The Freedom of the Sea

“When I die, I want you to sail out on a boat and spread my ashes in the sea,” my father told me when I was young. We were sitting together on a sailboat, tacking and jibing back and forth around the lake. It was one of my favorite memories, and I enjoyed it so immensely then that I didn’t even want to think of packing up and heading back to shore, let alone my father one day dying.

“Don’t talk about that, Daddy. I don’t want you to die,” I responded desperately. To me, he was invincible. A firefighter who could walk into burning buildings and come out unscathed. A lifeguard who could swim through the strongest rip currents, dragging drowning men behind him. A sailor who could guide any vessel through the strongest storm and navigate home by the stars alone. My father was the definition of a hero in my eyes, stronger than superman, braver than Hercules. He would never die.

Thinking back, I wonder now if that was around the time my father was diagnosed with cancer. He lost his best friend to the awful disease around the same time, but he pulled through. There he was, contemplating the fragile nature of life itself and teetering at the precarious border of the in-between. He must have had a thousand thoughts. A million worries fluttering around in his head. No doubt, he wanted assurance that he would have a sense of peace when his time did come. But he couldn’t delve into his desires surrounding his death in a conversation with his young daughter. I didn’t even know he had been sick until after he was on the mend. He hadn’t told me about the cancer. He was probably told not to burden me with his troubles.

There is a certain freedom with the sea. The ocean breeze blows in the promise of new hope and better lives. The ocean waves wash away worries, fears, and pains. The salt spray is good for healing wounds of all natures, with a special emphasis on wounds of the mind and spirit. My father and I shared a love for the sea. It coursed through our blood. It was our lifeline, like an anchor keeping us from getting swept out to sea when the skies grew stormy. My favorite memories are of the two of us together at the beach, swimming, paddle boarding, surfing, sailing. We felt the pull of the waves with every ebb of the tide. As comforting as the beach shore was, there was always a certain longing associated with journeying farther to the horizon.

“One day, I’m just going to buy a sailboat and sail away forever,” my father said once, when I was a teenager.

“Dad, don’t leave me,” I begged him.

“You’d do alright without me, you don’t need me anymore,” he said, but he was wrong. I needed him desperately. I couldn’t imagine being without him.

I was beginning to understand how bleak my world would be if he wasn’t apart of it. I wouldn’t have used the word “abusive” back then, but my relationship with my mother was strained to say the least. As the years went on, she was becoming more narcissistic and controlling. It is easy to control a young child who knows no other life, but much harder to control a teenager who starts to see the discrepancies of the world she grew up in and the world her mother kept her from. I was beginning to pull away, the longing to leave stirring up in my heart, but it wasn’t yet as strong as my father’s desire. I couldn’t see myself getting on a boat and sailing away from everything I ever knew.

I tried to imagine myself staying at home if he wasn’t there to smile at me, comforting me with his mere presence when tensions at home rose above healthy levels. I knew I couldn’t do it. If he left, I would want to run away with all my heart, but my feet would be anchored to the ground. There is a certain anxiety associated with venturing out into uncharted waters. I wasn’t as brave as my father.

I begged him not to go. I told him I still needed me. He promised he would stay, but his blue eyes drifted back to the sea and I felt the weight of his decision bearing on my own shoulders. I was my mother’s daughter, cutting him off from what he wanted most in the world and forcing him to remain in his captivity. But I needed him. I feared I wouldn’t find my life worth living without him there to brighten the cloudy days.

Little did I know his situation was far worse than mine. I felt as if the expectations of being my mother’s daughter were too much to bear, but I didn’t think of his situation as her husband. The burden of never making enough money, despite his three jobs. The burden of never making her feel loved and valued enough, despite his unwavering attempts. The burden of having to give up everything he ever loved to be the man she demanded, but the lack of sacrifice on her part to change even a hair on her head to support his happiness.

The wedding ring must have felt so constricting around his finger, a mini handcuff, chaining him to her in the sacrament of holy matrimony. But he made a vow to her and he refused to break it. Despite the emotional and verbal abuse, he would not divorce his wife. Despite his longing for freedom, he wouldn’t abandon his daughter.

My father was always a man of his word, and a promise meant more to him than anything, even if he had to lose all of his freedom, to abandon his very soul in order to keep it.

My father had dreams for when he retired. He wanted to get a sailboat and sail around the world. He collected newspaper clippings and novels and movies from people who had done just that. People from all ages and all walks of life, alone in the vastness of the sea. There was nothing he wanted more than to be one of them. I dreamed of going with him when he did; of finishing up college and taking a year off to sail the sea with my father. It would be the experience of a lifetime.

Expenses piled up. My mother quit working well before her retirement age and had no pension. My father was the sole provider. He contributed all of his firefighter salary to the household expenses and worked additional jobs for “boat money”. But bills kept piling up. Doctor’s visits, vet bills, car payments, Christmas presents; they all started coming out of his personal savings. And then there were all of the lavish vacations my mom booked without telling him until it was too late to cancel. His savings kept dwindling down, and with it, his hope for the future. Soon he satiated his empty heart with smaller things to tide him over until he could one day get his sailboat.

