The passing of a ‘Sunshine Superman’

There are a series of three photographs I have taken of people a million times, and of Robert and Jeff, probably at least several dozen.

I surprise you with a quick pic, catching you off guard. First snap. No one ever wants that one.

Those in that sudden photo then bunch closer together, while offering up to me advice on their preferred composition. Jeff said nothing, he was busy tooting on his harp, speaking aloud by way of a tilt of his head in the direction of his partner. Click two.

The two then moved into place, readying their pose, Jeff in his ever-present tie-dyed shirt and head wrapped in a bandana assuming the usual obligation of the tall man, to always have to bend down to ensure all who stand with him stand tall.

I take it, my third photo of “Flying Fish,” and the last I will take of the two performing together.

I saddled my camera, and began talking with Jason, a happy-go-lucky guy who used to live in the apartment across the hall from me. He showed me on his cracked cell phone screen the sculptures out of driftwood he’s created, now in the window of a gallery downtown.

I talked with Sheryl, about a story that involves strong differences of opinion within the St. George Island Plantation Owners Association, about…can you guess? What else could it be? 

The large crowd was having a good time. No one had any complaints. Everyone was happy for the parties involved. The new brewery in downtown Apalachicola is inspiring by its local ownership, a contrast to the ever-approaching gray clouds of corporate amalgamation.

But that’s a story for another time.

Have you ever been at a concert, or a crowded bar, and someone does more than just brush past you, but makes contact with you to the point of jostling? That happened, and I turned to see, and that someone was Jeff Dutrow, toppling like a tree against the adjacent golf cart and down to the street several feet below. 

I stepped away, as more than a few people had rushed to Jeff’s aid. I backed off enough to assure I remained outside the circle of emergency as it formed, but remained frozen as if at the front of a crowd’s figurative rope line waiting for the musicians to come out, and for Jeff to come to.

The next several minutes passed as if in slow motion. Chest compressions were forcibly applied to Jeff’s chest. Someone cradled his head to make sure he aspirated properly. 911 was called. Cries of “I can’t feel a pulse” punctuated the air like gunshots. 

People looked on impassively, masks of hope frozen on their faces. Very few utterances could be heard, all lowered to near whispers, a sound out of place at the corner of Commerce Street and Avenue E, where Flying Fish’s raucous jam heralded the opening of Apalachicola’s newest homegrown brewery, Water Craft.

First the police arrived and soon after the ambulance, each carrying a defibrillator that was soon applied. Friends frantically tried to reach by telephone Jeff’s daughter Olivia, who just a few weeks earlier had been pinned as a licensed practical nurse at Gulf Coast State College.

It likely would not have mattered had she just finished a fellowship as a cardiothoracic surgeon and had been there. 

As hard as they tried on the street, and then later at the Weems emergency room, the air ambulance that had been summoned was ultimately waved off.

“His last breath was in and out of that harmonica,” said older daughter Audrey.

On Sunday afternoon, at Half-Shell Dockside, where drummer Tim Dutrow, from Santa Rosa, would join his older brother and Robert Mason, as he had typically done three Sundays a month, they held a celebration of life.

“He wouldn’t want it to be a depressing downer,” said Robert. “He just always wanted to make people happy, with music as a uniting force.”

On Wednesday, Aug. 14, the duo had planned to rehearse at Robert’s house, but when they got word of the ribbon cutting, they loaded their gear on a golf cart and headed downtown.

The duo had opened with a “Those Were The Days,” and Jeff had invited his friend Kristen Anderson to sing along, because he knew how much she liked it.

Later, they would perform “Magnolia,” “Summertime,” “Sunshine Superman,” and “Tin Man,” before launching into “Brain Damage,” the Pink Floyd hit:

And if the cloud bursts thunder in your ear

You shout and no one seems to hear

And if the band you’re in starts playing different tunes

I’ll see you on the dark side of the moon

The musicians came out on Sunday to celebrate the life of their friend. Tommy Cooper, Clayton Mathis, Hot Mess, David Heinke, Adriane Elliott, Christ Matechik, Carrie Jones, Rachel Hillman, they all performed. There was paella and crawfish and low country boil, and of course the newest Water Craft brew. Friends tossed rose petals into the Apalachicola river in memory and tribute to Jeff.

Jeff’s ex-wife Donna Young, now remarried and living in McDonough, Georgia, was down in Franklin County. But absent at the event was Jeff’s current partner, Melanie Humble, who had blessed his life abundantly for the past three years. The two had been looking forward to a Christmas vacation trip to England, Humble’s homeland, and now the man she loved deeply was gone.

Music may have been the accompaniment to Jeff’s life, but it was not the whole of it. 

A Maryland native who found his way to Florida via Florida State, he had taught science in Wakulla County before joining the staff at the Apalachicola National Estuarine Research Reserve, where he spearheaded, like Seminole leader Osceola atop his Appaloosa horse Renegade, the educational programs.

Just a day before the ribbon cutting, Jeff and Melanie had met with Principal Danielle Rossen and staff at Franklin County High School, to plan the many field trips and educational outings that students would make during the upcoming school year to ANERR.

This dedication to his educational mission had been tested during the last several months, after Jeff, 63, learned he had a cancer that would require a grueling regimen of chemotherapy at the Mayo Clinic in Jacksonville.

So on Sundays, he would finish his concerts at the Half Shell Dockside, and then drive to Jacksonville for his first day of treatment Monday, and then drive back to Franklin County with the potion in a saddle bag for a second day of treatment Tuesday, and a dive back into his commitment to students.

He lived to see Olivia, 21, become a nurse, and Audrey, 24, flourish in Acworth, Georgia. But he will attend only in spirit the November 2025 wedding of his youngest daughter to Christopher Cook, of Holt.

By then his ashes will likely have been cast into the waters off the coast of the Florida State University Coastal and Marine Laboratory at St. Teresa.