, and Tom jumped up and followed him.
"If you're going into that water, you better know what you're doing," a woman yelled to them. That's when Tom told Paul, "I'm not a good swimmer," and instead veered to the dock to watch.
The wind was churning up white peaks atop jagged waves. Robbie waded into the water first, then Paul, then Dave. I was standing in the shallow water, watching, expecting to see my brothers heroically carrying the distressed swimmers to safety. They were halfway there when Robbie went under.
From the dock Tom started yelling, pointing to the last place in the water where he saw him. Someone called 911. Volunteer firefighters appeared and formed a human chain with belts and ropes, but the undertow was too strong, and their chain broke. Another rescuer was sucked under by the violent current; the firefighters now had one of their own brothers to save.
Next, they tried a boat, but it immediately capsized. I watched as Paul was pulled in with a life preserver, Dave was clipped onto the firefighters' rope, and dragged in. But still, no Robbie.
People were frantically running, yelling, and pointing. Loud whistles, loud crashing waves. I couldn't understand what was said, I couldn't see what was happening between the undulating waves, and I couldn't stop looking for my brother, willing him to emerge.
My parents pulled up, unaware of our family's fate. One firefighter was also lost. One of the two people yelling from the water was saved by a local with a dinghy, but the other one drowned. We stood on that beach, telling our parents what happened as we continued scanning the water, still hoping to spot him.
It was getting dark, but I didn't want to pull my feet out of the wet sand that was now up to my ankles, didn't want to turn my back and leave Robbie alone in the dark water. Shaking and crying, we helped each other up the wooden steps to the cottage.
Thankful for the copious amount of alcohol, we prescribed ourselves shots of whiskey, hoping to knock ourselves out, to stop the spiraling thoughts, the reliving of the day. We lit sparklers and shared stories. I told them about the game Robbie and I made up called "dial-a-shot." He used to call me in my dorm and we would do a shot of vodka together over the phone before we went out. We held our glasses high and toasted him.
As I waited for the effects to kick in, my mind dove into my childhood. I remembered when Robbie taught me how to play poker. I remembered when he slipped headphones on my ears and pressed play so I could hear a new punk band he bought on cassette. I saw him holding a sci-fi paperback, smoking cigarettes and weed. In our conservative Irish Catholic family, we were both non-conforming weirdos.
We waited for three days, floating in suspended disbelief, while they dragged the lake. His body was recovered by a scuba diver 200 yards in front of the cottage.
After the funeral, I had to return to school, but how could I go back to my regular life after I saw my brother die? School didn't feel important anymore. Stressing about grades seemed ridiculous. In our small town, everyone knew our big family. I thought leaving would feel like I was leaving Robbie behind, forgetting about him to focus on myself.
School ended up being a reprieve because there, no one knew my family was one less. I could decide who I wanted to share the tragedy with, I could process it on my own. I didn't have to witness my parents suffering.
The night before my graduation, Paul and I went out drinking and dancing and toasted Robbie again — he would have laughed at me for being so hungover when I walked across the stage for my diploma.
Robbie would be 60 now. I still cover my eyes during movie drowning scenes. I panic when my son goes swimming in the river. As the Fourth of July approaches again, I fear the dreaded question, "Do you want to watch the fireworks?"
Absolutely not.
