Volumes will be appropriately written regarding Rudy Autio, the artistic genius. Here, I wish to relate another dimension of the man.
Having no biological siblings, I was gifted with surrogate brothers and sisters born to Rudy and his wife, Lela. In our youth, it often was as if the Autio boys, Lar and Chris, and I had two common homes between which we darted incessantly as we engaged in crazy projects. Some of the projects were open, others clandestine. The thing about Rudy was that upon his discovery of something afoot borne of youthful creativity and poor judgment, his approach was to turn it into a positive learning experience for the conspirators, rather than to indulge in anger.
Upon navigating to “the rescue,” the only competent sailor (Autio) and his buddy with only rudimentary sailing skills (this writer) both stupidly jumped overboard, saving the man's medicine but leaving on our deck one with no sailing experience. The result was five victims in 300 feet of water instead of three, the newest two without flotation devices. Our calls to our flustered mate to “lower the $*&% sail!” not being heard over the blaring rock 'n' roll of his boombox, we watched in horror as our vessel sailed itself a mile away before our abandoned friend dropped the mainsail, leaving us to tread water for more than an hour, periodically saving each other from Davy Jones' locker when one or the other would inhale of the great wind-driven swells and slip beneath the cold, churning waters. In short order, we had become far separated from the dingy crew. Just as we had agreed to attempt a three-mile swim with the prevailing current to an island, we caught the attention of a distant powerboater by waving a T-shirt and were picked up nearly fully exhausted and moderately hypothermic, such that we could not climb the motorboat's ladder unaided. Upon being reunited with our prodigal vessel, we discovered our gasoline omission. The Autio boy - having been duly imbued by Rudy with a sense of a mariner's duty - assumed command, hoisted sail and took us not to safe harbor, but back to the dinghy crew, completing their rescue and, with skill but great difficulty, towing their craft to dock sans motor. On our final leg to our home dock in White Swan Bay, the youthful captain confidently dipped the sail in water as full advantage was taken of the storm's mighty winds. Once on dry land, however, courage evaporated and the reality of our brush with mortality set in.
Hours later, Rudy arrived at the Autio lake cabin (also built by his own hands) from Missoula, quite perplexed by our sullen, traumatized demeanor. Eventually, we spilled the beans, expecting a well-justified tongue-lashing, permanent boat ban and unknown additional sanctions. But that was not to be.
After a very stern lecture (albeit not exceeding 30 words) on the idiocy of the sole qualified sailor - the captain, no less - leaving the ship, and of embarking on a sail with clouded minds, Rudy turned to his real worry, which was that the incident's post-traumatic sequelae would deter us from future sailing. And so, after darkness fell, our heads had cleared, and the sky had erupted into thousands of stars, Rudy conscripted us to accompany him on a night sail on the then-calm waters, interspersing celestial navigation lessons with amusing stories of his youth. After an hour or so, he simply said, “OK boys, take us home,” and we did. What could easily have been a nightmarish memory was converted into a fond, warm one, with love of the water and of sailing left intact and even enhanced by Rudy's rare but effective approach.
That is how l'll always remember Rudy: as a man who engaged and embraced life's surprises, be they calm or tempestuous. May the four winds carry his spirit gently.
Kevin Hunt writes from Oregon City, Ore.
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