There are people who bond with people almost instantly. They are genuine, approachable and likable.

Dr. John Bert was one of them. He was a friend from the moment I met him, and although we rarely crossed paths, whenever we did we picked up where we left off. It could have been several months or even a couple of years since we had last talked. It didn’t matter; we were instantly on the same wavelength.

John died last Monday. The news reached me in an email from his wife, Terri. I called, left a voice message following John’s recording that no one was home except the cat who had better sense than to answer the phone. John did playful things like that and I laughed to myself.

When Terri called back, she asked if I wanted the full story or an abbreviated version. I asked for the complete story, knowing that if John had been on the phone he would have kept the details short and focused on the positive. Reality can be hard to face, but then it can also serve to illustrate an individual’s true mettle.

Using medical terms and names that reflected Terri’s intimate knowledge of her husband’s condition, she described John’s battle with rare forms of cancer and the ups and downs of that fight. There were victories only to be stolen by discoveries of yet another cancer.

John was an obstetrician. He loved his work, and as I have learned his patients loved him. John wanted to go back to work and Monday was the first day on the job in months. Terri checked in on him during the day and she was happy that he was happy. But at the end of the day when he didn’t arrive home, and she hadn’t received a message that he would be late, she became concerned. When he didn’t answer his cell phone her level of anxiety increased. Early that evening police called and she learned John had slumped over the steering wheel sending his car off Warwick Neck Avenue and into boulders edging the park overlooking Warwick Cove. The car flipped over more than once. Nurses from nearby Cornerstone Adult Services rushed to the scene, as did motorists. First responders administered CPR and sought to revive him. And although John wasn’t pronounced dead until he arrived at the hospital, Terri believes he died instantly behind the wheel.

I didn’t know what to say, only that it was terrible.

But that’s not what I’ll remember about John.

John was our “secret weapon” who would get us to Bermuda, safely and with our health. John and I were members of the six-man crew that raced to the island in the 1999 Marion-to-Bermuda race aboard Mistral, the 39-foot boat owned by Leo Clavin. This was the first Marion-to-Bermuda race, which took upwards of four days to complete, for some of us. Having a doctor aboard gave us all a measure of confidence that made it easier to cope with the reality that you’re a tiny dot in a huge ocean and hundreds of miles from land-based assistance.

Here was a companion and a professional we could count on. He carried a black bag and was equipped to handle anything short of open-heart surgery.

As I have learned in the days since his death, he inspired the same feeling of confidence among his patients.

“I will never forget how we laughed in the delivery room,” said Lisa Mardenli. It was more than 22 years ago that John was there for Julian’s arrival Aug. 29, 1994. This was her second child, and Lisa knew this was going to be different, yet John insisted the baby would weigh in at 8.5 pounds.

Lisa said those pre-delivery visits were special.

“He made it an event to go see him…he took the stress away from it, like you were his only patient.”

When Julian arrived, he tipped the scales at nearly 10 pounds. John refused to believe it and asked the nurses to double-check the reading. Lisa insisted, “I told you so,” and all John could say was “Oh, my God.” The laugher followed.

“He took away all the worry of being a mom in the delivery room,” said Lisa.

Our race to Bermuda was un-stressful, too. The crew bonded. There was a lot of time between trimming sails and following a course determined by compass and sextant readings [the latest navigational equipment was not permitted in the division we chose to compete] to share stories and get to know each other. John and I were paired on watches, which meant taking turns on the wheel while the rest of the crew slept. Starlight reflecting off the dark waves was our highway.

I learned of John’s love for art, photography, and for the life that he helped bring into this world.

And as enduring as the picture he took, is that first morning light where the vastness of the Atlantic showed itself. It stretched to every corner of the horizon, and there in the distance was a phalanx of clouds offering the prospect of more wind and the excitement of this journey we made together.