I got to know you because Greyhound fucked up.

Last year, I took a bus out to Kinetic for its third year and found myself stuck in Columbus when I missed my connection. Exuro, good-natured guy that he is, came and picked me up and drove me straight to the site where I arrived a day ahead of most of the other teachers for the event. I was a little disappointed that I wasn't joining in the merry-making that night at Koi Pound, but it wound up being a fantastic opportunity to hang out at Hannon's and get to meet the family that ran the property in addition to hanging out with the early arrivals for Kinetic's infrastructure.

We spent the afternoon setting up signs and kicking back beers, playfully shooting the shit and that evening we sat inside the organizer's cabin drinking and talking about the merits of GoPros. You were there. I remembered seeing you before but never really having a name to put to the face. I can't for the life of me remember what we talked about, but I remember that you were a joyful presence, sharing belly laughs and funny stories into the wee hours of the night.

I remember the next day when the rest of the teachers arrived feeling lucky that I'd gotten to spend that night out there first. I love doers and that was the night to hang out with the doers.

Your name was Ryan Allen, but I knew you as Whistles (to my deep regret I never asked you for the story behind it).

This year you were one of the first people I saw onsite and you greeted me with a warm hug. We talked about Firedrums and its rotating sites and your hopes that the event would be able to stay at the venue it had returned to this year. We didn't get much time to talk at the event itself--we both were always busy with something else. It was back at Koi Pound that we really got a chance to hang out and catch up and now I'm even more appreciative that I took that extra day in Cincinnati after the event.

Sunday night as we fed the dozens of flowbos hanging out at Koi Pound with gigantic bearcat pizzas, you, Hex, and I chatted about Ben Rastello. You both told stories about your experiences at Giggle Dome and your regrets for his family.

Yesterday we both had to work, typing away furiously on our laptops throughout the morning and early afternoon before finally resigning ourselves to hunger.

We climbed up the hill to Chipotle with Lorq and Daddy, talking about our projects for the coming year, our highlights of the festival, and making a living in the flow arts. As we descended that hill, I asked about your son and whether you'd ever bring him out to a flow festival. You talked with pride about him starting circus school and how much he was loving the trampoline. Maybe next year you'd take him to a festival, you said. I listened with a mixture of jealousy and warm fuzzies, imagining you and he around the fire circle eating grilled cheese with Teddy and laughing at people playing fire tag and thinking about how much I was looking forward to the day when I might do the same with my own future child.

We got back and you grudgingly accepted it was time to head home, to leave your flow friends and return to the default world. You had a long drive ahead of you and I remember you saying you expected to get home at nearly 4 in the morning. I gave you a big hug and we said we'd see each other at Firedrums.

Today on my own bus home to DC, I saw a friend posting a note that you'd died today in a car wreck. My heart stopped. People always say that as a metaphor for shock, like you have a moment of pause that feels like your heart must have stopped beating for a moment. Mine really did. There was only one thought in my head: there's no way. It had to be a mistake. Somebody mistyped something. There was a misunderstanding. We'd lost Ben at Kinetic, maybe someone had mistakenly believed it was you instead. Then more posts began filling my feed. I tried to text Hex, but somehow I couldn't bring myself to type out the words, "did something happen to Whistles?"

It's called denial. It'll get you through a lot. It got me through a whole ten minutes.

Then, on the Greyhound bus in front of God and everyone I began bawling my eyes out.

The flow arts are growing. We have a generation of people who've entered it with stars in their eyes, wanting to be rock stars. A lot of them see the flow arts as a way to get the attention they missed out on growing up--I know because I'm one of them. And then there are the people who studiously work away to create incredible events were we can come to teach and perform. These are the people who fight the battles that nobody else will ever know were won for them. These are the people that think of the million things that could go wrong so that the one or two that do aren't tragedies. These are the people who are in it for the joy of enabling people to get together and have fun as a community.

You were one of those people, Whistles. You weren't flashy. You were humble to a fault yet awe-inspiring at making shit happen. You praised other peoples' efforts without ever tooting your own horn. You knew the value of a good laugh and when a serious conversation needed to happen. You were already looking forward to how you'd do it better next year while celebrating a good job done this year.

I admired you and laughed with you. I trusted you and loved hanging out with you. And I can't help but let the terrible thought creep into my head that of all the things that could've gone wrong after the event, why did it have to be you? Of the 600 people who were at Kinetic this year, I'd trade just about any of them to have you back. I feel like an awful human being for thinking it but right now I just don't care. You are one of our unsung heroes and I kills me knowing that most of the people who went to your event may never know how much they owe you for the weekend they just had.

I miss you so much already. And more than anything I feel so sad that your son will never get to take in a fire festival with his amazing father. He'll never get to know you firsthand the way we did.

So, I'll make you a deal, Whistles. If I ever get a chance, I'll tell your son what I knew of his old man. How proud you were of him and how much I respected you and enjoyed your company. It'll never be enough, but I hope he'll get a glimmer of what a rock star you were. And I hope he'll be proud that a part of you lives on in him.

Rest In Peace, Whistles. We love you, man :'(