My Father-My Dad

MY FATHER, MY DAD

Standing on the narrow cracked cement pier, overlooking Lake Michigan, I remembered my early childhood, and my dad.

         “Okay, children, go get your swimming suits on and don’t dawdle. We are going to the lake for supper and a swim.”

         He was a large man, with thick dark wavy hair. He intimidated me as a little girl. After all, anytime I did anything considered, “bad” by my mother, the threat, “Just wait until your father gets home. Then you’re going to get it,” had me on edge many afternoons. Sometimes I did get it, but usually just a stern talk sufficed.

         My father worked hard in downtown Chicago as a banker, and looking back, I realize that during the cold winter months he probably never felt the sun on his face. He left for work, from our North suburban home, in the early morning hours and arrived home long after the sun had set.

         However, on the weekends, my father went away for a while and in his place stood my dad. He looked the same, but he was different. This man smiled, played, and enjoyed life. He fulfilled obligations from the list of chores waiting for his attention, and then, it was playtime.

         “Are you ready? We’re leaving for the harbor in five minutes.”

         How many times had I heard these words in my young years? We owned a sailboat, and suddenly father, during the week, became dad and captain of the sailing vessel on the weekend. We reached the Willmette Harbor and drove down the bumpy red brick road to the parking lot.  Expectancy and excitement hung in the air, though we sailed the boat every weekend.

         Grownups and children sautered in and out of the yacht club, while someone yelled, “Dingy,” from the dock. A small motor boat putted up to the slip, picking people up and taking them out to their sailboats.

         Reaching deep into his kaki Bermuda shorts, Dad found money in his pocket.
         “Go to the clubhouse and buy four hamburgers, and then go to the hut and get us four Coca Colas. Kati, you better let Tom hold the money, since he is older.”  Tom grabbed the money and off we ran.
         “Come right back,” I heard my mother’s voice trail off in the distance. Running into the white clubhouse, the smell of grilled hamburgers permeated the air. We ordered four and watched while they put a squirt of ketchup and two pickle slices on each one, wrapped them tight in aluminum foil and dropped them into a white paper sack.

         “Come on, lets go get the pop,” Tom would call and run ahead of me down the hill to the small shanty  that held the bright red pop machine.

         “Here Kati, you put in the dimes and I will get the pop when it comes out.”  It was an important job for a little girl, making me feel older. One dime at a time rewarded us with dark green icy Coke bottles. Racing back to the dock, me holding the bag of precious hamburgers and Tom balancing the pop bottles, we had done our job well. We met our parents at the dock as my dad yelled in his booming voice, “Dingy!”  The motor boat sputtered to the dock, followed by smoke filled gas fumes. My dad’s strong hand reached out for mine and half pulled me into the little boat. Then we were off, starting another adventure on Lake Michigan. The dingy pulled up next to our sailboat, Nimbus, but before we could get out, we snapped the protective canvas off. Once again, the scent of boat varnish and canvas greeted us. My dad and Tom hopped over into the boat, and then again, my dad’s large hand reached over to help my mom and me. We thanked the dingy driver and he sputtered away to help others.

         We did the usual preparations for our evening outing. We did not put the sails up, but took our out-board motor, hooked it on the back of the boat, dipping the blades into the dark water. My dad, with his strong hands, grabbed the black handled rope that started the motor and pulled on it five or six times until it finally started, spewing gas fumes and smoke into the air.

         Pulling up the metal anchor, my dad maneuvered our boat between other anchored vessels while we sat on wood seats on each side of the boat that doubled as storage areas. We sped up after leaving the harbor, bouncing against the small waves as we passed the pier, with a misty spray flying in our faces. After the long hot humid Chicago day, the air was exhilarating.  The noise of the motor and the slapping of the waves against the side of the boat, drown out any other noises, and separated us from the rest of the world.

         After enjoying the ride, my dad found a place to drop anchor off the beach area.
         “Let’s get your life jackets on and you can go swim.”  He tied on bulky orange life jackets and Tom and I jumped over board into the cool murky lake water. We swam up to the small sandy beach and waved to mom and dad while they sipped on ice-cold tea in blue metal tumblers. We played in the sand and swam with schools of guppies that passed by.

         “Time for supper.”  Tom and I swam to the side of the boat and hung onto the  until dad pulled us up unto the deck. The air was cool as the life jackets fell to the floor and we snuggled into oversized green and red stripped towels. Mom handed us each a plate with a foil wrapped burger and other goodies from home, including carrot sticks, olives, potato chips and a large chocolate chip cookie. Though the hamburger was luke-warm, the dinner was better than any served in the finest restaurants of Chicago. We shivered and ate, watching the sky go pale, and then dark, with constant gentle lapping of the waves against the boat. Could life be any better, on this simple summer night?

         My parents are now gone, and Tom and I are grown with families of our own. As I stand on the old pier over looking the harbor and Lake Michigan, I imagine I hear my dad yelling, “Dingy,” and I once more see his gentle large hand reaching out to me, and my eyes fill with tears.