Back in the 70s when I was a small child, my dad spontaneously bought a bright sky-blue anuak on our way to a cabin retreat in Northern Ontario. An anuak is a wide kayak-like boat that could fit one adult on the bench seat, and a small child in front on the floor. I had often sat on the floor with my dad in this boat while he paddled on the lakes in Northern Ontario.

On another trip when I was about 11-years-old, we were vacationing on a beach and I decided to paddle out onto the lake on my own, curious about what lay past the rocky-shored peninsula to the distant left of our spot on this beach.

I floated around the corner, only to see more rocks and trees and not the secret caves or beaches I had hoped for. I wanted to go further but noted the sun sinking down to the lake’s choppy horizon, and the wind was starting to pick up. Turning around, it blasted me in the face with its chilly breath. I struggled against the rising waters, pushing the paddle deep so I could gain more momentum. But I felt myself go further out in the water, the people on the shoreline shrinking as I battled the waves. I was going backwards, and a shot of terror went through my chest, freezing my limbs into its merciless grip.

I screamed and raised the paddle up in the air, hoping someone would hear and see my plight. I saw what looked like my dad stop and turn around. I yelled, “Help, help, I can’t get back in!” My dad waved back. I continued screaming and raising the paddle.

My dad dove into the water and swam up to the boat, which was a far distance from the shore, grabbed the handle at the tip of the boat with one arm, and did a side-stroke with the other. He was gasping for air as his head bobbed in and out of the water, never letting go of the boat’s tip.

He told me to keep paddling hard, reassuring me I would be okay. When we got to the shore, he fell into the sand, exhausted.

He had saved my life.

Now he is a feeble old man ravaged by dementia. He doesn’t have the strength or balance to walk on his own and requires a walker. He often spews offensive words from his mouth with no filter. He sometimes is not a pleasure to be around.

Even before his dementia, he hurt me with many fiery words. I never fit into his perfect traditional box of what he thought a woman should be.

But I respect the fact that he is my dad, he brought me into this world, and he worked his *ss off for our family.

He told me one day before the dementia got bad to never dissuade a child from pursuing their dreams. That’s the best parenting advice I have ever heard. Especially from him, who had tried to do that very thing when I was a teen.

He was a very fearful man and was trying to protect me from disappointment and failure. But he later learned that the disappointment from not pursuing one’s dream is greater than the fear of potential failure. Plus I was very determined and pursued my dreams anyway.

He told me he had his regrets about his parenting. Don’t we all? Parenting is hard, and his generation was not easy on him.

Our relationship has not been easy, but on that day, he sacrificed himself for me. I can never forget that memory.