A Father's Day remembrance of a perfect day on the Chesapeake.
Some people say it is walking 18 holes of golf, others say spending the
day in a blind when the geese aren’t flying. But for me it is a quiet sail on a warm day across a long stretch of water barely ruffled by the wind that makes two people open up to one another and tell each other things they would never say in any other setting.
One of these sails occurred with my father who passed more than ten years ago. He was neither a boater nor someone who liked the water. So, one dry summer late in August when the sea nettles were as thick as Jello in the Bay's shallows, he said to my complete astonishment that he wanted to do the Crab Alley to Saint Michaels run I had been talking about around the office.
Our boat then was a 16 foot Hobie catamaran. This particular trip started at the public landing on Crab Alley Creek on Kent Island, out Crab Alley Bay, went across the Eastern Bay and up the Miles River to St. Michaels for lunch at its iconic restaurant, the Crab Claw, next door to the Chesapeake Bay Maritime Museum. If the winds hold up in the afternoon, a Hobie can sail the twelve miles back to the public landing by five in the afternoon.
At the time of the sail, my father and I were practicing law together,
something we did for fifteen years. We enjoyed, or survived depending on one's point of view on a particular day, a classic father-son business relationship.
Still years away from retirement, my father was enjoying all that he had
accomplished. He couldn't imagine doing anything else but come to the office each day to make sure everything was being done the way he wanted it. I, on the other hand, was at the beginning of my career and, supremely confident in my youthful ignorance, wanted to change most everything about the firm immediately. We were in the heated argument stage of this classic relationship, each trying to convince the other of the rightness of his position through intense force of will, and each exasperated and profoundly disturbed by the shortsightedness of the other.
This relationship is described frequently in management journals. My favorite is by Thomas Watson, Jr., in Father, Son & Company, in which he wrote about IBM and his travails with his father who founded the organization. Our small firm was hardly an IBM, but there were distinct similarities in the way the Watson and McGuiness males treated one another.
Tom Junior fought day in and day out with his father. He thought, for example, the future of computers was in transistors. His father felt just as strongly that the punch card would continue to be the key to success. Since the 1930's, it had made IBM one of the largest and most successful organizations in the world. Just because it was the Fifties, there was no
need to change something that had been so reliable and that had created so much wealth.
There is a picture of these two titans shaking hands on the day Tom Senior retired and handed the reins of his beloved company to this hothead who didn’t have the maturity to leave well enough alone and would no doubt go on to ruin it. A man who has only a few months to live, Tom Senior has a look of resignation, knowing full well this kid is going to change everything that he had worked so hard to build.
When my father and I had our sail that quiet day in August, we were still
five years away from when the mantle would be passed, a process that would begin three years later at a fateful annual meeting of one of our association clients.
At that time, he was the president of one of our clients, an industry trade association, and I was the number two. A few months before that meeting, this association had been involved in defeating a major piece of legislation in Congress that our members found abhorrent. Our involvement had resurrected a long running argument about the appropriate public profile. He prided himself on keeping things low key to avoid as much controversy as possible. The last thing he wanted, particularly at this point in his career, was the organization to be attacked publicly by anyone for any reason.
I, on the other hand, had always thought a political organization could
not be effective without making one's presence known, and that a bit of
controversy, in addition to making life interesting, was useful in drawing
attention to one's arguments. So, to add a little spice to the meeting, I had invited the prime sponsor of the legislation we had helped defeat. Much to everyone’s surprise, he accepted.
On a Friday afternoon in Williamsburg, Virginia, before an audience of
senior corporate executives, the congressman and subcommittee chairman opened his presentation by saying that the reason our invitation was accepted was the he wanted to deliver an important message to the association. "Make no mistake about it," he solemnly intoned, "your organization was primarily responsible for the defeat of my bill.”
No one in life really likes to tell someone else their true feelings about
something the other holds dear, and this penchant is pronounced when
people deal one-on-one with powerful politicians. Members of Congress are routinely lobbied by sycophantic business representatives who tell them that the legislation they are pushing is wonderful and that they are very sorry that their retrograde, staff driven, out of control business associations (to whom they faithfully pay their dues and serve on their boards) are giving them such a hard time.
