Growing up, you were a “doing” dad. Always fixing, building, cleaning, grilling and planting. I suppose it was the Eagle Scout in you, or maybe the devout Catholic.
I seldom knew your thoughts. You shared few words, memorable phrases: “Waste not, want not.” “The early bird gets the worm.” “There is no time like the present.”
I suspect that you invented your version of fatherhood. I knew you were the oldest of seven, and at a young age butchered chickens to help feed your family. Providing was your calling in life.
In the ’70s, mornings began with a familiar ritual. At 4 a.m., an alarm clock set off a predictable sequence: water running, shower door closing, the hum of a Remington shaver. Pouring cereal, a whistling kettle and the thwap of The Wall Street Journal signaled your work journey.
By the time I ambled downstairs, you were gone, but your Brut lingered. Sixteen hours later, my sister and I awaited the nightly hug called the “bone crusher with a tickle on top.”
In your absence, I explored the garage. Everything had its place. Clipped to the drywall were vertical displays of fishing rods. Christmas boxes sat neatly stacked. Paint cans awaited projects.
I snuck pieces of rock salt from the water softener and climbed atop your tool bench. Mouth burning, my fingers traced over mason’s levels, steel chisels and jagged saws.
The day before a fishing trip was a rite. All the gear would be laid out for inspection. Tackle boxes with pliers and lead weights. Jigs and lures. Rods with fresh line and hooks.
Car trunk packed, and dazed by Dramamine, I sat quietly in the Datsun. Unaccustomed to the front seat, mom’s seat, I clung to a metal thermos. In the fog, streetlights blazed like stars. Davey’s Locker lay ahead.
Clambering aboard the Westerner, I memorized our ticket numbers which were carved into the wooden railings. We had all the necessities — Mom’s salami, tomato and mayo sandwiches, pretzels, lemonade and foil-wrapped chocolate bars.
As the boat crescendoed over waves, seagulls screamed in chase, and the captain made radar promises over the loudspeaker: bass, bonito and sculpin — or at the very least, mackerel and pelicans.
You told me to keep my eyes on the horizon. Good advice for fishing, and life.
From atop the deck, I watched the fishermen — some seasoned, some green — literally and figuratively. Some alone, others with friends. Some sober, others not.
Everyone hoped for a good catch. Everyone waited for a turn at the bow, and maybe a chance at the jackpot.
You kept extra weights in your front pocket for the kid who inevitably didn’t have the right gear, and whose lines drifted over others. Sacrilege.
Radios crackled with baseball scores and mariachi horns. Sunburns flared. Burlap bags sat in blood-soaked puddles. You remained quiet, always looking out.
Uncles Ernie and Jack puffed on cigars. One wiggled his dentures while cradling lead sinkers in his mouth. He told unrepeatable jokes.
The lone girl, I visited the bait tank, fascinated by the darting shimmers, starfish specimens and occasional dislodged fisheye that would float by. Thrusting my hand into the cold water, I grabbed an anchovy, baited the hook, and quietly apologized to its third eye.
The first fish I ever caught with you was a barracuda. I recall the shocking pull as the fish violently seized the line and zoomed latitudinally, seemingly across the globe.
You would not help me reel it in.
Straining, I cranked slowly, desperately hoping I would not embarrass you. Fisherman glanced sideways, approvingly.
Stunned, I brought the barracuda to the surface. Its strength evaporated outside the water’s atmosphere. You treated it like a prize. Twenty-two inches, terrifying teeth, we brought it home.
Summer over summer, we made this trip, until somehow, we didn’t.
Not everyone has perfect childhood memories. I’m grateful I do. Now, we look at the horizon together, me and my son, you and mom, my sister and her children.
Thank you, Dad. We love you.
Carr is a communications and marketing professional and lives in San Diego. Her father, Ron, lives in Orange County.
