We rode the swells, wind driving us across the open water.
I sat at the helm, our small boat lifting and falling beneath me. Sails taut, salt on my lips. Silence, except for a slight creak of the rigging.
My hands rested lightly on the helm.
Beside me, my father sat with a beer, relaxed and unbothered, the can sweating in the heat. He was the man I’d always known: steady, certain, unafraid.
Then he stood.
No words. He slipped quietly into the cabin.
When he returned, the nylon of a bright orange life vest rustled as the plastic clasps clicked shut.
I kept my eyes ahead, but I felt it. Something slipping loose. We never wore life vests. At least not him.
The sea hadn’t changed.
The wind still pulled steady at the sails.
His eyes tracked the line where sea met sky, searching for something.
A moment later, mine were doing the same.