Two Ships Passing in the Night

As a child, I thought my dad was great. He was so different from all the other dads. He was the Captain of a large ship traveling all around the world and in spite of the fact that he was never home, I felt connected to him. And in the rare occasions when he came home, he would bring toys and goodies from all these exotic places he had been to. Sometimes during the holidays, he would take me with him. At night, on the bridge, he would teach me about the stars and the tides and he would tell me stories about explorers and pirates who, before him, had sailed the seven seas. I would spend my days exploring the ship’s every nook and cranny. It was not unusual to find me nosing about in the engine room or sitting on a kitchen stool licking the remaining of a cake batter off a wood spoon. These were the happy days for me.

When I moved out on my own, I naturally chose to live by the river where I could see the ships pass by. Still today, I live in a beautiful city by the ocean. In the bay leading to the port, there are always large ships which have dropped anchor while waiting for a dock to free. Ships of all origins and sizes, some full of merchandise, others waiting to fill their hold. Every time I walked by and saw the ships, I felt a pang of nostalgia. Beautiful memories, some genuine, some perhaps not so much, resurfaced. And once again, I felt connected.

A few years ago, my dad came visiting for the first time with his wife. I was delighted to show him around and especially to show him the bay and its ships. I thought he would be touched be the heritage he had left me. Touched by the fact that I could never look at a ship without thinking about him. About the fact that he had made a difference in my life, that wherever we were in the world, there would always be water to connect us.

We walked to the sea just my father and me. We sat and watched a distant light, our mind drifting through times and memories. It was a beautiful summer day; the breeze was warm and the sun about to set. Then my dad did the unthinkable: he spoke.

“I hated working on ships. I hated everything about them. I am not one of those old sailors who are moved by the sea. I never liked it.”

I watched him for a moment, puzzled. He had just torn apart the most precious memories, if not the only happy ones of my entire childhood without a flinch. But his obliviousness was genuine. We were like two ships passing in the night.

When I walk to the sea now and watch the ships anchored in the bay, I see ships. And I hope for them an unfailing lighthouse on their path.