My calendar drives my life. Everything, big and small, from the important to the mundane, is on my calendar. The structure and routine of a calendar have always brought me comfort and grounded me. Three years ago today, my dad passed away. I keep that date on my calendar, too. I expect his death day to be hard, and it is. I give myself space to sift through the memories and feel the feels. Remembering is an integral part of the grieving process. Today, I share with you the eulogy I wrote and read at my father’s memorial service. I should note that he was a published writer and a gifted storyteller. I like to think I inherited a bit of his skill. 

My Father’s Gift

I begin with a quote from Gift from the Sea by Anne Morrow Lindbergh, which always reminds me of times with my father. It is important to note that his mother, my beloved Granny Franny, introduced me to the book and this particular quote. 

“The sea does not reward those who are too anxious, too greedy, or too impatient. To dig for treasures shows not only impatience and greed, but lack of faith. Patience, patience, patience, is what the sea teaches. Patience and faith. One should lie empty, open, choiceless as a beach—waiting for a gift from the sea.”

― Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea

My earliest memories of time with my father almost always involve the ocean, sometimes sailing atop it and sometimes on the beach next to it. Most of these memories are from our magical summers on Cape Breton Island in Nova Scotia, Canada, mainly spent sailing, beaching, playing board games, and fishing. When I close my eyes and let my mind remember, all my senses awaken. I can smell the salt air, hear the sound of the waves, and feel the warm, gritty sand beneath my feet. There is, of course, always the occasional squawk overhead from a bossy seagull. My father is sitting nearby, but not right next to me. This distinction is important. He was present but always allowed plenty of quiet space for me to take in the nature around me on my own terms. My father encouraged me to really sit in silence and “listen” with all five senses. He never told me what to notice, but only suggested that I notice what was around me. Another important distinction. He was, without realizing it, an early adopter of what we now call mindfulness. Being in the present moment in an observational, non-judgmental way in nature came easily to him. Harder for a young child, but my father was patient with me as I learned. 

My father used to take my sister and me walking on the beach in all kinds of weather. He truly marveled at how quickly the sea, sky, and sand could change in the blink of an eye. There were stormy days when he took us out onto the breakwater where the waves crashed all around us, and we got sticky with matted hair from salt spray. Those walks were exhilarating, and a bit scary too. There were days spent as more “traditional beach days” with swimming, sunning, and looking endlessly for treasures that might have washed up on the tide line. There were sunset supper picnics high on the cliffs over the ocean.  As we watched the bright orange sun sink into the sea, my father would say, “Look, it’s a DEVCO sunset”. He called these “DEVCO” sunsets, short for development company, as if some marketing person had created the sunset to further sell us on the stunning natural beauty of this place. My father had an uncanny knack for spotting the special piece of driftwood, the flat rock perfect for skipping, or the highly prized lapis-blue sea glass.  

Sailing on the ocean with my father was similar to being at the beach with him. He always found that little bit of wind and adjusted the sail accordingly. We often sailed in silence, not because there was nothing to say, but because we were listening to what to waves and breeze were saying. Sometimes we fished, and sometimes we caught. Sometimes there was tension as sails, seating, or rudders had to be adjusted quickly with sharp orders issued.  After all, we are all just human. But mostly we passed the time being in the present moment with nature and each other, quietly dining on peanut butter sandwiches. 

Lindberg’s quote always brings me back to these times with my father. He was so patient with the sea, so able to let the experience unfold however it would. My father loved all days on the water equally, with no particular preference for one type of day. He simply loved the ocean’s glory, its power, and its beauty. I believe that being near or on the water was his sanctuary. A place to just be, without the world’s demands, a short break that offered peace and natural beauty. My father has passed this gift on to me. I love the ocean and the beach. Time there grounds me, brings me joy and peace in ways that hours of meditation and yoga cannot offer. The sea and beach are places where I, too, can breathe, let go, just be. 

And so, in closing, I am grateful for this amazing gift, and in gratitude, I offer this Irish Sailor’s Blessing for my father:

Dad, I wish you fair winds and following seas on your journey and send you off with all my love.