Ron Rubadeau sailed his last race on August 3, 2022. His was a full life.
Ron moved around a lot as a kid. As a young boy, he, his scholar dad Duane, and his resourceful mom Lois moved into a leaky post-war aluminum Quonset hut in San Francisco. In the 1950s, he squeezed into the back of a Buick with an expanding brood of siblings, moving to small college towns in Washington, Montana, and Ohio. Along the way, Ron washed down with Kool-Aid his mom’s bologna-and-pickle Wonder Bread sandwiches, read Mad Magazine, and got Cs in grade school. He wore Buddy Holly glasses, wingtip shoes, and a flat-top hairstyle cut by his mom. In the 1960s, the family moved to New York State. Transformed from a gawky teen into a confident, intelligent heartthrob, Ron met and married his college sweetheart, Donna, nodding at her from behind the double bass he played on Saturday nights in dim, smoky jazz clubs. In the early 1970s, Ron and Donna followed the Rubadeau clan to British Columbia, where they put down roots.
Ron built things. He built a career in the education system: as a teacher, assistant coordinator of special education, director of student support services, and finally as the superintendent of schools in the Central Okanagan. He built programs that inspired: school assessment programs and student achievement programs; learn-to-sail and adaptive sailing programs for the Central Okanagan Sailing Association. He built a dynasty of sailors. He built things out of wood: decks and docks, playhouses, rocking horses. He built up networks: of friends and colleagues; of mentees, teachers, and administrators; of coaches and race directors; of musicians.
He built up collections, too: jazz and blues records, then eight-tracks, cassettes, and eventually CDs; one-liners, puns, groaners, bait-and-switch jokes, and zingers; tall tales, all unverifiable pre-Internet; XXL Hawaiian shirts and navy blue shorts; Disney movies and Hollywood musicals on VHS; hundreds of articles and columns scrawled on yellow foolscap; overhead transparencies for low-tech presentations he would enliven with a kazoo, guitar, or banjo; so many local, national, and international awards for sailing, educational leadership, and community service. He got rid of most of the material things. He kept the zingers and the tall tales.
Ron spoke: at podiums, in news studios, in classrooms, on long car trips, at the dinner table. He quizzed listeners and listed off trivia items his children affectionately dubbed “Stupid Amazing Facts.” He asked and answered rhetorical questions. He reminisced: about pods of whales that had swum near his boat and about the low fog of San Francisco. He lamented numbskulls: dingdong pedestrians who ambled down the sidewalk four abreast; dumb*ss analysts who conflated correlation and causation. He expressed admiration: for musicians who nailed hot riffs and bands that were tight; for innovators; for underdogs; for clever witticisms by late-night hosts. He championed the accomplishments of his cherished loved ones, including his wife of 52 years (Donna) and their children (Devin and Julie; Ksan and Jun Hong), his siblings (Tom/Annette, Dave/Karen, Paul/Lin, Jon/Suzie, and Susan/Ron Tindale), and especially his adored grandchildren (Ryan and Tyler), who lit up Gramps’ life.
Ron lazed around sometimes. He nourished a lifelong TV addiction, spending hours on the sofa cozily cocooned in his crocheted blankie. He took long naps and read whodunits in front of televised sports, MeTV, and Turner Classics. He hogged the remote and parroted commercials. He shushed everyone to hear the news. He wolfed down fast food and guzzled enormous bottles of cola.
He also got involved and saw things to fruition. He volunteered his time and his expertise. He rose early and completed to-do lists before 11 AM. He joined his staff for volleyball, softball, and dragon boating. He organized sailing regattas and became an international principal race officer. He earned his doctorate. He passed down skills. He researched and assessed situations, listened to concerns, sought input, deliberated, and made tough decisions. He sat on committees and spearheaded initiatives. He chaired the Kelowna BC Summer Games and led over 22,000 students and staff to a Guinness World Record in simultaneous tree planting. He cut through red tape and instituted education reforms. He rescued stranded boaters and drowning swimmers from a stormy Okanagan Lake. He wore costumes to raucous parties, and he reworked song lyrics, both intentionally and because he couldn’t remember the words. He participated in aquafit classes and crafted beautiful artworks out of stained glass. He scripted musicals. He raked and bagged more than his share of maple leaves. He loaded his beloved bass into the pick-up truck and played in community theatre productions, with choral groups, at the hospital, in care homes, and at Hospice House, where he, too, would eventually reside.
In his 73 years, Ron entertained, exasperated, and enthralled a lot of people. “I yam what I yam,” he would declare, and indeed, he was. He is very sadly missed by his friends and colleagues and painfully mourned by his loving family. We deeply thank the many dedicated and extraordinary medical professionals and volunteers who supported Ron through twelve years of health challenges. The care at Kelowna General Hospital, BC Cancer-Kelowna Centre, and Hospice House was exceptional.
To honour Ron’s memory, in lieu of flowers, a donation in his name to the Okanagan Humane Society or another charity of your choice would be appreciated. At Ron’s request, there will be no public service. Instead, pour yourself a cold one and think of him. Please share your Ron Rubadeau anecdotes by e-mailing them to the family at [email protected].