The Myth. The Man. The Legend

In one of the drawers at my parents' house, there lies a clear box that once held Ferrero Rocher chocolates. This box holds a special meaning to me because of its contents - a collection of photographs from my childhood, among which one of my favorites is a picture of my dad and me. The photo captures us on a beach: my dad wearing a white t-shirt, his hair slicked back, donning round sunglasses as he reads a magazine, while I, as a little child, crouch beside him, peering over his shoulder and reaching for a strawberry from a plastic container nearby. The memory of camping with my family is etched in my mind, as it was a cherished tradition every summer.

My dad always seemed stressed to me, except when summer arrived. Once summer came, he transformed into a different person. We would embark on an eight-hour drive to our campsite, during which he exuded a sense of relaxation. Whistling to himself, he would steer the car with one hand, while my mom fed him snacks and opened water bottles for him. Often, I would doze off during the journey, reassured by the knowledge that my dad was behind the wheel, providing a sense of safety.

Upon reaching the campsite, disagreements and heated exchanges would ensue as we attempted to set up our peculiar tent trailer. Holding the poles, we would listen to his instructions, while he tightened screws and urged us to keep everything still. The entire process felt long, and at times, I wished we would simply use regular tents. Although I had learned to set up a tent by myself at the age of five, I was never entrusted with the enjoyable tasks, being the youngest. It was always a case of "just hold this." I became well-versed in the art of holding things.

Once the arduous setup was complete, we would finally hit the beach. My dad and I were swimming buddies. We would swim to the buoys and back, and he would always ask if I was too tired to swim back. But I never was - swimming was an activity I always enjoyed. Now, I could probably swim from one side of the lake to the other if I wanted to. I relished swimming with my dad; although I was faster, he maintained a steady pace. I could hear him blowing huffs of air behind me, in perfect rhythm. I believe my enduring love for swimming stems from those shared moments with him.

As I grew up, I witnessed my dad's exceptional handiness around the house. He painted fences, fixed them, tended to the garden, uprooting weeds and planting vegetables. He even built his own greenhouse. Plumbing problems or any other potential breakages were promptly addressed by him. He fearlessly tore down walls in our house to make it more livable, tiled the kitchen, and laid the floors. He embodied the spirit of a do-it-yourself enthusiast, perhaps due to our tight budget, but I always admired him for his resourcefulness.

Now, as an adult, I still relish camping and embarking on long drives. Recently, my fiancé and I drove from Victoria to Calgary in a single day, covering approximately 13 hours on the road. I attribute my love for summer and the outdoors to my dad. Nowadays, he can be found sitting on the patio, engrossed in his iPad for hours on end, occasionally whistling to himself. When winter arrives, he laments the cold and complains about his aching knees. Surprisingly, even at my young age, I catch myself doing the same. We both eagerly await the end of long winters, longing for the taste of summer.