The weekend started out simple enough. Six old friends from the CUNY Grad Center getting together on the Oregon coast to catch up and track time. It’s something Matt Gold and I had talked about in the summer of 2024 when he was visiting in Italy, and it took almost two years, but we finally pulled it together.* The night before we were to drive out to the coast, folks like Matt and Mikhail started trickling in. The next day smooth Luke Waltzer and the great Boone Gorges arrived, and the GC6 were complete. For some reason as soon as Boone arrived I had him deep in a story about how a group of running Christians in Long Beach, California tried to use the film Miracle Mile to convert me to their church. It’s a fun story, and I like telling it. In fact, I told it as part of episode 4 of the Family Pictures Podcast—as well as a couple of other times on the bava blog.†
So anyway, I’m telling this story to Boone and company soon after he arrived and ended it, as always, with the emphatic chorus of the Christian track team trying to redeem my lost soul by exclaiming “Thank God I’m Saved!” as Anthony Edwards and Marie Winningham are professing their love while trapped in a helicopter as they sink to their death in a tar pit. Saying it while telling the story is pretty cathartic, and it offers an emphatic end to what, until that point, may have seemed an aimless tale.
From there we went to lunch before hitting the coast. More stories were told, many laughs were had, and the warmth of old friends reconnecting was starting to kindle. The two-hour drive from Portland to the coast was uneventful. As you start to get closer to the ocean, the rainforest vegetation consumes you, only to spit you out on some absolutely breathtaking vistas of this fine land.
Shot taken by Luke Waltzer on the coast near Pacific City
The house was pretty epic; we could spend the day watching the sea wrap around a rock island in our front yard. Simply magic. The whole scene was like a live painting being regularly touched up throughout the day to capture the latest changes in light and tidal activity.
Island in front of our weekend getaway rental on the Oregon Coast.
The first evening was about settling in. Immediately guitars and mandolin/banjo hybrids came out, and there was music—that was a highlight for sure. Spontaneous combustion into song at random times throughout the weekend is the best way to live. There was definitely a soundtrack to the weekend, but I’ll try not to get ahead of myself—this is the first public telling of a story that may be retold many times by whoever was there to witness and participate in what was to follow.
First night’s dinner was a delicious lasagna. Photo credit: Mikhail and his selfie stick
The first night ended quietly, as they all did. We watched Michael Mann’s The Thief, which rules—thank you, Matty! The next morning we had a Zach Davis short-order breakfast, a highlight of any trip to Oregon. From there it was time for a hike.‡ We headed out for a very simple hike that lasted about 20–30 minutes and brought us to a bench facing a small fence in a grove of trees that looked down on the merging rivers below.
Moments before the incident, all seemed pretty fine. Photo credit: Boone Gorges
In the image above, I’m in the center, standing up and looking out on the scene. I have my hand on the wood post fence, and I may be about to take a couple of pictures, specifically these:
One of the few photos I took overlooking two rivers
The photos I took were fairly unexciting: one of the two rivers coming together and another of a gulp of cormorants on the beach. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that many together:
A gulp of cormorants on the beachhead at the estuary of two rivers
After taking some shots, we started talking about life insurance, and I was remarking that mine was paid up while others were in between insurances. The topic then moved to other end-of-life concerns like being isolated or someone hijacking a family member’s estate, etc. I was listening intently to Boone when it happened. The fence I was leaning back against completely crumbled beneath me, and I did a backward somersault into the brush and started sliding down an incline. I don’t think I really knew how grave the situation was until I looked up. The blurry mix of surprise and terror scanned across the faces staring back at me told me things were fairly dire. In that second or two, I came to understand there was a cliff a few inches away that fell straight down for at least 75–100 feet.
Re-enactment of the fall
The adrenaline started to kick in, and as the sheer horror of the situation sank in, everyone started to move. Zach grabbed my hand to ground the whole situation, and immediately after that Matt joined me on the slope to provide a much-needed sense of presence and stability, and Boone worked to stabilize Matt so I could climb out. I remember grabbing Boone’s foot or leg, and it was at that point I was able to release some of the sheer terror I was feeling at the thought of sliding off the cliff to what would have most likely been death. There was some talk afterward that maybe I would survive the initial fall but would have been dead within a few days as a result of a broken neck, back, and innumerable other fractures, etc. You know, uplifting talk like that. I don’t know if it was because I had just gotten off the phone with Fordham about Tess’s financial aid, but one of my final thoughts as I was sliding into oblivion was how Tess is going to manage college without me—an extension of the broader sense of how much I would miss my family.
Sitting on the bench immediately after the fall, talking to Zach, trying to process what the fuck just happened
Yeah, it got pretty deep really quickly. Once I was back to safety, sitting on the bench parsing what happened with Zach, the realization of how quickly a mundane walk in the woods became a “meet your maker” moment fucked me up a bit. I wasn’t ready to go; there are things that still need attending. I know that sounds dramatic, and I apologize, but this definitely qualified as a near-death experience. If the CUNY crew had not been there to fish me back from the edge of forever, this next bavatuesdays post would have been very different. Something along the lines of “Tragically, the bava fell to his death during a banal hike on the coast of Oregon.” Or, even better worse, “It’s with deep regret we have to inform you that Jim Groom fell 100 feet to his death while on a hike with friends. He leaves behind….”
