Every Father’s Day starts the same: my boys scramble last-minute, and I brace for another Shoppers Drug Mart special. You know the drill—razor set, novelty socks, maybe a mug that says “#1 Dad” if they’re feeling sentimental. Works for Mother’s Day. For dads? Not so much.
Now don’t get me wrong—I love my sons. Over the years, they’ve shown they care in their own wonderfully chaotic way. But Father’s Day, in my humble opinion, should be about what the father wants. A BBQ cheeseburger. A cold drink. A hammock. Maybe the boys fanning me while keeping the flies away. Sorry, I drifted off there…
This year felt different. My wife got involved. That’s when I knew something was up. She gave me the ominous warning: “Don’t make any plans for Father’s Day.” Translation: abandon all cheeseburger dreams, ye who enter here.
Sunday morning rolls around. I’m sipping coffee, checking the weather on Lake Erie. It’s perfect—sunny, calm, the kind of day that whispers, “Go boating.” I casually mention this to my wife. Without missing a beat, she says, “Too bad. The boys have plans for you.”
Denied.
Instead, I’m told to get dressed up. We’re going to brunch. I like brunch. I don’t like crowds of sugared-up toddlers and dads pretending they’re thrilled about quinoa pancakes. Sure enough, we arrive at a trendy spot with a wait list. Just under an hour. Not bad—for a hostage situation.
Eventually, we’re seated and served something that looked like breakfast and lunch had a food truck baby. It was tasty, I’ll give them that. But I was still dreaming of my cheeseburger.
Then came the twist.
In the parking lot, the boys handed me a gift. Not wrapped. A captain’s hat—the kind you get on Amazon for $12.99 with questionable stitching. Then out came my sailing bag, boat keys, and a declaration: “Wizz going fishin’!”
Two cars. One with me and the boys. One with my wife, who somehow scored the day off. Suspicious.
We got to the boat. My older son had never seen it. My younger son, the self-appointed first mate, took the helm. This was back in the days of the old Lowrance fish finder—the one that basically says, “You’re in water. Good luck.”
We motored out onto Erie, rods in hand, tunes blasting. I did my fatherly duty and asked if everyone had their fishing licenses and small craft cards. They did. Miracles happen.
We trolled. We followed other boats. The fish finder showed cartoon fish doing synchronized swimming. We caught nothing. But the weather was perfect, and the vibes were better.
Eventually, the first mate got tired. I handed the wheel to my older son, who drove the boat like it was his sports car. I explained that boats don’t go where you point them. Wind and waves have opinions. He learned fast. Four hours of trolling later, he had a new respect for boating—and maybe for me.
Best. Father’s Day. Ever.
As the sun dipped, I took the helm and pointed us home, still dreaming of that elusive cheeseburger. But just as we throttled up in response to a mayday call, the wind caught my captain’s hat—the proud Amazon special—and launched it into Lake Erie like a ceremonial offering. It sank without a trace. First casualty of the day. Moments later, the cover to the old Lowrance fish finder rattled loose and followed suit, as if paying tribute to the fallen head wear. We were down two accessories but up one unforgettable memory. Within minutes, we arrived on scene. Thankfully, the boater was safe and the drama short-lived. It was a reminder that when you’re on the water, you help—because one day, you might be the one calling for it.
We headed home. No cheeseburger. But a good meal, a great day, and a memory I’ll never forget.