sAUGUST 1975
Dad declared Saturdays our fishing day, and Mom would often join us. Today, it was just the two of us. I was still adjusting to our new home, missing my friends and family up north. On the other hand, gulf living brought many opportunities. Fishing, at least, was a perk. Though I was a decent swimmer, the summer release of "Jaws" had changed everything. It coincided with our move, fueling my irrational fear of sharks and other hungry sea creatures. The classic scene where Chief Brody first realizes the magnitude of the shark problem looped in my mind like a haunting trailer, with Roy Scheider's face etched with horror as he utters, "You're gonna need a bigger boat."
We left Ohio for warmer weather—Dad's heart condition didn't do well in the cold and shoveling snow—and the warm climate became our new home. At 15, I managed to form a protective steel bubble, a barrier to new friends and experiences, a clunky coping tool but comfort nonetheless during these changing times. Gifted with enormous grudge-making powers, I kept to myself and didn't really have much to do with adults, especially the parents. Aloof and withdrawn, I found refuge in my bedroom and spent most of my days, doors closed to visitors, writing letters to dear old friends back home.
Gear and tackle box in hand, we headed outside for our adventure. Our boat, “Kelli Greene,” floated effortlessly in the Florida waters and docked in the bay behind our condo. Her inboard engine was native to the freshwater lakes, and although she could navigate the salty gulf, it was not her calling. Corrosion from the harsh nature of her new environment made her prone to wear and tear, something she was not designed to withstand.
It was another postcard-perfect morning, with tropical blue skies and barely a cloud to be seen. By midday, the August heat was almost unbearable, and we welcomed refreshing breezes over the water.
"You ready, Chuck?" Dad asked, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
"As ready as I'll ever be," I replied, trying to muster some enthusiasm.
We headed out to the pass into the gulf and journeyed to find the great fishing hole, which Dad jokingly called "Sharkbait Cove." I'm not sure how far out we were, and though we could see fellow travelers, none were nearby, which was not uncommon in those days.
Just then, the pungent smell of fumes filled the air, and the motor suddenly sputtered its last breath and then quit. Our expedition ended almost as soon as it began.
"Minga," Dad muttered, wiping his brow. "Sounds like trouble again."
"Can you fix it?" I asked, anxiety creeping into my voice.
"Let's hope so," he said, opening the engine compartment. "Hand me the wrench, will ya?"
I passed him the tool, trying to stay calm as he worked on the engine. Dad's hands, usually so steady and sure, fumbled with the wrench. His face, lined with years of hard work and care, tightened with frustration and pain. But after several attempts, it was clear the poor girl just didn't have it in her today. The unforgivable heat strengthened, making matters worse. We drifted for a while; the gentle rocking of the boat by the emerald waters and the rhythmic knocking of the waves were all we had.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as we drifted aimlessly. The sun beat down mercilessly, the hot air thick and tense. I scanned the horizon, my pulse rushing in my ears. Every second that passed without seeing another boat felt endless.
"Hey, Dad, you okay?" I asked, noticing the worry etched on his face, reminiscent of Roy Scheider's expression in "Jaws."
"Just a little winded," he said, wincing while holding one hand to his chest. "We'll be fine."
My heart pounded as I saw Dad's face pale, sweat trickling down his temples. The petty grievances that had filled my mind dissolved, replaced by a wave of fear for his well-being. I shifted to scouting for help and, as fate would have it, saw a shadow of a boat in the distance and thought, if we're lucky…
"I see a boat!" I shouted, excitement and desperation in my voice. "I'll try to get their attention."
I removed my bright orange tank top and began to wave it in the sky, screaming and alerting anyone who might catch a glimpse. I was quite a cheerleader that day, and my routine apparently worked when soon a boat was headed toward us.
The kind man in the boat approached us, nodded his head and chimed in before we could finish explaining our situation.
"Need a tow?" he grinned, already understanding our distress, and tossed over a rope.
"Yes, please," Dad said, relief evident in his voice. "Thank you so much."
"No problem," the man said, securing the rope to our boat. "Let's get you back to shore."
Dad's health scare put everything into perspective. My protective bubble, aloofness, and grudge-making all seemed trivial in the face of real danger. Our freshwater boat, like me, was a northern transplant trying to adjust to the salty life of Florida. As she struggled against corrosion, I battled my own internal resistance to this new environment. But as we headed back to shore, I thought that maybe it was time to let go of some of that anger and resistance and start embracing the new world's opportunities. The years passed, and the process of adjusting was slow. In fact, even now, almost 50 years later, I jest with my friends that I am just now getting over this.
That day, as we stepped back onto solid ground, I looked at Dad, who had always been my rock. He wouldn't be with us forever; it might be a good time to get a clearer perspective on what truly matters.
He smiled, the kind that reaches the eyes, full of warmth and understanding. It was one of those rare, memorable moments when we connected. He knew of my struggles with change, and I understood that life is short.
Though my father passed away almost 20 years ago, I often reflect on those days and the lessons I learned. I imagine other sons and fathers will face their own storms and might drift apart. Navigating through bad weather is just one part of the journey. As the clouds finally clear, they'll often reveal the unwavering support and love that was always there. That understanding can dawn at any moment, even on a boat.
I’m guessing the biggest catch isn't something you reel in with a rod or hook; maybe it's simply cherishing the moments together, one fishing day at a time.
Here's to you, Dad, and all the other dads out there, too.