I remember him now with the wind in his hair,
the sun was high, like it is on a mid-August day,
and the winds were warm,
or warm as ever because of the warmth in my heart.
The sky was clear,
and I was nothing more than a little boy,
wading in the water
and knee-deep in the bays of my youth.
I remember this:
fishing with my Father,
The Old Man.
What a story this is to me . . .
I often regard this day
because it is one of our best days,
one of many yet, this is only one of a few
to which I can say that I remember this day
without challenge or without doubt,
and with a great intrigue, I can recall looking at his face,
my Father, The Old Man.
I watched him as he gazed across the waters
standing in the shallows with a fishing rod in one hand,
and the other hand
was patiently waiting on the handle of the reel,
awaiting the moment when a fish would strike,
and The Old Man would pull back
to set the hook
and reel’em in.
This place was a place from my youth,
and though the place is real
and still intact and everything about this place
still exists, regardless of some minor changes and updates
or facelifts, I seldom (if ever) go to this place,
the Park at Wantagh.
Ah, but I remember . . .
I am thinking of my youth and my younger years,
and searching through the mental photographs
that bring me back to times
when all was not so ill or grave,
or before the intensities took over,
or before insecurity marred the face of life,
or the way I interpreted life, or the words we speak
impaired my interpretation of this thing
I called my world.
I think of times like this, pure as can be;
like the purity of childhood
or infancy, yet, I was not an infant
but only innocently looking up
at him,
my hero . . ,
I think of times like this
when all was simple enough to play a game
or to pretend, or to imagine myself as I always wished,
living in a dream or pretending in my own world
to be somewhere out there in the ocean,
running aboard some outgoing vessel,
fishing with my Father
and prepared to take on the giants of the sea.
Somewhere in this, or almost always, I envision him,
The Old Man, my Father,
sitting in a captain’s chair with a hand on the wheel;
a coiled wire from the radio to contact other vessels
and looking out the windshield
in the wheelhouse, running outwards
and into the greatness of an ongoing sea.
This is beautiful to me.
But only some people can see it this way
(like you, of course).
I remember his face, clearly now,
or clear as ever,
or perhaps this was the first time I noticed
The Old Man’s true intensity while standing in the waters
and wading, knee-deep in the bay.
The snappers were running
and we were all set to make a killing.
I hurt my foot, but I wouldn’t dare complain.
I cut myself, but I would have gladly lost my foot
before turning back
and losing this moment,
with him, The Old Man.
I wondered where his thoughts were taking him.
I wondered if he knew how special
or important this moment was going to become.
I wonder this because decades later
and decades after The Old Man has passed,
I wonder if The Old Man understood
the criticalness of the moment
and how imperative it is to live in the moment,
just to enjoy “the here and now”
and just to live
because life and time is always moving.
While moments are only temporary and vanishing,
memories are like some short-lived minute,
which ticks on the clock and then essentially;
time disappears, and its never to be heard from again –
except in our minds.
I wonder if he knew that this would be a day
that I would never forget.
I wonder if he would remember
if he forgot.
But, whether he does or did or cannot recall,
the point of the matter is this –
I do.
I remember.
I am older now
and nearing the age where health changes in my family.
I am nearing the age where deaths have occurred
and nearing the age
where I am supposed to consider things, like, say,
my retirement, or my healthcare packages,
or my annuity and pensions,
and so as I look back and filter through my thoughts,
I realize that I was seeing life through the eyes of a child.
However, I am grown.
I am not a child anymore
and now, I am fortunate to have this memory
because as I recollect this from the mind of the child,
I have the fortunate option
to view this memory
through the duality of both a man and a child,
or a father and a son.
Would you have been proud of me?
I wonder . . .
I suppose my tensions were different
and although my unresolved moments of the day
were tough or perhaps strenuous for me then,
the strains we face in our youth like a virus,
which mutate as we age
and change and alter and differ
to find ways through the membranes of our sanity.
And so?
We lose our cool sometimes
or we “sweat the small stuff,”
or forget to live in the moment
and to enjoy “the now!”
My fears are not that of a little boy anymore.
I am not afraid to be picked on in the fifth grade
or to be called out to fight on the playground
after school.
My social interests are different from
when I was a pre-teen or a teenage boy.
My idols have changed; however, my heroes have not
and nor should they change.
But, just to keep the record straight . . .
It was you, Pop.
You were and are
and you will always be my very first hero.
However, I was young and you were an adult.
We saw through different eyes
and we had different intentions
and different interpretations.
But I have learned since then,
I have grown too.
I was a child and you were a parent.
My responsibilities were limited
and yours were seemingly limitless.
I get that now.
My fears of the dark were different from yours
because it was you who was responsible
for keeping the lights on.
Perhaps this was what you were thinking
while we stood in the waters.
Maybe your concerns were pressing
or maybe you were thinking about the Dodgers game
or nothing at all.
And to add experience and color to the truth
maybe you were just being human
and thinking about your fears of inadequacy
which were different from mine and being a kid
or being picked last to be on a team at school.
I say this
because as you grow and as you age, life changes,
and positions change too, which is different from the baseball field
or a game of dodgeball.
Life changes and so will our intentions.
Everything changes and hence,
perhaps this is why adults always tell their kids,
“You’ll understand more when you’re older.”
And I do understand more.
I understand more
about the shortsightedness that happens in life.
I understand more about the moments
that we accumulate as we age
or as we grow; and put simply,
I have grown enough to understand
the value of every minute because time can end for us,
at least time can end for us while living in the flesh.
