My father spent most of his adult life at sea. He was in the merchant marines, as was his father before him. My mother mostly raised me. My father would disappear for months on end, only to arrive home again, bearing gifts and tall tales.
He was happiest at sea. Family life in the suburbs, with all the responsibilities wasn’t for him. As an adult I understand that. I have my wanderlust from my father. And also my restless spirit, them being two separate things.
Yesterday we drove out to Windsor. It’s an interesting town with a rich colonial heritage on the outskirts of Sydney. It’s also where I was born. Where generations of my family were born.
We spent time showing the boys the sites, but the highlight of the day was catching up with my father and stepmother.
This is their new home.
After a few years of battling and beating cancer, my father is now grabbing hold of life and living the way he wants. He’s a nomad. A grey nomad. They’ve packed up their home, bought this van, and hit the road… with no fixed plans.
It’s a trip with no end.
I have no idea when I’ll see him again.
But I’m really proud of him for grabbing hold of whatever time he has left and living authentically.