My Dad working. As usual.

My Dad has passed away, the victim of years of cigarette smoking. Typing those words is just something I never imagined that I would be doing. Dads aren't supposed to die. They're meant to be with you every step of the way, aren't they?

Mine certainly was. He was always there for me. Always. And the knowledge that he no longer will is so very difficult to deal with. You see, I had the Dad who always thought about me first. I had the Dad that when he retired from work and bought a beach house, he bought one where I lived. Could have bought one anywhere. Just wanted to be where I was.

I had the kind of Dad that taught me how to sail sabots some 35 years ago, and had been keenly interested in my career, right up to the end, ever since. He bought boats and let me skipper them, often to poor results, while he crewed for me. He watched me make mistakes, grow, and all along, offered only support and fatherhood, while asking for nothing in return. I used to think he sailed out of the love for the sport. I now know that I only had the love part right.

Every son has a million stories about their Dad, and here's one from me. Our second boat was a 24' Yankee Dolphin, that came with an old sabot. I must have been about ten or eleven, and the old man was teaching me how to sail it. The day came when I was ready for my first solo sail. It would out the finger, reach out the harbor and reach back. Simple, yet monumental.

I reached out okay, but when I tacked to come back, something was wrong. When I tried to point the boat back to where I had just come from, the sail just luffed. No matter how hard I pulled the mainsheet in, I couldn't get the sail to fill. Of course, the wind had shifted, the course back was now a beat, and I just couldn't comprehend going to weather.

No matter what I did, I couldn't grasp the concept of sailing upwind. So I drifted and sculled for what seemed like hours until I got to a dock at the opposite end of the harbor from ours. I walked back to our Dolphin, and when my Dad saw me walking down the dock, he said "What the hell? I was a little pussy and was crying and saying how I couldn't do it, blah blah. Bullshit, he said, and marched me up to our car (A 1967 Firebird 400, I'll never forget it), drove me to where I'd left the sabot, got in the sabot with me, and showed me how to sail upwind.

My Dad could have been one of those mamby-pamby "It's okay, you don't have to do it if you don't want to" jerk-offs, but he wasn't. He wasn't a ball-buster either- he just wanted me to get it. From then on, sailing was to become, for the most part, the central focus of my life. Thanks to my Dad.

My Dad was a small man with a big heart and balls to match. He was a true character with clear likes and dislikes. He took no shit from anyone, but dished out plenty to those who deserved it. The apple doesn't fall too far from the tree, and I've not been one to shy away from much either. I am reminded of a lyric by Public Enemy:

"They ask me where I got it / I got it from my Pops
With a man in the house / and all the bullshit stops."
--Chuck D.

Earle Tempesta, Frank Klatt, Janice Tempesta and Nancy Klatt (left to right) kickin' it on B- dock, Channel Islands Harbor, 1976.

Yet he was a real softy when it came to family. The fact that he was able to enjoy watching my wife and I bring two wonderful grandchildren into this world was a never-ending source of joy for him. There was literally not a day that he wasn't at our house. And there wasn't a day that we weren't glad he was.

I'll never forget him, I'll only miss him. I'll remember that we went to the Indy 500 together last year. I'll remember the last sail we had in a great 15-knot breeze just a few weeks ago on our Ranger 29. I'll remember his unconditional love and support. I'll remember that we were more than father and son, we were good friends. I'll remember that he called me 'kid'. And I'll never forget that there wasn't a day when he didn't say "How ya doin', kid?"

I love you Dad. But I reckon you knew that.