A friend of mine died last night, John was an old fellow who lived up Coro Ave. Eighty five years old he was. We became friends after he mentored Choppy and I down on the sand dunes. He was passionate about regenerating the foreshores of our local beach, he showed us the Bitou bush and how to kill them. He shared with me his love for Sawtell.

Over the years the knobbly knees on his long gangly legs began to grate and grind. Johns knees were buggered and constantly frustrated him. With the aid of a wheely frame we tried walking together down to the surf club, it was incredibly difficult for him. He knew it was his last walk to the surf club saying simply, “That’s that then”.

The next day a visiting health worker told him he would have to go into care. John fell into a final depression which ended a few days later with him tumbling out of bed and cracking his head. He had been popping the warfarin like lollies so he bled freely and fell unconscious. I visited John a few times during the day in the hospital. He never regained consciousness and died in the evening surrounded by his lovely family who had rushed to be with him.