Sail Free, Daddy

In the morning, the scintalliaton of sunlight seeps over my face and I rise to meet the wonderful smell of potatoes and frying bacon wafting through the house.

The news is on, of course. There isn’t a day that goes by that doesn’t start out this way. I don’t mind though. These are the comforts of knowing Dad’s started the day. In addition to the food, the pungent aroma of coffee and cigarettes also filter into my nostrils.

I’m sixteen now. Dad’s working at Shipper’s graveyard shift, and it’s one rare day he’s not too tired to get up early to rise.

“Guess what, Sarah?” He exclaims, as I come out of my bedroom and rub at my eyes.

“Good morning, Dad; what’s up?” I ask curious to hear his announcement because he seems in a chipper mood. Dad’s always fun and adventurous on days like this.

“I’ve decided you, me and Adam are going to take that raft out on the Duck River over by the dam! What do you think?”

“Can we also check out Iron Bridge Road?” I ask, smiling because I know Dad will love that pull-out boat launch as much as the Columbia Power and Water’s Dam, and it’s not too far from it either.

“We should also go up Chickasaw Trace.” My brother murmurs, as he walks out of the bathroom. Adam’s nearly eleven, and he’s just as happy about the food as I was, “And, when’re the potatoes gonna be done?”

“I’m working on it, son. Alright, Sarah; I think that’s a great idea. How about you help me pack up the raft into the Pig?” The Pig is my Dad’s white Oldsmobile Cutlass Sierra. It’s got maroon interior, and the car was named after the Piggly Wiggly, a loving moniker my Dad held dear because his first photo with his Mom was in front of a PW in the 60s.

We’ve loaded into the car by now, and Dad decides we need some music,

“Hey, Sarah; reach over into the glove compartment and pull out that tape-deck adapter and you can find my CD carrier beneath your seat. Put something on.”

I smile, and look back at Adam; and we both instantly know Dad’s opening the door to something great because he’s got the best taste in music. Our Mom does too, but Dad’s favorites have a way of making my brother and I feel instantly happy and I’m eager to play some tunes.

“Heck, yeah; how about some Tom Petty?” I see Dad has a Greatest Hits Album and I put it in. It doesn’t take long for the first song, Don’t Come Around Here No More, to start playing and the nostalgia from the music sits in instantly. I know it’s going to be a day that is seared into my memory forever then as I watch my Dad start singing and hear my brother’s voice chiming in. It was most definitely a moment of impact and though, I’m the only girl it doesn’t matter.

They never make me feel out of place or that I don’t belong. Instead, I’m treated with intelligence and encouraged to take up a First Mate role in my navigator father’s life. My Dad was such an incredible person, and when we finally pull up at the bridge of Iron Bridge Road, I’m stoked to start pulling everything out.

“Ya know, let’s wait on the raft and just check out the area first? It’s my first time coming here.” This is, of course, my Dad’s natural way of leading and having worked in the Everglades and the North Rim of the Grand Canyon, I knew to listen to his direction.

It was kind of like having The Crocodile Hunter for a Dad, and oddly he slightly resembled him too.

Now, that he’s gone his lessons have boiled down to 3 core truths, I’d love to share:

1. Learn something new every single day. If you do this you will know a lot when you are older. Continue to do it even when you are grown.

2. Worry is like a rocking chair. It gives you something to do, but it gets you nowhere.

3. Consider the source.

My father passed away in July 2022, and this moment is one I cherish as a beautiful memory since that day at Iron Bridge Road we found a baby bat, and my Dad gave me and my brother a Steve Irwin experience; one of many throughout our lives.

Now that we are passing ships in different seas, I still remember his cooking breakfast so fondly.

Rest in peace, Dad; we miss you.

In Loving Memory.

Nathan Artie Wells

1963–2022