Cousteau Talents Were Wide-Ranging

Jacques Yves Cousteau was truly a giant on the world’s stage. As one of the lucky ones who worked for this icon, I remember him as a rare, complex individual, a tough boss but a fair one. Cousteau was a deep thinker, and his body language reflected this. In lighter moments, there was that special twinkle in his eye when he mulled over some secret, humorous thought.

To many, Jacques Cousteau in the flesh appeared slight of stature, almost frail. The truth was, he was wiry and plenty tough. At the time I wrote ABC-TV specials for him he was in his mid-60s and diving in frigid Antarctic waters. In the Caribbean, he thought nothing of swimming nearly a mile deep inside a dangerous underwater cave.

I’ve never known anyone who could cover as much territory so quickly as Cousteau: museum curator, engagement speaker, far-flung explorer, writer, filmmaker--the list is formidable. He was a man of movement, defying the world (and his employees) to keep up with him. One instant he was like a mistral, that mischief-bent, master wind of France; the very next he could be a gentle, embracing zephyr.

His friends and close associates called him “Jeke.” Most of his argonauts aboard the Calypso preferred “Captain.” The Captain was not known to suffer fools well, nor fatuous questions from probing reporters. If fans went overboard praising his underwater achievements, his crisp reply might be, “I prefer to be remembered as a philosopher.”

He might also be remembered as a poet. Jeke didn’t need me or other writers to shore him up. Indeed, he was never at a loss for words. Once he called me late at night with a vision of himself in the role of Prometheus, bringing a fiery torch down from heaven. We used that metaphor--and others supplied by Cousteau--in his next TV documentary.

Captain Cousteau left all of us with wonderful memories. I was a young filmmaker back then and honored that he gave me a step up on my career. Later, his sage advice inspired me to write a suspense novel about World War II and the French Resistance.

Most of all, I remember Jeke’s 63rd birthday party. After dinner, Cousteau blew out the candles on his cake, raised a champagne flute, and said, “A votre sante! May my next 20 years be my best.” They surely were, with a few more to spare. He left us at 87.

If Jacques Cousteau were a landlubber, he would deserve a resting place in the Valley of the Kings. But I suspect, as he so often reminded us, that he’d choose to return to the sea, that eternal place from which we all came.