My father and James both came to separate decisions on how they would face their closing days as they moved toward a certain death. I recognized some of James' bitter anger toward life's betrayal; I saw it in my father, but I've mostly forgotten those dark days in favor of the happier memories. In time, I suppose one can assume the same happens for James' friend. For men, the thought and reality of dependency can be emasculating and we aren't all guaranteed a graceful dignified death. Do we leave the choice to God or our friends and family? Was the journey to Barafundle Bay folly or a grand last hurrah?