Over time, some politicians begin to believe that companies really are
grateful to policymakers who saddle them with enormous legal liability and onerous regulatory requirements. Perhaps, for that reason, the congressman expected that his charge against us, that we
defeated a bill that he had written, would so shock the membership
that they would immediately launch impeachment proceedings against my father and me. This is absolutely great, I thought. Here we are being given credit for something that few groups could ever hope to accomplish—primary responsibility for the defeat of a bill in Congress—and not only that, the sponsor of the bill was the one presenting the award.
But the glow quickly faded. The Congressman shifted from an attack on the association to an attack on the executives sitting in the room who were headquartered in his home state, many of whom he knew personally. “What are you doing in this room,” he would say, calling out each one by name. “I’m sure you're not contributing
to an organization like this.”
Exhausting that pool, he then charged me with unethical conduct and saying my license to practice law should be revoked.
What had been exhilarating was now ugly. The audience knew full well that it was the pot calling the kettle black, but his repeated personal attacks were beginning to raise questions as to whether there wasn't at least some truth in what he was saying.
The congressman harangued the group like an instructor in a reeducation camp, repeatedly referring to a fact sheet that I had developed on blank paper describing various aspects of the bill.
One of its points had been picked up by the legislation's
opponents during the House floor debate and used as the principal argument against it. This blank format was in keeping with my father's no identity, low profile approach which the two of us had battled over for years. I couldn’t believe sinister motives were now being assigned to my use of it. Even more puzzling was the fact that the congressman said repeatedly that the language I had used in the fact sheet was
an egregious misrepresentation of his bill.
This hectoring went on for 45 of the most painful minutes of my life. Squirming in their chairs, no one was willing to look in my direction. My father was pacing back and forth in the back of the room muttering violently to himself, his worst fears realized.
Earlier that day, I had proudly recounted our accomplishments to these
very same people, and they had seemed so very, very appreciative of what we had done. From the high of that morning, I was now plunging towards the abyss. Growing up in Washington, DC, I had watched the oft repeated ritual of those in the wrong place at the wrong time being
crucified for misdeeds that weren't sins at all, and now I couldn't believe
that it was happening to me, right in front of the very people with whom I wanted to build my career.
Eventually, it hit me that I was completely on my own. No one was going to come to my rescue, not my father, not the moderator who at this point was looking for a way to slide off the riser, nor any of those people who usually stand up in a group setting like this to make long-winded points.
With nothing to lose, I rose from my chair in the back of the room and moved rapidly to the dais, loudly interrupting the congressman on my way forward, saying that it was time to bring a little bit of truth, common sense and decency into this discussion. Yes, this sounds remarkably
lame in the retelling, but it shocked the room and caused the congressman to freeze momentarily in disbelief at my indiscretion.
Once on the stage, I yanked the fact sheet out of his hand, reading aloud
the passage he found so offensive. “Yes, I wrote that. Yes, I gave it to everyone I could in Congress. But what you've neglected to tell the audience, Mr. Chairman, is that there are quotation marks at the beginning and end of the sentence you find so egregious. The reason for those quotation marks is that this sentence comes directly from your bill. You wrote those words, Mr. Chairman, and if those words were the cause of your bill being defeated, then you have no one to blame but yourself."
With that I shoved the fact sheet back into his hands, turned my back to him and walked to my seat, very slowly. As I did, I could feel the mood of the room swing fiercely to my side. People pounded their fists. Tables were slapped. I was patted on my arms, back and legs as I worked down the row back to my seat. I was Rocky. I wanted to bow in four
directions and drink in the cheers. The congressman tried to continue his bullying for a few more minutes, but it was over, and he soon left the room.
After the meeting had recessed for the day, I knocked on the door of my
parents' room in the hotel. My mother let me in without, uncharacteristically, saying a word, just nodding in my father’s direction.
He was slumped in a heavy chair that he had turned to the resort's elegant small window. Staring out at the peaceful golf course, the Canada geese walking across the lawn, and the trees just beginning to bud, he looked as if the world had crashed in around him. The association's name would now go on everything that went out, our profile had been raised permanently, and we had members of Congress who would try to squash us whenever they got the opportunity.
