Grab the rope: A Dad’s wisdom to his son.

Growing up, our main source of family fun involved a lake, a boat and water skis. My dad loved to waterski and wanted us to love it, too. My sisters learned quickly and were good at it, too. Me? Not so much. I resisted. (and that had to have frustrated my Dad.)  It’s not that I was opposed to skiing. No, what I was opposed to was was falling. Heck, I was terrified of it. So I stayed in the boat and prayed he wouldn’t make me ski. 

My grandparents had a cabin on the Tennessee River near Knoxville, Tennessee. Going there was our annual summer vacation. I loved the place — it’s a source of some of my fondest family memories. There would be hours of sun-baked swimming, playing on the little beach and fishing off of the dock.

One year, Dad came out on the dock, looked me in the eye and said it was time for me to learn how to ski. While I didn’t think Dad would have called me a chicken to my face, I know he probably was thinking it. That meant I had officially run out of excuses. I gave into into the enviable and said, “Oh OK.” Dad was more persistent than Sam-I-am in that way. 

We climbed into the boat and headed downriver. Dad pulled into a quiet cove where it’d be safe for me to learn to ski. He threw the skis out into the water and me right after them. Then he carefully pulled the boat around to guide the rope to me. I’d get my skis up, give him the signal and he’d gun the engine. I must be part concrete because I wouldn’t get up. He’d drag me down the river and half the time, I would forget to let go of the rope. By mid afternoon, I had drank so much of the Tennessee River that I started to develop gills. 

I know Dad must’ve been frustrated. Hell, I was frustrated. But he didn’t show it and I kept trying. Up and down and down and up the river we went.

And then a miracle happened – I got up!

I gripped the rope and bounced along in the wake behind of the boat. Skiing was FUN! (I would ski with a goat, in a boat, Sam-I-Am!)

Then it happened. Dad got bored. Dad was big kid. And like most kids, he had a bit of an impish streak in him. He turned the boat in a circle to sling me outside of the wake. If you understand centrifugal force, you know that if the boat goes 20 mph, the little kid on the end the rope is going 750 mph. I remember cracking the sound barrier. And then it happened.

I hit a piece of driftwood. 

TVA raises and lowers Fort Loudon Lake for mosquito control (and to apparently wash every piece of wood out into the middle of the channel.) I tumbled like the skier on the opening of ABC’s old Wide World of Sports and smashed into the water’s surface. And that surface felt like it was made of concrete. When I hit, one of the skis hit me in the head. I nearly was knocked out. 

Dad was a caring man. He gingerly guided the boat next to me and pulled out a paddle and started poking with me.

He said, “Are you OK?” 

Groggily, I said, “Go away.” 

He replied, “Grab the rope.” 

“No,” I said. “You tried to kill me.” 

“Grab the rope,” he repeated. 

I said, “No. And why should I? I’m swimming back.” 

He shook his head and said, “Grab the rope. We’re going to make your story about how you got back up — not how you fell down.” 

Well, I grabbed the rope. And I kept skiing. If I had been afraid, I would have missed out on a lifetime of fun. 

Flash forward 25 years. I was lying in bed, groggy from a big dose of opioid pain medication. I had just had surgery to remove a melanoma (and a good chunk fo my back.)The medication left me half-sleeping with visions of peaceful purple pelicans and feeling sorry for myself for having cancer. Then suddenly, I felt a pressure against my forehead. Thump. Thump. Thump. I groggily opened my right eye and saw my Dad standing over me, pressing his finger against my forehead. Thump. Thump. Thump. 

I said, “What are you doing?” 

He replied, “Get up. We’re walking around the block and I’m helping you.” “I just had surgery. Leave me alone.” 

“Get up. We’re going to make your story about how you beat cancer, not how you had it.” 

He gingerly helped me up and nearly carried me around the block. But we did it. That was my Dad. Pity parties weren’t allowed in his world and he knew that if you framed a problem a certain way, it could become an opportunity. And he knew what I was going through. He had had cancer a few months before my surgery. The man wasn’t Yoda. And Lord knows he wasn’t perfect. But he was a perfect dad for me.

Little did I know that summer’s afternoon waterskiing that my father was teaching the most important three-part lesson I’ve ever learned:

1. Grab the rope. 2. Get back up. 3. Change your story. 

Thanks Dad.  

What’s the best advice you dad ever gave you?