Most of us had known of the fabled steam tunnels beneath West Point, but very few had found them. Nestor Michael Sanchez did. He discovered an entry point, a crevice concealed by crumbling sheetrock in the basement wall beneath our barracks. He introduced us to a Narnia of massive heated pipes that stretched in narrow tangled tunnels below the campus, seemingly for miles. Leading the more daring or foolhardier among us into this fabulous unexplored territory, Nestor transformed a West Point winter from colorless monotony to excitement and superheated adventure. Looking back, we surely needed it. In a place of structure and discipline, he seized the rare opportunities for exuberance and created priceless memories. Despite our pains to remain covert, the tunnel incursions were in due course detected by facility engineers. The basement entrance was permanently sealed, and the steam tunnels morphed from Narnia to Brigadoon. But the entrance had served its unintended purpose, because we remember who took us through it. We also remember that, as a first-year cadet (plebe), Nestor participated in covering the mysterious blank face on the immense mess hall mural with a cardboard cutout and in hanging a spirit banner from the top of the scaffolding surrounding the Trophy Point flagpole. And we remember Nestor’s guitar and voice during evening study break jam sessions. He did not lack talent or enthusiasm—he had mountains of both. His rendering of Jose Feliciano performing “Light My Fire” earned him a richly deserved nickname, “Nestor Feliciano.” Music evokes strong emotions and memories, and we hear him still. He had heart. Studying was important, and so was jamming. 

When we were cadets, “outstanding” was a throwaway word, used far too frequently at West Point. But Nestor “stands out” in our memories because of his natural vitality, genuine warmth and very human concern for others. I never saw him censure a plebe. He wasted no time on criticism or negativity because that was not Nestor Sanchez. Rod Azama remembers the delicious chocolates Nestor always shared from care packages sent by the Sanchez Sr. candy business. In one of our precious elective classes during cow year (third year), we had an assignment to design and model a bridge truss from aluminum foil and then destructively test it in the materials lab. The instructor, Major Bob Giuliano, suffered from a heart condition and would be medically discharged that year. We were all aware of this, and Nestor distracted him and the class by concealing a long steel rod in his aluminum foil design—an indestructible truss! Had it not been tongue-in-cheek, Nestor’s truss design would have beaten even the textbook-perfect solution submitted by our top graduate, Mike Stafford. We knew Nestor’s symbolic resistance to destruction was meant to encourage our instructor, and it surely helped, but Nestor was inconsolable when Bob Giuliano died the next year. 

As a cadet, Nestor was tall, stately and impressive. Unlike many, he did not yell commands, nor did he need to. And he was a gifted natural athlete, recruited to play both corps squad basketball and baseball at West Point. He played baseball all four years, starting the first year as a pitcher and finishing his last year playing all infield positions. Nestor was a team player, but he was not invested in winning at all costs. After the first year he discontinued corps squad combat basketball, coached by the controversial Bobby Knight and concentrated on baseball for all four years at the Academy. In sport as in life, he was graceful and ready with a quick and devastating response. Nestor would turn a line drive into an elegant triple play before the base runners understood their sudden peril. Nestor never boasted about his corps squad status—he just went to practices and games and then came back to the company area. But the letters on his uniform jacket enlightened us. Nestor was a man of many well-integrated parts. 

In our firstie (fourth) year, West Point allowed us to spread our wings, and we began to think about life after the Academy. We chose our branches of the Army, received our class rings, purchased cars, graduated, and received our commissions as second lieutenants in the Army. Nestor did all of these things too, except for the Army commission. He had endured acute chest pain, which surfaced during his commissioning physical examination. We were stunned to learn the doctors had discovered that Nestor suffered from a dangerous heart condition, a chronic inflammation of the lining of his heart. It was serious enough to utterly block his commission as an Army officer. Nestor’s life after the Academy would be much different than those of his classmates. It seemed that his heart, the remarkable heart we admired so much, wanted Nestor to follow a different path. And, typically, without fanfare he gracefully changed his expectations, guarded his heart, and reentered the civilian world. Nestor returned to South Florida, the place from which he was so proud to have received his appointment to West Point. Instead of an Infantry or Artillery career, Nestor crafted a career in construction and management. Major Giuliano would have been proud. He launched and ran his own successful general contracting business for many years. Nestor Sanchez married twice and had five children. His guarded heart did not fail him. He succumbed to leukemia on October 26, 2018, in Tampa, FL. His widow is Martine Brouckaert Sanchez. With his family, we mourn Nestor’s loss and treasure the memory of our much-talented and greatly admired classmate and friend.

— George McIlvaine, Nestor’s Company E-1 classmate