Surfer in the Mist
“Do you like surfing?” “Hmm?” The question startled me. I was sitting on the black sand Shonan Beach staring at the ocean. I turned and saw Mariko, the woman I had met at Edgar’s wake. We were both viewing Edgar’s body laid out in his impeccable blue blazer, ironed white shirt and dark red and blue necktie tied in a Windsor knot. Appropriately enough, his wife Lydia insisted his casket command center stage in the living room of their commodious beachside Kamakura home. “He was so inspirational,” Mariko remarked after we had shaken hands across Edgar’s body. “Yes, he was,” I replied, noncommittally. Edgar made a living providing mini-seminars on business communication skills. “Be precise. Avoid jargon. Listen to your team members.” Catch phrases in the mantra he repeated at each of his seminars. “And his book Wishful Thinking is Not a Strategy opened my eyes,” Mariko oozed as we helped ourselves to the tuna fish sandwiches with the crusts cut off from the bread. “Opened your