My father was a remarkable man. He was by no means perfect. In fact, we was deeply scarred both physically and otherwise. He was human. But he left behind an amazing legacy. One to be inspired by, and one to learn from. It would take me years to fully write my dad’s story. For now, here’s how my dad – who he was and what happened to him – shaped me into the travel-loving person that I am.
In 1968, at the young age of 18, my dad enlisted in the Marine Corps. As expected, immediately after basic training he was sent to Vietnam. My dad’s stay in the military ended up being fairly brief. In June of 1970, while attempting to transport a fellow injured Marine to the rescue helicopter my father was blown up by a landmine. His injuries were unfathomable, he was essentially half of a man. He was left with one leg, one full arm and only three full fingers and a thumb on his only remaining hand. He was also blind in one eye, and riddled with shrapnel.
Obviously this changes you as a person, and changes the course of your life. But you know what? That didn’t matter. My dad was a fighter. He recovered. My dad learned to walk with crutches. He married my mother, moved to Florida and had three children. He became a talented wood worker with his own cabinet business. Dad even built our family house in Florida with his own two- I mean, one– hand.
My parents in front of the hospital in Daytona Beach with my older brother.
He took his family on trips all over the USA. Endless road trips to the mountains of North Carolina and Georgia. Camping trips out West to the Rocky Mountains and redwood forests in California. Visiting family in Michigan and Arizona. And of course, the big “move to California” adventure. Always wanting to wander, he once took my brother to Antigua on a military flight from the nearby Air Force base – in a 747 cargo plane. He would even go on trips without the family, like rafting trips with his friend, or a solo trip to Costa Rica.
Dad in Antigua
There was nothing he couldn’t do. He was our superman. Since we never knew dad before – when he was “whole” – his disabilities weren’t a thing to us. That was dad. Our dad. Our friend’s dads with the two arms were the weirdos.
He was never an educated man, but he wasn’t unintelligent. He had a mind that loved to figure things out. How things worked and why things were the way they were. I remember dad reading all the time. He often would ask us to bring him an encyclopedia to read. He would read “C” from cover to cover, and move on to “P” the next day just for the heck of it.
I think my father was an extraordinary man. And I’m very proud to say that I’ve inherited many of his traits. My insatiable need to get to the bottom of everything, my need to wander and explore, my love of reading – and my somewhat annoying flair for telling long-winded stories. But I have to say it was his death, when I was at the tumultuous age of 17, that truly impacted my life.
In 1998, my father was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. A cancer of the lymphatic system, that we later learned was caused by his exposure to the Agent Orange herbicide during the Vietnam War. The year after his diagnosis was a blur. Endless trips to the university research hospital Gainesville, FL. Family friends and neighbors bringing by casseroles. My siblings and I took care of ourselves (and of each other) since our parents were (rightfully) preoccupied with the saving of my father’s life. But it was futile. By 1999, just two weeks shy of his 49th birthday, my father died at home with his family.
Dad and I in 1998, after he was sick.
When you are an angsty teenager, watching a parent take their last breaths is a bit heavy to handle. It’s not something you think will ever happen. Parents are supposed to be permanent – the constant in your life. But dad withered and was gone. In just under a year – just like that. Gone.
As a result of dad’s death, my siblings and I drew together with mom. We became this closely knit group. For a while, we were only comfortable hanging out with each other. I guess we grieved inwardly instead of outwardly. Out of my grief though, I began to think about life differently – and how I wanted to live the rest of it. I became acutely aware that life now held a sense of urgency.
You don’t have all the time in the world and you aren’t guaranteed a tomorrow.
Shit can happen at any time, and all of those best-made plans you had for your life can go right up in smoke. You can get scratched from the race before you even make it out of the gate. That’s how I became a firm believer and advocate for living for the now. I became determined (sometimes wrecklessly) to take every opportunity to do something, because you never know if it would be your last chance.
My high school graduation in 2000, a year after dad passed.
Over the years since, I’ve learned how to balance the “living for the moment” feelings with genuine, responsible handling of money and securing a future for myself. But life’s urgency still very much drives me. Time is whizzing by so fast. If you don’t have time to live your life now, when will you? Life is so incredibly short.
Take the trip. Very few people in this world ever regret taking a vacation.
Here’s to you dad….
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