Sailing with Dad,
Thinking back to a sunny summer afternoon, I recall an enjoyable starboard tack heading west. Although I’m still unsure sure what came over me. What ever it was it did involve a moment of mental conflict. Looking your way I wondered could he really swim. I was uncertain, and could not remember ever witnessing this skill.
Yet there he was sailing in his speedo. And why on earth was he the only person I can think of who wore a competition swimsuit to go sailing. At the time it was more than my young mind could tolerate. I thought to my self, for goodness sakes every one else is wearing shorts!
But there he was looking so content; Old Style in one hand, tiller in the other. Where other people on the boat? I can’t recall, but it seems there were?
None of this mattered; the important thing at hand was a sequence of actions that needed perfection.
One hand for the Old Style, (and he gave it so willingly I must have asked really nicely), second hand for the center of his chest, because there lay the precarious center of balance he enjoyed at the edge of the boat.
In my mind over and over, "Take his beer and push him over the side”.
The expression on his face as he fell into the drink at the Busse Woods Forest Preserve retention pond (other wise know as Schaumburg’s effluence) was infinitely priceless.
Foggily I remember not looking back to see if he had safely bobbed back up as I acquired the helm. What I can recall with clarity was the importance of stowing your Old Style carefully so it would be there for him when I decided to tack and make for shore.
That moment of triumph only pales to the sum of times I have had the pleasure of sailing with him.
Also in the end it made for a great story at his expense. Here is to you Dad, wishing you the very best of birthdays!
Yet there he was sailing in his speedo. And why on earth was he the only person I can think of who wore a competition swimsuit to go sailing. At the time it was more than my young mind could tolerate. I thought to my self, for goodness sakes every one else is wearing shorts!
But there he was looking so content; Old Style in one hand, tiller in the other. Where other people on the boat? I can’t recall, but it seems there were?
None of this mattered; the important thing at hand was a sequence of actions that needed perfection.
One hand for the Old Style, (and he gave it so willingly I must have asked really nicely), second hand for the center of his chest, because there lay the precarious center of balance he enjoyed at the edge of the boat.
In my mind over and over, "Take his beer and push him over the side”.
The expression on his face as he fell into the drink at the Busse Woods Forest Preserve retention pond (other wise know as Schaumburg’s effluence) was infinitely priceless.
Foggily I remember not looking back to see if he had safely bobbed back up as I acquired the helm. What I can recall with clarity was the importance of stowing your Old Style carefully so it would be there for him when I decided to tack and make for shore.
That moment of triumph only pales to the sum of times I have had the pleasure of sailing with him.
Also in the end it made for a great story at his expense. Here is to you Dad, wishing you the very best of birthdays!
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