Today is the anniversary of my father’s death, so I thought I’d share another story about him.
I was never particularly athletic, but I’ve always enjoyed swimming. When I was little, my father used to take me to different pools and beaches every summer. Sometimes my mother would join us, though she never got into the water—she was afraid of it. Even when she came along, she’d stay by the poolside or sit on the shore, watching.
My father, on the other hand, learned to swim at a very young age. My grandfather, a sailor, had a rather primitive teaching method: he’d throw my father into the sea and say, “You’ll figure it out naturally.” My mother’s story was the opposite. As a child, she once accidentally fell into a river, and those few minutes of struggling in the water became one of the most traumatic moments of her life. She never learned to swim.
Compared to them, my first swimming experience was far less dramatic. I still remember how my father explained buoyancy to me: “If you relax and lie back, the water will hold you up. Once you can float, there’s nothing to fear.” I was sceptical, but I gave it a try. And just like he said, I floated. It was an indescribable feeling—weightless, quiet, and strangely familiar. Perhaps it reminded me of how we all start in the water, as embryos, cradled by it.
My father’s work as a young man was also tied to the sea. Later, he joined a dragon boat team, and every year during the Dragon Boat Festival, he’d get particularly tanned. I still remember the nights when he had to sleep on his stomach, his skin raw from sunburn after training. But he loved it. Watching him paddle during races, seeing the strength and rhythm in his strokes, and looking at the row of medals at home—all of it made me proud.
As much as I liked pools, I loved the beach more. My father would always challenge me to swim out to the distant floating platform. If I got tired on the way, I’d grab onto his shoulders, and he’d carry me the rest of the way, as effortlessly as if I were a piece of driftwood.
When we reached the platform, his favourite thing to do was dive into the water with a splash and have me count the seconds until he resurfaced. I always felt anxious as I counted—what if he didn’t come back? But he always did, surfacing with a handful of sand or mud from the seabed as proof of his journey.
There’s a film about the sea that I’ve always found deeply moving: The Big Blue. It tells the story of a remarkable diver and explores themes of friendship, family, and love. The underwater cinematography is breathtaking, and the soundtrack feels like a balm for the soul. There’s a line about diving that has always stayed with me:
"Johanna: What’s it feel like when you dive?
Jacques: It’s a feeling of slipping without falling. The hardest thing is when you’re at the bottom.
Johanna: Why?
Jacques: 'Cause you have to find a good reason to come back up... and I have a hard time finding one."
I think I was always one of my father’s reasons to come back up. And he’s the reason I love the sea as much as I do.
Even now, when I swim, I can’t rely on him to carry me when I’m tired. But I can still lie back and float, just as he taught me.
It’s been fifteen years since I became a child without a father. But I’d like to think he’s still out there, somewhere between the deep blue sea and the vast sky.
Here’s It’s My Sea by Sodagreen.
P.S. Today, I also heard the heartbreaking news of Kobe Bryant’s passing. From now on, when I look up at the sky, there will be another person to remember. No, two—his daughter is with him too.
