Life is a leap of faith.
How else can we more appropriately reconcile the spectacular life of Robert Bonsor?
Picture a man crouched over a motorcycle, jetting the high plains of South Africa.
Look north to the French Alps and you’ll remember a young gentleman gunning the unforgettably harrowing switchbacks up to Meribel at full throttle without a whiff of fear.
Come home to the United States and admire the relentless skier who guided me through the thickest of fogs on Ajax Mountain, the mightiest of Aspen’s grand descents known for its singularly famous black diamond terrain.
Robert was the world, and he most certainly meant the world to me.
Bonsor’s last and most confident leap came on Saturday. Three of his most immediate colleagues were back in Aspen that day, together again at the resort for the first time in maybe 17 years; a coincidence that I will never forget.
Pivot, if you will, to the man who most knew much better--the wise and loving father of all these beautiful girls. Robert was always a turn ahead of me in life. The two of us decided our professional lives had stagnated and decided to push off into the wilderness of a new business of our own.
It was not the seamless endeavor you may have imagined. We were opposed by a person of much greater means, separately reminded of the one-in-five odds a startup had for success, with still not a hint of the gathering storms the 21st century was soon to bring our industry.
I knew what was coming when we made this decision. My single most enduring memory of Robert was when it became a fait accompli. Sensing the apprehension about me, and noticing the effect the news of our resignations had on our old office, “Cossie”, as I liked to call him, summoned me up to my feet for a well displayed hug. We slapped one other on the back, and that was that. Our leap of faith was taken together.
Years later, after we went our separate ways, I asked him if he’d have done it again---except then with the advantage of hindsight. “In a heartbeat”, he said. We had succeeded where we now know many have failed in attempting the same; and more importantly, we had become or own men.
I will leave this enduring story of faith to the most humbling and noteworthy charge my friend placed upon me as Godfather of his daughter Sabrina, “Beanie”. When he last wrote me in September, he reminded me that this “transcended everything” and asked if I might not keep in touch with her.
Robert, you can count on it, mate.
What tremendous, English Protestant heritage Robert had—blended with the Swedish Humanitarianism as a scion of Raoul Wallenberg, no less--he explicitly chose me to be there for Sabrina because of my similar upbringing within the Christian faith.
Our last conversation, shortly before Thanksgiving, was positively convivial. What I would give to have some more of that time back. My friend was relaxed, quite funny as always, and at peace. The “leap of faith” theme, now within the context of what we all consider to be our biggest, was relegated to trivial afterthought between the two of us.
God had joined us in the conversation, if only to perhaps simply listen in. I knew it and he knew it. Freed from the yoke of our lives here, we were able to laugh together a final time without even coming close to shedding a tear.
So, my old friend, in the name of our Father, and in his glorious gifts of our daughters, I give you my profound gratitude for your friendship. May you guide me through the fog once more when, one day, I again follow your lead for that last leap.
Doug R. Horstman
17th December 2010