As I stood there beside him, he wouldn't look at me or even acknowledge my presence. I told the back of his head not to worry, the whole thing had worked out fine and that for once no one had fallen asleep during the afternoon meeting. He turned and glared at me, and said, acid dripping, "You just don't get it, do you?"
But that was all to come. By some unspoken agreement that August day in 1982, all the usual mind games we played on each other had been suspended.
As we glided out of Crab Alley Bay, he sat looking across the water
towards the narrow strip of trees in the distance that marks Tilghman Point at the mouth of the Miles River. Instead of his usual golf hat from an expensive resort, he was wearing a black billed Winchester Rifles cap that he’d bought at a convenience store where we had stopped for ice that morning. He’d never owned a gun in his life.
We talked about our experiences growing up and what had happened to relatives and people we knew. As the morning wore on, we started
thinking about those points you reach in life when the fog lifts. It reveals an attractive channel, and turning towards it, an irreversible journey begins taking you thousands of miles in a direction you
had never anticipated. Had the fog not lifted just at that moment, you would have chosen another course with an altogether different set of experiences. We had never talked like this before.
When we got to St. Michaels, we slowly tacked the Hobie through the harbor in the light wind to the dingy dock at the Maritime Museum and then walked over to the picnic tables on the Crab Claw’s deck. It was a day that comes as summer is ending, when the sky is less intense, the green leaves are losing their luster, and the crickets trill their high register symphony.
As we ate, we watched a small seaplane land on the Miles and taxi towards the Crab Claw. The pilot shut down its engine as he neared us, passed a long wooden oar through a side window, and paddled the last few feet to tie up directly in front of our table. We smiled at
each other and shook our heads, thinking how foreign this pleasant place was to the universe we normally inhabited.
At the time I was stumbling my way through a book Nigel Calder wrote,
called It says on the dust jacket, "Relativity Made Plain" which is a bit of a reach. As part of his discussion of the theories Einstein formulated replacing Newtonian concepts of gravity with ones involving time and space, he provides a description of how two bodies influence one another.
Moons and planets are falling freely, travelling as straight as they
can through curved space. A massive body, he says, "distorts time and space around it and those distortions guide the movements of other objects in its vicinity." He goes on to explain that a massive body
bends space to such an extent that a smaller object falling freely at the right speed goes right around the massive body and back to its starting point.
Calder’s explanation summed up our relationship at the time. Two bodies falling freely in space, but my father's being so massive that I was trapped in his orbit. He would move inexorably forward, while I could only move through the space that curved around him.
On that day in August as I picked through a pile of steamed crabs and he
ordered a second helping of crab cakes, relativity changed. We were both falling freely, neither one curving the other's space. At least
that's how I felt. Maybe it was just because he was on my boat going where I wanted to go and only I knew how to sail it. He was riding in my car, and I would be driving him home. If he didn't like what I was doing, he would have to call my mother, and she was not going
to drive all the way to the Eastern Shore to pick him up. So maybe, for a change, he was having to orbit around me just to survive the day.
Except that he seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself and always spoke afterwards about what an enjoyable day it was. In any event, it was the first time in my life of 35 years that I saw my father as neither a parent, an employer nor someone in my way, but just another confused human being grappling with life.
A few days after we returned to the office, the relationship reverted to
its normal state. Five years later, the mantle was passed, albeit reluctantly. And one August afternoon fourteen years later as he sat in the family room of our house, the two of us looked directly at one another, staring into each other’s eyes for a very long time, saying no words because we didn’t need to. A feeling was being exchanged that he did not have long to live and that he wanted to make his peace with me and I with him. It would not be until the following August that I would watch those eyes burn brightly for a brief moment as he saw a new course that would take him forever in a new direction, and then
dim as he took it.
Today, I live in St. Michaels on that same harbor, and I can see the roof
of the Crab Claw from our house. Every now and then when the intensity of the August heat breaks, I like to sit on our deck and imagine the Hobie with its two figures aboard working its way over to the dingy dock where we had tied up so long ago, and then try to bring back that
feeling. In all our years together, it was one of the few times neither of us wanted anything from the other. For a brief moment in time
and space, we were just two guys, at peace.