However, you are timeless now.
You are endless and limitless
as is your spirit
and as is your memory.
I see this now
perhaps better
or more clearly.
It is not too far behind me to forget
that day at Wantagh Park
or moments like this, which are priceless to me
and somewhat faded because time has stepped in
to either fade or distance me from the days of my youth,
or shadow the face of my memories
because years have gotten between us now.
You were older then
and I . . .
I am older now.
I was young once.
I was a son, standing in the Great South Bay,
fishing for snappers
with you, my Father, The Old Man
My Hero.
I cannot say that we had a plethora of these days
or that all of our memories
are as memorable or as enjoyable.
But, as long as I have memories like this,
or as long as I have pictures in my mind,
like the ones I imagine,
where you are sitting in the captain’s chair
of some outgoing vessel, a white, cable knit sweater,
turtleneck, to be more precise,
and a white captain’s hat on,
facing the sea,
looking intensely at the breakers
and the rollers and the waves,
which your outgoing bow slices the ocean
like a knife through the waters of a great
and all-covering sea.
I have this vision because this is partly my hope
and partly my solace
and partly my dream and partly my motivation
to be out at sea and partly; this is my heart
and partly, this is a symbol of my love;
and partly to bring myself to feel a semblance of touch
or grace
or to find that all-encompassing connection,
and to rewind or I recall this vision
to revisit our moments at the beach in Point Lookout
which we did annually on New Year’s Day and in part;
perhaps I declare this memory
as a certified moment of truce between us
which took place in otherwise trying times,
I look back and think about this because someday,
I want to be out there, ocean-bound,
and out in the deep sea, fishing for the giants,
and closer to you—my hero
and Father, The Old Man,
Or if not physically closer, at least I can be closer
to one of my most favorite memories
when I was just a boy,
standing in the waters during a hot August day
when the snappers were running
and fishing with my Father.
God, Pop. . .
There’s so many thing I wish you were here to see
or help me with.
I saw a school of snappers once. . .
not too long ago.
They were swimming around by the marina.
Thousands of them!
I had another dream,
which was happening to me at the time; However,
I heard the loving words, almost childlike enough
and pure and innocent enough
to bring me back to a fascinating moment
and to the time when I caught my first fish.
You can’t ever forget a moment like this . . .
catching your first fish.
I remember the school of snappers.
swimming tightly together
and there were literally swarms of them,
almost zombie like and fighting for their position
in the pack.
“It’s a massacre,” is what was said.
I can still hear this in my head
(With a smile and warmth in my heart).
I recall this with love.
And hey, Pop?
Do you remember what it was like
to stand there with me?
I only ask because
I remember what it was like
to stand there with you . . .
There are so many things that I wish you could have seen
or been there to witness or be part of.
And there are people who tell me that you can see
or that you can see far more than I could possibly imagine,
which I think . . .
I like that idea.
But I can say to whatever the occasion it was,
it would have been better
if you were there on so many occasions.
I think that perhaps
I might have been happier or better.
But, it is what it is
and,
it ain’t what it ain’t
and that’s how life goes.
So, act accordingly.
I wish you were around
to teach us more and tell us more of your stories.
I wish you could be here to teach us how to fish better
or how to laugh more
because as intense as life was—you really did
know how to win the room
and charm people.
I always wanted to be like that
(like you).
I wish you were here, Pop.
I wish you could see.
But for now,
I will smile and close my eyes
and just imagine how you’d be,
out on the boat of my dreams,
teaching us how to fish,
and the sun would be high
and the catch would be big.
Or, if none at all,
it would be fine just to drop a hook
and some bait in the water,
just to be a boy with his Old Man, fishing for nothing,
and living for the moment
which I have learned now more than ever:
The moment is everything.
Dear Pop,
I know that my thoughts are too intense
for my own good at times.
I know that I often forget to live in the moment
because my head is in too many directions.
Just to live.
Just to smile,
Just to stand in the waters,
like we did when I was small.
Just to feel the sun on my face,
or let the earth spin around the sun,
for one more day.
I learned this from you, so long ago,
but I often forget because life has a way
of wiping our memories from the necessary
or the more important ideas,
which are things like the way we make memories.
I understand more now,
which means,
I guess that I’m older now.
I want to make more memories, Pop.
I want them to be as valuable
as the memory I have of us
in The Great South Bay.
I am aware that we need to beware
because time is moving and yes,
this moment right here and now?
This is more important than we think.
Everything that comes next is valuable,
from this moment on.
Enjoy it . . .
I know you’re not here to tell me this yourself.
But somehow, deep down, I know what you would say.
“Don’t quit, son.
Don’t lose it, kid.
This one?
This task you’re taking and the trip you’re planning?
This is your time to create a new future
that will improve your past, a thousand times over,
and just like that—you will see,
the trip is only half the journey.
The memories you make are the other half.
Make them both great, son.
Trust me.
You won’t regret it”
I’m working on this, Pop.
Oh, and there’s fishing trip I’d like to plan,
but I’m not sure if I can pull this off by myself—so,
if you can persuade anyone (anyone at all)
to help me make this happen, please,
it would be as big as the gift you gave me that time at Shinnecock
when I caught my first fish
at the break of dawn.
Remember? You were so excited
that you broke the silence and sent the Canadian Geese
to fly away
because your cheers were explosive.
Yes, Pop.
Just so you know,
I have that one in my memory bank too.
Do you?
The Written Addiction 