Thursday, 9/16/10 - Setting Sails

The receptionist doesn't hesitate before answering. "Room number six-eighteen. You must be Michael."

"Yes, I'm Michael."

"Your father is very proud of you; he talks about you all of the time."

"I do hope that he is not giving you too much trouble."

"Trouble? No, not at all. Your father is one of our favorite residents."

"I'm glad to hear that. Six-eighteen? That would be..."

"Six-eighteen is on the sixth floor but your father is in the social room on the second floor telling stories to his harem."

"His harem?"

"Your father is quite popular with the ladies. Always a gentleman: holding doors, pushing in chairs and quick with a compliment. And at our socials he never sits down - the ladies won't let him, they line up to dance with him - even those with walkers and wheelchairs. He makes each of them feel special."

Michael wonders if the receptionist is talking about his father, the bookish accountant with two left feet. "I don't remember him being much of a dancer."

"After all of your time on the water I would have expected you to know each other very well."

"Our time on the water?"

"Sailing. He's told us about how the two of you restored that old sailboat, about the places you sailed to and the adventures you shared."

"He told you about us sailing?"

"Yes, lots of stories about your trips together: Bimini, Belize, Barbados. But mostly about how proud he was of you. How no matter what conditions the two of you encountered, you always managed to find a way through it."

"He shared that with you?"

"Yes. It sounds so exciting and I really envy the time that you spent together - quality time. I wish I could do that with my children. It must be hard for you living in New Zealand and not being able to visit with him more often."

"Yes... New Zealand..." Michael considers where he is living and wonders why he isn't visiting more often. "So, my father is in the social room?"

"Elevators are around the corner. Up to the second floor. It's down the hallway on the left."

Standing in the elevator Michael feels a pang of regret at living only an hour away and not visiting more often. He pictures pennants blowing on the mast of a ship they never owned and wonders about the man in the social room on the second floor: a sailing man whose son lives far, far away.