I was what you might call, a ''Daddy's boy''. Growing up, I spent most of my summer days following my Dad, a parks superintendent, driving down dirt roads, rowing boats on lakes, and going down rivers in canoes. Like most good things that happen to you when you are a kid, you sort of take it for granted. You figure that this is the way life is for everybody.

''You must be one of Ian's boys'' (Ian by the way is pronounced Eye-Un, not the typical Eee-Un), was a common comment made by adults who encountered us. When my brother and I were youngsters, we didn't think anything of it, it was sort of a ''you have brown eyes'' descriptor. But as the years went on, we slowly began to view being one of ''Ian's boys'' as a badge of honour. That's because the older we became, the more we became aware just how special a man Dad was.

Left to right - Me, my brother, Dad, Bonaventure Island, Québec

 

Against a backdrop spent largely outdoors, Dad, whether consciously or not, set about teaching us a number of valuable lessons. Simple, yet important things. Things like, the world doesn't revolve around you as an individual, the importance of family unity, and the expectation that as a member of this family you strive to do good.

It was however when salmon fishing, that my Dad was at his most natural and at his happiest. His love for the river started early. Mostly when spending time with his grandfather (whom we called ''Bap'') at his camp on the York River, about 50 kilometers deep into the woods west of the town of Gaspé. He would later go on to become a salmon fishing guide, and quickly acquired a reputation among the clients and his peers as a consummate professional. It was fairly common practice for the guides to take over from the ''sports'' when, late in the day, no salmon had been hooked. It was while doing this that Dad showed what he liked to call ''the difference between fishing and catching fish''.

My brother (sporting a rather fancy hat), Dad, and me.

Our relationship however, like most father and son relationships, was certainly not free of its share of tensions. High atop the list of ways in which I frustrated my Dad were my lack of academic ambition and my seeming inability to sustain any type of long term relationships. ''How can someone supposedly as smart as you get grades like this?'' was a common report card comment. And invariably after meeting a new girlfriend he would take me aside and ask, ''How much energy should I invest in getting to know ... ?''. The one line he delivered that still makes me smile to this day was his ''I'm not buying you anymore engagement presents" classic.


But beyond all of this, it was the way he handled the end of his life that is the reason why I respect my Dad more than anyone I've ever known.  I was with him pretty much through the whole process from his cancer diagnosis, through the radiation and chemotherapy treatments, to the countless surgeries, to his final breath, and I can honestly say that I never heard him complain once. There were no ''woe is me'' moments. Just his usual stoic, quiet, dignity.

In his last night, the staff at the hospital set up a bed for me next to his. I mostly just sat up and watched him as his breaths slowly became more shallow and less frequent. In the moments when his eyes were open, I talked to him about some of our fishing trips. Some of the ones we caught, some of the ones we (mostly I) lost. I talked about the Little Indian Pool on the St-Jean River, a spot that he said he hoped heaven would be like.

And then, with no drama, no fuss, he stopped breathing.

Today would have been my Dad's 80th birthday.