If you are listening to me read this, Howard is dead. If I’m not reading this, then we’re both dead. Just wanted to get these two things straight before we start.

If you don’t know me, I’m Warren. Howard and I were up pretty late last night, and he was having one of his visions of impending death, unclear doom, that sort of thing. Somewhere towards the bottom of the bottle, he asked me if I would write a eulogy for him, so there ‘would be one in a drawer somewhere, ready to go’.  So here it is. I would say ‘here it is, gentle reader,’ but that was always Howard’s line.

Howard Eudwing…. was many things. He was a Renaissance man. A foreign correspondent. A hard-ass editor. Someone who took no bullshit from anyone. And he didn’t have to, because he had paid his dues. And that’s how he walked into every room he ever walked into.

I remember the day I met him. He was sitting at the bar at the Black Marlin, facing the door. Looked right at me when I walked in.  As soon as I saw his eyes, I knew right away that he was in the trade.  If you spend a year in Beirut, or Mogadishu, or Kabul – it will mess you up good. But spend ten or twelve years in those places – like Howard did –  and it never leaves your eyes.

He would talk about what he saw there, but only when drinking. And only with me, because I had been there.

Howard was an editor, and he was a damn good editor. Kill your babies he would say, throwing the story back at us. There’s one good thing in there; the rest of it sucks.

And that’s exactly what a writer needs. It’s what everyone needs. Hard love. Not coddling. Howard used to mutter this about people too, saying, ‘Jesus Mary and Joseph, that guy’s got a lot of fucking babies that need killing.’

And if he had to, he would do it himself. He’d sit your ass down, against your will, and tell you exactly what was wrong with you in three or four sentences. No sugar coating. No sandwiching.  Just: “You’re lying to yourself about X, you’re avoiding Y. Glad we had this talk. Should we smoke a fattie?”

That was Howard. Straight to the bone.

Early on at Nosara Lately,  Beach Frog threatened to sue him if he didn’t take down that story about the Frog rebranding into a Denny’s. Howard chuckled and printed out the threat. He pasted it on the wall of his office, right next to the black and white photo of him and Idi Amin standing over a dead rhinoceros. He only kept it there for a day. He took the Beach Frog story and rewrote it. Made it funnier than ever.

Howard loved Nosara. He loved the chaos, the motos, the jungle. He loved it when the power went out because that meant he could amble over the Bodhi Tree Juice Bar and enjoy the loveliness of women. He loved this town’s contradictions, its beautiful and ridiculous cast of characters, all trying to find themselves while simultaneously running from themselves. He loved that the DJs were also spiritual leaders, that realtors were going toe-to-toe with drug smugglers. He thought Tuk-Tuk Hunk should run for office, or at least start a topless pest control business. He loved Headshop Lawyer. He loved the gondola, even confiding in me one night after a generous amount of whiskey that GondyBondyDingDong was ‘a helluva name’, and deserved to win.

But Howard also loved the truth that was just beneath the surface of all of this. He loved the people, no matter what role they were playing, or how much they believed it.  And he believed—genuinely believed—that a small town newspaper could matter. That journalism could matter.

Howard died doing what he loved. In a place he loved. Among people he loved.

As I am typing these words, Howard is still very much alive and snoring on the couch in the next room. But when he does pass, he does not want any fuss. No memorial. He said to me, Warren, I want you to be especially careful about that Olo Alaia crew. They hold fucking acoustic jams and informal memorials anytime they get a chance. A fucking goldfish dies, there’s an impromptu acoustic jam and fucking taco trucks that same night.  I don’t want that. And for God’s sake, keep Jen Stone out of it. She’ll turn it into some Benefit to Honor Howard and Raise Money for Road Repair or some shit. I know this town. Warren, are you listening to what I’m saying?

When I die, just move on, said Howard.  Move on.

I didn’t argue with Howard. I know damn well there will be an informal acoustic jam and taco trucks outside Olo Alaia the night he dies. Because this is Nosara.

And I also know we won’t move on right away.  Because Howard had given so much of himself. How are we going to rip that straight out of our hearts and say goodbye?

Howard, you taught us that truth matters. That clarity and well-written sentences matter. That laughing at ourselves here in this little town was long overdue, and good for our souls.

You taught me how to leave the wars behind.  You taught Shanti to trust her instincts. You taught Walter and Richard to always dig deeper, to find out what the story was really about.

You taught all of us that a good Nosara Lately story wasn’t about adding detail after detail. It was about killing our babies. Cutting absolutely everything away, until only lean, well-written sentences remained – the kind you want to read twice, and then, maybe once again.

So here’s to you, Howard Eudwing. Renaissance man. Foreign correspondent. Guy who is snoring on my couch in the next room.

Here’s to you, my editor. My friend.

We will miss you.

We will miss you.