By Roxanne Roberts
Washington Post Staff Writer
Thursday, June 15, 2006; C01

Washington just got a lot quieter.

Some guys mumble through life. Some converse. Phil Merrill blared through seven decades, usually at the top of his lungs. He talked loud, argued loud, and -- this is key -- laughed loud.

The publisher-businessman-philanthropist, who disappeared from his sailboat on Saturday, was a bold, exuberant bundle of energy, someone who never faded into the woodwork. You always knew when he was in the room. Heck, "you always knew when he was in the room next door," says Diana McLellan, who worked at his Washingtonian magazine for seven years.

He was born in Baltimore, but could have walked off the pages of a Henry James novel: The optimistic, determined, brash, curious American full of ideas and opinions. He was self-made and down-to-earth, and applied those qualities to his passions, including but not limited to newspapers, magazines, politics, banking, philanthropy and his beloved sailing.

"He was voluble and argumentative and had amazing intellectual energy," says Chuck Conconi, who worked alongside Merrill for 15 years as Washingtonian's editor at large. "There was no subject that he didn't seem to know a lot about -- and wasn't shy about letting you know."

They had neighboring offices, and it wasn't unusual to hear Merrill shouting into the phone and pounding on his desk. Once there were a noise complaint from an upper floor. "Some people were a little intimidated," Conconi says. "The rest of us who knew him were aware it was just the way he was. There wasn't any meanness in him in any way."

Maybe not, but he was a bull in Washington's china shop, often aggressive and undiplomatic, which rubbed plenty of people the wrong way. Not that it mattered much: From the beginning, he had his own ideas about how things should work and was right more often than not. He got his education at Cornell, stopped briefly in New York City, then came back to Maryland, where he juggled publishing and politics and made a fortune. In 1979, he bought Washingtonian magazine and launched himself into the orbit of this town.

"Phil understood that Washington would give you anything that you take from it and he took it all: money, power, fame and friendship," says publisher Bill Regardie, who knew Merrill for 30 years. "But he also understood that with that came a greater responsibility to give back, and he did."

The standouts: $4 million to the Paul H. Nitze School of Advanced International Studies, $10 million to the University of Maryland College of Journalism, $7.5 million to the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. He seemed equally proud of Washingtonian's annual awards ceremony highlighting the people -- big and small -- who make the city a better place to live.

"He was boisterous and self-confident, and people who didn't know him well might think that made him hard to work for," says Washingtonian Editor Jack Limpert, who worked for Merrill for 27 years. "Not true. People stayed with him because he was very smart, very professional, and he was interested in long-term value, not short-term results."

The magazine gave Merrill entree into Washington society, and he gave Washington the meat and potatoes of service journalism -- top doctors, best restaurants, best neighborhoods. But his favorite stories were the how and why of this complicated city.

"He just wanted people to understand that when you looked at something in Washington, it has a history, a past and a story to tell," explains Lynne Cheney. The vice president's wife was an academic two decades ago when she began writing for the magazine at Merrill's urging. They shared a passion for history; he was particularly fascinated by the historical border disputes that determined America's boundaries. "Phil had looked at this deeply . Who knew? Phil did."

Despite his millions and fancy titles, Merrill retained a childlike quality that made the bluster sometimes endearing. Last month, feature writer Brooke Lea Foster and a pal ran into Merrill while headed out the door to celebrate the friend's 30th birthday. Merrill cautioned them not to become "boring" adults. Most people start acting mature around 40, he told them, but he still felt like a teenager inside. "Make sure you still go out and play," the 72-year-old counseled. "I do. You know what I mean? I really do."

This rare combination of intellect, drive and playfulness made him at once irritating, lovable and irresistible to many of Washington's most influential names. He had friends from every corner of the world; guests at a June 4 party at his Eastern Shore home included the Cheneys, Colin and Alma Powell, University of Maryland President Dan Mote, former CIA head Jim Woolsey and lawyer Brendan Sullivan.

"You really get to know someone when you're sailing on a ketch in the middle of the ocean," says Bill McSweeny, a friend and sailing buddy for 25 years. "He was a great companion. He had a wonderful range. Dorothy and I are moderate liberals, and he was a great conservative. Somehow we could always find an outspoken middle ground. You could argue about issues. With Phil, it was always fun to really get down to the nitty-gritty and hug and kiss at the end."

About three years ago, Regardie was in Merrill's office and asked, "Phil, what makes you tick?" "He looked at me, and he got this tight smile on his face and he said, 'Tick, tick, tick, tick,' like 'You're never going to find out.' "

Perhaps the only people who completely understood Merrill were his wife, Ellie, and their three children. He was devoted to them, and they adored him back -- although they could never quite persuade him to talk less and listen more.

"I was always most impressed by how much his wife and children loved him," Conconi says. "I've spent a lot of time in Washington around powerful people who have sacrificed their families in this obsessive need to be elected or appointed to something. Here is a man who achieved great position of power and a fortune, and yet had a very normal family and very normal family life."

Merrill was on the Eastern Shore last weekend, on his boat on a perfect sailing day, when he disappeared.

"It's truly a great loss," McSweeny says. About four years ago, the two men were standing on a boat deck together, putting out to sea. "He looked up at me and said, 'Isn't this the most wonderful way to live?' "