A spry 82-year-old, David Cornell has compiled abundant evidence of a life fully lived: his life.
It’s all in a binder thick with certificates, patches, official correspondence and photographs, each page sheathed in protective plastic.
He’s written his obituary, too, along with a list of who should be notified when he dies; some passages that should be spoken at his wake (and who should speak them); and instructions about how his ashes should be spread over a certain expanse of the Atlantic Ocean.
Apparently, 58 years of survivor’s guilt can make a person do such things.
Above all else, Cornell was — no, forever “is,” he’s quick to point out — a submariner. A machinist’s mate, he served on four submarines between 1956 and 1966, a “cold warrior” with many a tale to tell.
It’s the story about the boat he almost served on and the buddy who drew the assignment instead that haunts him.
