The morning light spilled across the ocean like a promise. Dad and I, Mino, set out just after sunrise, our little boat slicing gently through the calm water. The salt air tasted of freedom, and Dad’s laughter echoed across the waves — a sound I’ll carry with me forever.
I remember the moment clearly. Dad looked at me with that gentle grin, the one he reserves for special days. “Ready for our ocean adventure?” he asked. I grinned back, heart pounding with excitement. Because for a long time, Dad’s been busy—work, errands, responsibilities—but today, it was just the two of us and this vast, beautiful ocean.
We drifted. We watched the light dance on the waves, shadows moving like living things below. Dad told stories of when he was a kid—how he used to stare out at the sea and dream of being somewhere beyond the horizon. I listened, soaking up every word, and realized I’d never asked before what those dreams were. Today I did. He smiled and told me that his greatest dream was always to share this kind of day with me.
At one point, the boat slowed, and we both leaned back and looked at the sky. Clouds drifted lazily, pelicans soared overhead, printing graceful arcs against the pale blue. Dad pointed out a pod of dolphins—just off to our starboard side—and we watched them leap, their dark backs cutting through the sea foam. My heart leapt with them.
I felt something shift in that moment. I realized: it’s not the destination that matters. It’s the presence. It’s the laughter. It’s the simple act of being with someone you love, surrounded by something so big and so beautiful that you can only stare in wonder.
Dad told me how proud he was of me—not for grades, not for trophies, but for who I am. The ocean was our witness. The waves clapped softly. I felt his hand rest gently on my shoulder, and I knew he meant it when he said, “You’re my greatest adventure.”
We floated until noon, the sun climbing high, warming our skin, turning the sea a deep cerulean. Dad packed lunch—sandwiches, fresh fruit, iced tea—and we ate side by side, crunching into apples, dipping toes in the water, tasting salt and sunshine and the memory we were building.
Later, he asked if I wanted to steer. My heart jumped, and I nodded. He guided me gently, his hands still near mine, showing me how to let the boat ride the current rather than fight it. My small hands gripped the wheel; the engine hummed; the world spun in soft motion. I laughed when a fish splashed nearby and the boat rocked—I saw Dad laugh too.
That ride was a lesson. The ocean doesn’t care about schedules or alarms or the rush of our daily routines. It moves on its own rhythm, timeless and patient. And in that rhythm, we found our moment.
By late afternoon, the sky began to blush — pinks and golds melting into the horizon. Dad and I sat side by side, legs dangling off the edge of the boat, feet skimming the cool sea. We watched the sun dip down, and Dad said, “Mino, remember days like this. Remember the way it felt—the wind, the waves, our laughter.”
I nodded. Because I already will. Because I knew that even after we returned to normal life—homework, chores, phones buzzing—this day would remain. A treasure tucked into my heart.
As the boat eased back to shore, I turned to Dad and said, “Thank you.” He squeezed my hand and said, “Thank you for being here with me.”
We stepped off the boat together, sand between our toes, ocean scent clinging to us. I looked up at Dad—strong, kind, with that same boy-dreamer inside him—and I felt gratitude deeper than I can say.
That night, as I drifted off to sleep, I heard the ocean in my dreams. And I remembered the truth: the greatest journeys aren’t always across continents. Sometimes they’re across the waves beside someone you love, with the sun on your face and the salt in your hair and a moment that becomes a lifetime.
