Jim Daniells Obituary

RIP, James Thurston Daniells. 8/7/11

Jim Daniells, known by many for his robust laugh, his effortless golf drive and his passion for fishing, died unexpectedly last Sunday, August 7. He was 48.

James Thurston Daniells was born August 6, 1963 at Stanford Hospital in Palo Alto, Calif. to Barbara John and Jerold Compton Daniells. He attended school in the Bay Area and graduated in 1981 from San Mateo High School. The last few years of high school, and for a few years afterwards, Daniells—who collected recorded tapes of Grateful Dead concerts—played drums in a Dead cover band titled the Cosmic Muffin.

Chris Martin, who played bass guitar in the Cosmic Muffin, recalls having a special connection with Daniells. Bassists and drummers have a special relationship because they hold down the rhythm, he said.

In August 2010, Martin organized a Cosmic Muffin reunion in the Bay Area. Daniells still played the drums as precisely as Martin remembered.

“The way he sat on the drums was in such a regal mater. I think the seat in a drum set is called a throne, but he really made it a throne,” said Martin.

Following his graduation, Daniells attended some classes at Canada College in Redwood City before moving to San Diego in 1987. There, he played a role in many of the Daniells brothers’ entrepreneurial pursuits, from moving furniture to painting garages to managing ATM firms. His brothers recall Daniells’ people skills and his ability to find “a way to get the deal done.”

Daniells’ most recent entrepreneurial endeavor was with Torrey Pines Transportation, a limousine and car company that he and his brothers co-own and operate.

Daniells was a free spirit and found significance in Native American teachings and prayers, but his true passion was fishing. Daniells was first drawn to fly fishing and used to fish both sides of the Sierra Mountains, but he expanded his expertise and became skilled at deep sea and freshwater fishing.

“He could pull a fish out of any creek or any hole, and never met a kelp patty that he didn’t love,” said his brother, Brian Daniells.

Daniells shared his knowledge and expertise with the whole of the San Diego fishing community as the spokesman for Fishdope.com, reporting the daily weather conditions. Though he often released his fish back into the water, Daniells kept his finer catches, skinning and filleting them before distributing the freshly prepared meat in oversized Ziploc bags to his friends and family.

“He was in his own world when he was on the water,” said Pam Meiferdt, a friend of Daniells’. “He could channel fish like no other and it was always evident when he brought a boatload of fish home… [Fishing] was his religion.”

In 2009, Daniells reconnected with his high school sweetheart, Barbara “Boo” Bruce, via Facebook. She moved to San Diego from San Francisco and the two lived together with their dog, Kobe.

“Jim and I could finish each other’s sentences and talked of growing old together,” said Bruce. “He was magic to me."

Daniells is survived by his mother, Barbara Daniells of San Diego; and his brothers, Clay, of Orange County and Brian Daniells, of San Diego.

In addition, Daniells’ corneas were donated to the San Diego Eye Bank, and his skin, bones and fat were harvested for medical research.

In lieu of flowers, the family asks that friends and loved ones consider donating to the Jim Daniells’ Memorial Foundation, which aims to provide access to fishing for children who otherwise would not have the opportunity. The Foundation is funded through private donations and plans to use Daniells’ own extensive collection of fishing gear.

Daniells, a longtime member of Alcoholics Anonymous, enjoyed many years of healthy sobriety due in great part to the strength that AA provided him. Daniells was especially proud of being sober for his last month and, according to family, credited his success to his new Saturday men’s meeting.

A cleansing service is scheduled for 1 p.m., Sunday, Aug. 21 at Kate Sessions Park in Pacific Beach.

Calculating Life

In the wake of my family’s loss, I’m struggling to sort through my feelings. The problems is that emotions are not easily translated into words, and there’s no one thing that can describe the overwhelming nature of this all.

I’ve never previously dealt with death or loss. It was a concept to me, something that I heard about and read about and that I could conceptualize, but by which I had never truly been touched. But with a simple phone call last night, everything changed.

I cried. But then I stopped myself, grabbed a pen and started writing lists of everything I needed to do. Writing lists felt organized and as far removed from emotion as possible. I’ve never been one to allow myself to be very emotional. I don’t know how to process things so I subconsciously numb myself. I run as hard and as fast as I physically can. I write. I make lists.

But sometimes the numbness is just as painful. When I close my eyes or think about someone so near and dear to my heart, I can’t fully process everything.

I’m consumed with anger, that someone would so selfishly take their own life. I’m sure he considered the consequences of his actions, but he made the decision anyway. Now someone has to tell his aging mother that her youngest son is gone. Now someone has to piece together the broken bits of his life. Someone has to write an obituary and decide the next steps.

I’m sad and sorry that he was in such pain. I’m filled with guilt at having forgotten to call him on his birthday. I’m so sorry for those blind sighted innocents that were forced to play a part in his death, people who will be broken for the rest of their lives and feel guilt for something that was never their fault.

In the simplest of ways, I’m also happy though. If things were truly bad enough to motivate someone to take their own life, than I’m happy that he’s no longer in pain.

And I feel an overwhelming and instinctive love that overpowers most everything. I love him, despite the pain and the sorrow and the guilt.

No matter what I feel, though, it doesn’t really matter. Someone I love is gone and I will never be able to see them again. I will never hear their distinct radio-worthy voice at the other end of the line. I will never hold their hand or laugh with them. And I will never again open their tin foil-wrapped presents. The emptiness is something indigestible and it literally gives me a stomach ache.

He is gone. And I’m still at a loss at how to calculate it.

The government puts a value of a human life between seven and 10 million. I would give ten times that to bring him back. I would walk those 600 miles. I would do anything. But saying that doesn’t mean anything because I can’t. He’s gone.

Gone… But then again, matter cannot be created out of nothing. And matter can’t just disappear, either; it’s turned into energy of some sort, recycled and processed back into the universe. So from a religious or scientific perspective—either way, there is an energy in the universe that is my uncle.