“GO WEST, YOUNG MAN”: Chasing my dad Part 2

My father and I were cut from the same bolt of cloth. Besides sharing the same first name we had similar builds, temperaments and interests. An 89-year old widow of one of his Navy buddies recently said to me on the phone that I even sound just like ‘Dougie’.

Similarities aside, Dad and I never really 'clicked' until later in our lives. When I was a young boy, a teen, and a young then middle-aged adult, I chiefly went my own way. Dad went another. I assume there are dozens of typical reasons carefully listed in thick medical textbooks across the land. I put it down to few simple reasons, while realizing my lack of knowledge in the matter will make medical practitioners spin around several times in their padded chairs.

I.e., Dad and I were so similar and strongly independent we butted heads more often than not, found it easier to walk around each other, followed our own drummer, got very busy with our own lives and grew deeply involved with many interesting and necessary activities.

Fortunately (I will say ‘very’ fortunately here), we simmered down in our later years, smoothed out a few wrinkles between us, gradually developed a mutual respect for each other’s nature and accomplishments, looked forward to seeing each other, started to have a few decent laughs together and finally found a way to communicate meaningfully after Mother (his wife, my mother) died in 1999. And before Dad passed away in February, 2003 I will say we were close, pretty well on the same page in most matters. 

[Dad wanted to be buried at sea. The event took place in 2010. GH]

After Dad passed away I took on the responsibility of burying him at sea (it is a very long story; briefly, I set some of his cremated remains or ashes adrift upon the Atlantic Ocean near Halifax in 2010), and rode home from the east coast on my motorcycle with a strong wind beneath my wings, so to speak. I felt certain, and still am, that dad would have been very proud of the moment I tossed a cedar replica of the SS Silver Walnut into the waves at Pennant Point - without falling in myself - and watched it head toward Scotland.

Several days later, with my unspoken promise to my father fulfilled, I arrived home in London with a real sense of accomplishment, and to an unexpected surprise. Hanging from the doorknob of my house was a plastic bag containing several copies of the Norwich Gazette, my dad’s hometown weekly paper, and inside one of them I found a story he’d written in 1992 about his ‘Navy Days’.

The story began as follows: In 1944 I was stationed in barracks on a piece of land called “The Spit” at Comox on Vancouver Island, B.C. About a half mile of water separated the spit from Comox and to get ashore we had to be inspected and travel to Comox in a real Liberty boat.

I said, “ Vancouver Island? He went west? Comox? What went on there?"

['Dougie' (center), age 24, with Navy buddies: GH]

And since I’d just finished travelling to the east coast to both fulfill a promise and for adventure (a long bike ride is always an adventure, to say the least), I resolved to fully recover from the trip, then start saving up another pile of money, then embark on another long trip to the west coast - to fulfill a wish of my own, to have an adventure and a bit of fun chasing my dad.

[The Spit is a great spot to walk in Dad's footsteps: GH]

After many months of ‘saving up’ and making detailed plans, I hopped a train on Saturday, April 21st, less than three weeks ago.

[The Spit is now home to Sea Cadets at HMCS Quadra: GH]

I have some more pictures to show you, so stay tuned.

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Please click here to read “GO WEST, YOUNG MAN”: Chasing my dad Part 1

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