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Once, my father carried me into the surf. Now my arm steadies his steps back to the sea -- The Guardian
https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2025/apr/10/once-my-father-carried-me-into-the-surf-now-my-arm-steadies-his-steps-back-to-the-seaTim Baker
Early morning swims were a daily ritual for my dad until age and illness took its toll. On a recent visit, I hatched a plan to get him in the ocean again
t’s a delicate moment. My father’s a proud man. I don’t want to be condescending, so I tell him to let me know the level of help he needs. “I’ll take my cues from you,” I offer quietly. With a default formality I still find endearing, he tells me he’ll require assistance at two stages of the process: getting in and getting out.
I’ve travelled from my home in northern New South Wales to Perth to spend 10 days with my father, while his second wife, my stepmum, is in Melbourne visiting their two adult sons and new grandsons.
Dad’s 91. I’ve just turned 60. Getting reacquainted is always part of these sporadic visits across the continent. We’ve lived most of our lives in different states, even countries, so I’ve cherished the wisdom he’s offered along the way. One that has stuck with me is his daily routine, which he calls six by six.
. . .
But it has been two years since he has felt the kiss of his beloved Indian Ocean. Bladder cancer, the fitting of a pacemaker, a hip replacement, prostate cancer and cataract surgery, atop the usual ravages of old age, have robbed him of his daily ocean fix. I’m managing a prostate cancer diagnosis of my own – not the father/son bonding I would’ve chosen, but a bonding nonetheless.
He says if he starts the day at 6am with a swim at North Cottesloe and finishes with a glass of wine while listening to classical music at 6pm, he can deal with pretty much whatever happens in between.
. . .
“It’s been a good day,” Dad declares before bed.
The next day, we are meeting his oldest friend Bruce for breakfast – another sweet pleasure, when so many of his mates are dropping off the perch. Dad suggests we go back via the beach. “Let’s bring our swimmers.”
I’ve travelled from my home in northern New South Wales to Perth to spend 10 days with my father, while his second wife, my stepmum, is in Melbourne visiting their two adult sons and new grandsons.
Dad’s 91. I’ve just turned 60. Getting reacquainted is always part of these sporadic visits across the continent. We’ve lived most of our lives in different states, even countries, so I’ve cherished the wisdom he’s offered along the way. One that has stuck with me is his daily routine, which he calls six by six.
. . .
But it has been two years since he has felt the kiss of his beloved Indian Ocean. Bladder cancer, the fitting of a pacemaker, a hip replacement, prostate cancer and cataract surgery, atop the usual ravages of old age, have robbed him of his daily ocean fix. I’m managing a prostate cancer diagnosis of my own – not the father/son bonding I would’ve chosen, but a bonding nonetheless.
He says if he starts the day at 6am with a swim at North Cottesloe and finishes with a glass of wine while listening to classical music at 6pm, he can deal with pretty much whatever happens in between.
. . .
“It’s been a good day,” Dad declares before bed.
The next day, we are meeting his oldest friend Bruce for breakfast – another sweet pleasure, when so many of his mates are dropping off the perch. Dad suggests we go back via the beach. “Let’s bring our swimmers.”
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