When my 75-year-old father insisted we drive 1,300 miles to a mysterious coastal town for his birthday, I thought it was another of his whims.
But his cryptic excitement hid something deeper: an old pact, an unknown destination, and the kind of secrets that could change how I saw him forever.
My dad and I always had a great bond. When I was younger, we’d spend hours walking through the woods near our home, and he often whisked the family off on sudden weekend camping trips.
He was 75 now, his wiry frame a little thinner, his gait a little slower, but you’d never guess it when he got talking.
It didn’t matter if the subject was last night’s game, some documentary he caught, or one of the endless stories from his youth — I was always his favorite audience, and I didn’t mind being cast in the role.
Every Saturday, I’d visit him at the nursing home, where his mind seemed determined to outrun his aging body.
That day wasn’t supposed to be any different, but things ended up taking a strange turn.
I had my coffee, Dad had his stories, and the afternoon sunlight filtered lazily through the room’s sheer curtains. Then Dad leaned forward, his eyes alive with that mischievous spark I knew so well.
“Fill up your tank,” he said, voice firm and a little conspiratorial. “We’ve got a long journey ahead.”
I blinked, caught off guard.
“What are you talking about, Dad?”
“We’re going on a road trip, son,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
“There’s a coastal town I need to visit. I’ve got a very important meeting there.”
“A meeting?” I tried not to laugh. “Dad, you’re retired.
You’re 75. What kind of meeting could you possibly have?”
He waved me off, annoyed by my skepticism. “You’ll find out soon enough.
Just trust me on this one, okay? We have to be there on my birthday.”
There was something in his voice that made me pause: a seriousness I wasn’t used to.
I studied him, searching for a tell that this was just one of his whims. But there was no trace of his usual playfulness.
He meant it.
“Alright,” I said slowly, the corner of my mouth twitching into a half-smile. “But if this turns out to be some elaborate excuse to get me to take you fishing, I swear to God…”
“Fishing?” He scoffed, slapping the armrest of his chair. “Do I look like I’ve got time to waste on fishing?”
Despite myself, I chuckled.
“Fine.
Let’s do it. Where are we going, exactly?”
Dad took out a map and pointed to the town. My jaw dropped.
“That’s so far away, Dad!
We’ll need days to drive there.”
“Yes, and we need to leave soon, so I don’t miss my meeting.”
I let out a deep sigh. “Okay, I’ll make the arrangements and we’ll leave the day after tomorrow.”
His grin stretched wide, triumphant. “That’s my boy.”
Soon, we were on the road.
The SUV rattled and groaned under the weight of what I would later admit was my tendency to over-pack. My dad sat in the passenger seat, gripping the map he’d insisted on bringing instead of letting me use GPS.
“Technology kills adventure,” he’d declared that morning, tapping the paper triumphantly. “This’ll keep us honest.”
The drive was long — 1,300 miles of highways, back roads, cheap motels, and too many gas station snacks.
Dad filled the hours with stories, each one more outrageous than the last.
He told me about the time he scared off a black bear with nothing but a flashlight and a whistle, and the summer he led his Boy Scout troop through a thunderstorm armed with only a compass and unshakable confidence.
Some of the stories I’d heard before, but they hit differently now. I found myself hanging on every word, imagining a younger version of my dad in vivid detail: a boy with skinned knees and wide eyes, ready to take on the world.
But the laughter and nostalgia were punctuated by something else. Moments of quiet where Dad would stare out the window, his fingers drumming nervously on his knee.
It wasn’t like him.
“You okay, Dad?” I asked, breaking one of those silences.
He blinked, as if I’d startled him.
“Better than ever,” he said, but the way his voice wavered didn’t escape me.
I didn’t press him. Not yet.
We arrived at the coast on the morning of his birthday.
It was breathtaking, almost surreal; the kind of place you’d see on a postcard. The cliffs towered high above, their edges rugged and raw, and the ocean stretched out endlessly, its waves crashing in a steady, thunderous rhythm.
The air was cool and sharp, carrying the scent of salt and seaweed.
Dad stepped out of the car and just stood there, staring at it all like he was seeing something from a dream.
His shoulders rose and fell with each shaky breath, and for the first time, I noticed how frail he looked.
“It’s just like I remember,” he whispered, more to himself than to me.
“Did you come here a lot as a kid?” I asked, keeping my voice soft.
He shook his head. “Just once. But it was enough to stay with me forever.”
We walked down to the beach together, the sand damp and cool under our feet.
I watched him carefully, half-worried he might collapse under the weight of whatever memories were clinging to him.
“There, that’s the spot!” Dad pointed to a bench facing the water.
I followed him over to the bench and we both sat down.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Now, we wait,” Dad replied with a smile.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page.
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