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My best friend David was obese. This condition was to have more of an impact on both our lives than either of us might have imagined. It honed perspectives and fostered conflict.

We met through bridge - the card game. It is a sedentary pastime, intellectually engaging but bereft of value for fitness. We were both young, carefree, single and in the pyramid of bridge talent, firmly ensconced in the lowest tier. Bridge was the spark that ignited our friendship, the bond that held it together.

David was raised by his mother. His father, a brilliant neuropathologist, left David's mother and this country after a marriage that lasted just long enough to conceive a child.

His mother, a pharmacist, was determined to bring to her son what a father might. She took him camping, fishing, enrolled him in Scouts (which he loved and where he excelled) and enlightened him on one of her hobbies: bird-watching. (He noted a red-headed merganser on one of our fishing trips and recognized some species by their call.)

One day, David asked me about going fishing. We drove up north (to a place his mom had taken him), rented a boat and set out. A small craft holding a person of David's size (400 pounds, or about 180 kilograms) is subject to danger, more so than I was accustomed to. Every time David moved, I felt imperilled.

Normally at ease with water, I was, for the first time in my life, terrified to be in a small craft listing so dangerously. I am a good swimmer and he was not; this didn't add to my comfort level. I always carry a lifejacket, but confess to wearing it less than consistently. With David in the boat, I strapped it on.

When I communicated my sense of apprehension, he said it was "part of the deal."

When we returned safely to shore, I decided our maiden voyage was our last, at least with a small boat and his size.

Once during the dinner break in a bridge tournament, we went to a pizza restaurant. David ordered a large with all the toppings. The waitress turned away, but we called her back.

That was his order.

The remaining three of us split a medium.

Food was his only solace. No woman would look at him with more than a passing glance. He was obese. Food subjugated his thoughts and permeated every aspect of his life.

David refused to recognize his condition and its negative impact on his life and those around him. I grew increasingly irritated at the continuing friction it caused.

Once while heading to a bridge match, I parked about 90 metres away from the entrance to the bridge club.

He said: "Could you park a little farther away from the front door?"

"I never really thought about it," came my meek reply.

"Did it ever occur to you that I might have a heart attack marathoning it to the door?"

"Did it ever occur to you that this is a cakewalk for everyone else in the universe?" My docility was now abuse.

"It is a lousy 100 yards. Maybe you should think about that."

This exchange was, for me, the proverbial straw that broke the camel's back. We entered the club antagonistic toward each other. The group emerged victorious and prepared to rendezvous at the local watering hole for a celebratory lager.

"I won't be joining you for a drink, but I will be happy to drop you off. I am sure you can cop a ride home with someone," I said.

"What's the problem? We had a fabulous game. We carved them up like a Christmas turkey. I want to revel in one of our less-than-frequent conquests."

"I have had it with your weight. It deprives you of the mobility and opportunity to enjoy a full, rich life. It brings stress between us. It frightens me and I am not prepared to go on like this."

(I appropriated that last line from an ex-girlfriend's departing words to me.)

"Come on, it's my problem, not yours, and I want you there to verify my tales of triumph."

"Another time."

With that burden released, I went home alone. I was resolved to have nothing to do with him until he attempted change.

He would call me, ask if I wanted to play bridge. I asked if he was consulting a physician and, when he said no, like an SOB, I slammed down the phone. I was an antagonistic jerk; mad at him and mad at myself for subjecting my best friend to this malice.

He investigated the stomach stapling, but the surgeon insisted he drop 150 pounds before he would perform the surgery.

Eventually, with his mom's help, he got himself checked into her hospital. His diet was scant calories a day: All the carrot sticks he could eat and not much else. Maybe clear tea.

I visited him daily for six months and he did it. Lost the weight, had the surgery, kept it off. We had a big party to celebrate. Today, David weighs less than I do. He works out on his treadmill. He has turned his life around.

The cost of our conflict over his weight was our friendship. Yes, we exchange the odd e-mail, meet once a year at a friend's wedding or funeral, but as Paul McCartney said about a Beatles reunion: "You can't reheat a soufflé."

And still we remain tethered by a common bond, separated by time. I miss him, his friendship and the times in the boat.

I want to go fishing, even it if it was his mother's spot. Especially now that he weighs less than me.

Cameron French lives in suburban Toronto.