Okay, I know you won't read this until day 7 is long past but I am compelled to write nonetheless. It has been a glorious day, starting at the crack of dawn and creeping through midday, the hours between spent working with my dad. This is something I never thought myself capable of. My dad and I have had our issues and have disagreed on plenty. He is an artist, full of rebellious, abstract ideas; I am a taskmaster, full of practical, concrete ideas. We're both fanatical control freaks, and yet, by some grace of God, we've managed to find some balance; he gives me his artistic vision and I translate it into some logistical manifestation of words. It's' a miracle really. And it's fun. As much as we may resist it, we are actually quite similar and I get him, just like he gets me, and I can complete his sentences before he's even said them, which drives me crazy until I can put them to good use, as is the case in this project of his, which I am sure I will write more about in coming months as things become more defined.
After working together, we hopped a high-speed ferry to Moorea with the scooter and found our way to Scarlet Muse (I've come to find out that is the boat's full name), anchored in magnificent Opinahu Bay. I did an impromptu interview with my dad about his past, which everyone has told me is fascinating but which I have never bothered to delve into. I have never really gotten to know my dad as an adult. I have never asked questions. He was just the guy I visited on holidays and called dad. I've been opening that door now. We're talking, and what I hope to have at the end of it all is an oral history that will one day be part of a larger family oral history. Blood is not always enough to bind people, but stories are.
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