Another topic that came up is who would call Antonella. I can’t even imagine—some of these thoughts tore my insides apart. But on the other side of things, for a fraction of a second, the idea this world would no longer concern me also sunk in. Like Johnny Depp’s character William Blake at the very end of Dead Man, I would have been off to the land of the dead in my Pacific Northwest burial canoe. That brief moment was deeply sad—a sadness I’ve not known before.
After those initial moments, there was a long shock that descended for the rest of the weekend. I would start thinking about what clothes I’d have died in: a Satanik T-shirt, jeans, Scarpa shoes (I had the right hiking gear!), and a green flannel with a Redwoods trucking cap.
I thought about what it would be like for the folks who survived me returning to the house and attending to quotidian shit like putting away my Steam Deck or repacking my suitcase. That is some morbid shit.
I think that brief but intense incident shook everyone a bit, and as we walked out of that small grove overlooking the river, there was a real sense that we had avoided something terribly tragic—me more than anyone. One of the hardest things for me to process was something Luke said later about accidental deaths as banal moments that just go terribly wrong. He gave an example of someone in Jersey taking a corner on a four-wheeler too tight and ending up thrown to his death against a fire hydrant.
Part of the processing that was so difficult is just how quickly it can all go so wrong. In an instant, it can all disappear. That seemingly trite thought is still haunting me because even if you intellectually know it, experiencing it is something else entirely.
The next day, hearing Antonella’s voice was music from the heavens, and even better was being able to discuss and manage some of those seemingly annoying things that are part of our life together. I was elated to discuss transferring money. Follow up on the college saga? No problem. Know why? Because I am not dead yet. I told her what happened, and she was definitely dismayed, but it would be hard to fully grok the moment unless you were there watching me flip backward into oblivion. I’m happy she didn’t have to because I’m not sure I could have handled it if I was watching her slide off a cliff.
All I could think about was how sad it would be to not be around my family anymore. That was what my life boiled down to, and I was absolutely at one with learning that about myself. When I get home, my special lady friend and children are going to get one hell of a bear hug.
What do you do after you almost die? When talking to my son Tommy today, he reminded me of The Sopranos episode “Join the Club.” Tony was on his deathbed and inhabited a dreamlike reality as benign salesman Kevin Finnerty. The alternate-universe Tony as a working stiff. It was the idea that Tony might actually come to terms with all the horrible things he’s done. When he avoids death and finally gets out of the hospital, he tells himself things are going to be different. But rather than making amends, he doubles down on his nihilistic lifestyle.
Granted that Tony Soprano is 1) a sociopath, and 2) a fictional character, what I came away with from my near-death experience is, by and large, I don’t have the same demons as Tony Soprano. I simply want to spend even more time with my family. I think Matt said it best this weekend: “I just want to watch my kids play soccer.”
Give me as much of the quotidian with them as life can serve up, and I’ll be a happy man. And while they’re getting older and will soon begin their own lives, I do think I can still be useful to them for the next couple of decades.
As I was chatting with Zach on a walk, I think it might be as simple as a heightened awareness of how fast it all goes and being mindful of its fragility. Ironically, this whole trip was about just that: connecting with good friends from as far back as 30 years. Intentionally making time for the people in your life who supported you, cared for you, and helped give it all value and meaning. If I died that day, my broken, bloody corpse would have been surrounded by people who meant something real to me; our ties were are human and fraught and real. I wasn’t trying to be didactic with that backward somersault off the precipice—that’s for sure—but this lesson was timely and reinforced just how good it was we did take time out of our busy lives to break bread together—even if it almost killed me 🙂
The rest of the weekend was really just enjoying each other and remarking how freaking lucky it was that I didn’t die. Part of me, just three short days away, thinks, “Am I exaggerating here? Was it really that close?” I and at least five other people think it was, but even if it wasn’t, the point remains. It’s here, and then it’s gone. Even that moment hanging out with all of those amazing people has come and gone—will it ever happen again? There’s no guarantee, that’s for sure. In fact, there was still singing and joy to be had, and while some of the shock started to wear off, there was still a fair amount of processing. Boone breaking out into Elton John’s “Someone Saved My Life Tonight” was both hysterical and poignant for me because it was true—this was a moment in life where my friends literally saved my life. Matt freaking Gold jumped down without hesitation to make sure I didn’t go over. Some might call that insanity, but I like to think of it as a CUNY friendship. I would have bled some serious CUNY Blood this weekend if it wasn’t for them. Thanks for saving my life, guys.
As Mikhail said, “I’m glad you didn’t die, Jimmy.” Sometimes understatement is the best remedy.
In the end is the beginning. All this shit happens, and I’m low-key freaking out for the next couple of days thinking through all the horrible what-ifs, and at some point Boone dishes back to me some of my own story medicine with impeccable timing by standing up, giving me a knowing grin, and exclaiming: “Thank God I’m Saved!”
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*The “we” here is royal; Zach Davis did the lion’s share of the planning, and I was his somewhat capable stoned sidekick.
†In fact, this is a story I have told a few times on the blog, once in 2007 as part of a post I wrote about Miracle Mile and again in 2024 as part of the write-up of the Night of the Comet podcast linked above.
‡I was a bit distracted at the beginning of the hike, given I had one last chore: to find out if there was any decision made on the appeal we submitted for more financial aid from Fordham. I made them all go ahead and stayed back a bit to make the call. Once that was done, I quickly caught back up.
