“He gave me his love for arguing and sense of righteous indignation. And while Dad wasn’t a believer in handing his kids their every wish, he also gave me my first surfboard. It was the summer of 1981. My brother and I were spending our annual court-appointed and parent-approved two months in Texas. Most of these days consisted of hanging at my dad’s on Galveston Bay— nowhere near the island surf spots—the flattest portion of a notoriously flat body of water, with none of the excitement of our b...each life back home. Pops must have predicted our postpartum depression, because when we arrived he unveiled a pair of new toys for my brother and I. They weren’t the best-made boards, but we thought they were perfect. And late that summer we spent a week in Florida, where I discovered the full realm of first-time surfing experiences—and where, just a few years later, my father would embark on a life-changing mission of his own. My dad never joined in on that first surf trip. And I doubt we even stepped out of our narcissistic playground to invite him.MoreLessRead More Read Less
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