Sail on, Friend

(featured photo:  Pat at the wheel.  Credit: David Ward)

(5/21/25 Note: I first drafted this piece in January of 2016 but didn’t publish it. I looked over it several times throughout the years and again in 2020, 2021 and 2022 …….)

❧

Dad was on the phone from Louisiana.  It was 2009 and we were catching up on politics and grandkids.  My daughter Anna was not yet two so there was always news to report.  I was in the car on the cell phone driving to Lowe’s hardware.  As usual we turned to our favorite topic: sailing.

Dad introduced me to big boat sailing in the Caribbean in 1995.  Twenty years later, in 2005, we were back together again, for an all-guys trip on a 50 foot, dual-helm Beneteau (crew: my dad, Pat Ward; my uncle, David Ward; my brother, Kevin Ward; my three nephews, Ben Ward, Sam Ward, and Ryan Lipps; and my cousin, Richard Ward).

But we were itching again.

On the phone Dad joked that he didn’t have too many trips left in him.  He was sixty-seven.

—

Later that spring Dad was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer.  Our sailing plan was now on hold.

There were times during Dad’s treatment I thought it would be good for him — and realistic — to take another sailing trip. Get on a big rental sailboat and breathe in the salt air, imbibe rum drinks and get sunburned. I wanted to be out there with him again, enjoying the beauty of sailing he had introduced me to as a kid on Lake Pontchartrain in New Orleans.

It became obvious Dad wasn’t going to the Caribbean soon again, maybe ever.  But at first I wasn’t deterred.  I was drawn to getting back on the water with him.

Driving through the little riverside town of Madisonville, La, I saw a restored Trumpy motor yacht. I  thought of renting that yacht for a day trip with Dad’s friends and family.

That boat turned out to be impractical, so I looked around for a more suitable rental for an afternoon sail.  I read the classifieds and sent a few emails to his friends in Madisonville.  I didn’t find a boat.

I never made that last trip with Dad.  But in my imagination I did.

When he was getting sicker — near the end — to blunt the pain, I would remember the good days. But I would also imagine a new scene.  A send-off of sorts.

It starts with a large, quiet gathering of friends, family and people he knew from the business he worked in.  We are all gathered on the water’s edge with Dad.  We are here to say goodbye.

After a short time, a small group moves to the water’s edge. A wooden sailboat is docked here.  She has brass fittings and varnished brightwork.  A wooden wheel.  Teak decks and white sails.  The gunwales are long and smooth, unhindered by lifelines and stanchions.  The bow and stern have long overhangs, in the classic style.

Progressively, the group grows smaller and smaller.  Only the closest family and a couple friends continue alongside him.

In this scene he has shrugged off the pallor and thinness of illness.  Well, like his old self.  At the very end of the dock only immediate family is at his side.  We board the yacht with Dad.  The sails tug lightly, pulling the yacht away.  The water is nearly glass.

Aboard the yacht we approach a simple row boat moored not far from shore.  We stop alongside the rowboat.  Our small group steps down onto the rowboat, leaving Dad aboard the sailboat.  I draw this scene out in my mind because the time is always too short.

On his yacht, he looks well.  In jeans and brown deck shoes he stands strong, his skin warm and healthy. A gold wedding band is on his strong left hand. He looks back at us with a contented smile and waves a farewell. The sailcloth begins to draw, the helm steady in his expert hands.

The time is always too short.

Sail on, friend.