I don’t know how to write these words but it has been over three weeks now and I feel the need to get something down. On Friday the 21st of February my cousin Cian died suddenly at work, off the coast of Angola. It still feels unreal.
If I was writing about this kind of experience fictionally I would say that this news ‘knocked the air’ out of me and my family or that it hit us like a ‘ton of bricks’ or some other kind of literary cliché. I cannot speak for the rest of my family but for me realisation—and with it, grief— comes in waves. It washes over and engulfs me periodically. The rest of the time it feels unreal, like a bad dream or practical joke. But it’s not. It is horrendously real.
Many people have written beautiful things about Cian and his many, many, achievements. They are equally difficult and wonderful to read. He was the personification of adventure, never passing up an opportunity to do something new and exciting, always willing to volunteer his time, knowledge and expertise. He explored and travelled more than anyone I know. He approached every situation, conversation and opportunity with an unmatched enthusiasm. He was an example for myself and my siblings alike, never pushing us any direction but always subtly guiding the way and revealing to us all that is possible. He was, and will continue to be, an inspiration for generations to come. I feel so thankful to have known and loved him.
He was a good, good man and I will always miss him.