Three years ago yesterday, on July 21, 2004, I lost the best friend a guy could have, a man I’d known for seventeen years. He helped me through Marine Corps Officer Candidate School and was always there for me no matter what. Gary and I survived mostly good times, but some bad ones too. One of the sad ironies was that losing him was the toughest ordeal I’d ever been through and I didn’t have him to help me through it. I think everyone who knew him felt that way.
Well, I was wrong about that as I would soon learn.
I completed my memoir in December 2004 and I dedicated it to Gary, using only his aviation callsign, “for Slim.” The memoir was published in June 2005; after spending the rest of 2005 traveling and promoting it, I decided to move from Atlanta to New York.
I visited Manhattan in the middle of January to look for an apartment and a job. One evening, while taking the ‘C’ train uptown, I had a sudden panic attack. The doubts came pouring in like never before. The critical voice in my head went into hyperdrive saying things like, “Who do you think you are, moving to Manhattan? You don’t have a job, you don’t have a place to live, you don’t have many friends in NYC, it’s the most expensive cut-throat city in America and you’re just a hick from Piedmont, South Carolina, that town will destroy you!” etc., etc., etc. I broke out into a cold, frightened sweat, my lungs constricting with each breath.
Just as suddenly, a wave of calm washed over me and a much louder, stronger and more confident voice banished the doubts, saying:
“You’re going to be okay, Rich. You’re doing the right thing. Don’t be afraid.”
The voice was so obvious, I wondered if other people on the train heard it. I looked up and to my utter and total astonishment, I was staring directly at this image:
Fortunately, I’d purchased a new cellphone and, once I got over my shock, snapped a picture of it. I’ll carry this image with me to remind me of a few important things:
There is a bigger purpose to all of this.
We never really lose the ones we love.
Coincidence? You can choose to think of it that way if you want; I’ve chosen otherwise.
Major Gary Fullerton was killed in the line of duty, serving his country valiantly when the F-18 jet he was piloting and another F-18 collided over the Columbia River on the Washington-Oregon border near the wonderful town of Arlington, Oregon. The citizens dedicated a monument to Gary and the other Marine in his jet that you can visit if you’re driving by on I-84. We’ll probably never know the cause of the collision; I think it was just Gary’s time to go, that his work here was done. He may be gone, but he’ll never leave us.
Post a message here or email us at GaryRFullerton@gmail.com
You can donate to the Clemson Scholarship fund in his honor here, post a message or check out a slideshow of pictures from his life, which was brief, but full.
Semper Fi,
Rich Merritt