First, it was a powerboat for the whole family to use. My brother, dad, and I loved it immensely. My mom liked small one-hour trips without any fishing or snorkeling or diving. We had a well-balanced mix of adventures for everyone, but oftentimes she’d argue about the diving or fishing trips when it wasn’t fun for the whole family. The compromise was making it a boy’s trip and leaving me behind, because of course if I went, my mother always insisted on coming too. Following some ancient tradition that even her parents had long since abandoned, my mother deemed it unladylike for her daughter to be the sole female on a men’s trip. So I was dragged off shopping at the mall while my brother and father got to find freedom in the sea. It wasn’t fair, but at least it gave my father his brief moment of unrestricted access to his heart’s desire. When he was out on the water, with his eyes closed and his mind lulled into peace by the drum of the waves against the boat’s hull, he truly felt free. Even those trips didn’t last, however, as my brother’s schedule became more restricted and my mother’s complaints about boating trips became more numerous. The boat sat in the driveway, only used a few times a year to keep the engine in good health.

Children of abusive parents have the benefit of growing up and gaining more independence with age. Partners in abusive relationships often find themselves sinking deeper and deeper into despair. Their friends and family are stripped away from them and their hobbies and habits are banned so that they can dedicate themselves completely to appeasing the will of their abuser.

My father retired from the fire department and immediately immersed himself in lifeguarding to have an escape from the house. He couldn’t afford his sailboat yet, but he could sit on the beach all day and stare out at the horizon and dream that one day, he would find his freedom in the sea. As time went on, however, even his lifeguarding became a debated activity, as often young women on Florida beaches would wear bikinis, and controlling, jealous wives do not permit even the most loyal and faithful husbands to such exposure. My father was slowly forced to cut back on days at the beach and spend more time at home, sitting on the sofa watching whatever mindless show mother put on the television. And I, after having finally learned true freedom that lay in wait for me outside the confines of my parent’s home, was no longer there to mitigate his misery.

Nearly fifty percent of men experience emotional abuse from their spouse or partner. 23% of spousal abuse victims attempt suicide. Men are three times more likely to die from suicide than women because their attempts include more lethal methods. My father spoke about suicide quite frequently in the last two years of his life. He and my mother had temporarily separated, giving my brother and me false hope for the future and my father temporary bliss. But abusive partners never leave easily. She controlled him from a distance and broke him down with insults and blame until he was the shell of a man he once was. My brother and I begged her to divorce him. We tried to get him help, to institutionalize him in special clinics to improve his mental health, but my mother wouldn’t hear of it. She insisted only she knew what was best, and she moved back home and took control. I lived at home once more with them and tried the best I could to give my father hope, but I was breaking down from the stress and depression of it all. My afternoons were spent hunkered over the toilet, vomiting from an excess of stress. My evenings were spent crying in silence, as tears of the abused never make a sound. One day, I couldn’t take it anymore. I finally listened to the words of all those around me and removed myself from the situation.

A month later, having lost everything he once loved at the hands of his abuser, my father took his own life.

“Dad wanted his ashes spread at sea,” my brother said in the funeral home. My mother argued that she had bought him a special place to keep his ashes forever, right next to where hers would go when she died in a church I had never even heard of. My heart couldn’t bear the thought of my father not having freedom even after his death. But I said nothing to my mother. I knew my words would only make things more difficult, as I was never supposed to voice my opinions. My older brother argued for our father’s final wish, and in the end, they compromised and we were permitted a small portion of our father’s ashes to be released into the ocean.

We arranged a paddle out, my brother and I. It took place at the beach where the three of us had always gone together. The lifeguards helped us set it up with dozens of foam surfboards for all of our friends and family. We all paddled out together and gathered in a circle beyond the break of the waves. There were people there I had never even met before; those who had loved my father from long before I was born. Still, strangers became family in an instant as we all shouted out memories and stories and shared words of love and honor. When we finished, my brother released the box of our father’s ashes and let it sink to the bottom. We threw flowers in the center, celebrating the life of the greatest man whom we had ever known.

Sometimes, true freedom comes with an awful price. The loss or sacrifice of those we love is inconsolable. We hate the tyrants that pushed us or our loved ones into their darkest days. We feel guilty for turning our backs on those who needed us most, even when we truly had no other choice. We grieve for lives lost and the dreams left unfilled. But we can have solace in knowing that those who have suffered are finally free.

Now, when I go to the ocean shore and stare out at the horizon, I think of my father. I know he is gone now, no longer here on this earth besides me, but his love is always with me. I can almost hear his words of encouragement carried in the ocean breeze. I can almost feel the healing comfort of his presence in the salty spray. He is one with the sea now, moving with the ebb and flow of its tide, at home with the rush of currents and the lull of the ocean waves. At last, he has found his freedom within the sea.