Son of Swiss-German-Swedish immigrants, originally from a family of cheese mongers in Thun, Switzerland, my old man was born in Los Angeles. He spent much of his childhood in
La Joya, then his teenage years in Coyoacan, just a few blocks away from Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera.
He grew up to more than 6 feet tall, thin, with a deep voice, short light brown hair, deep blue steel eyes, two small gold hoops on the left ear, a van dyke, and his white skin, now suntanned from so many years on the tropics, made him look like an old gringo version of Don Quijote in the 21st century, which he was.
He wore the biggest Nike's I've ever seen, a willis leather bag with a book, several packs of smokes and a bottle of Hornitos, shorts, sunglasses and a black Breton cap defined the regular uniform of a businessman, turned sailor in exile.
I was the first kid on the neighborhood with a light saber
months before Star Wars was even announced
and at school I was the sole teenager with a yacht in Acapulco
the old man sure provided for me
and along the way he taught me a thing or two
He stood in line so many times
at the space mountain
under the Anaheim sun
spent hours at the arcade, playing
swam on the riptide with a bodyboard
no matter what it was
go kart racing, or just watching TV
he was always next to me
He taught me how to read the ocean currents
the air streams
how to handle an Evinrude
mix oil and care for it
and flip a Hobie cat
turned upside down in the middle of the bay
He showed me how to dig out clams
on the shallow shores of Baja
how to sail a two mast catalina class sailboat
winch in the main, duck for the boom
and pee overboard
how to read a radar and measure depth
how to chose wine, shoot and fish with a harpoon
and yet he never spoke about Korea
and never truly acted as a Vet
He taught me the importance of coffee
early in the morning
how waking up on the wake of a boat
is, amazingly unmatched
To sit and stop to see the sunset
and once, only once
I saw the green flash he talked so much about
He taught me to dive, snorkel and fish
how to pull anchors
and make the marine knots
I tie around your wrists
He taught me how to do almost everything
he just forgot to show me how to carry on
without having a smaller version of me to teach
"If you ever get caught with a Playboy, just stare at them straight in the eyes and say "good articles"
1981 - somewhere in the Mexican Pacific
John R. Gerber
Today is 14 years without my old man, and yet, as time goes by, his presence behind my right shoulder has only grown stronger.
