Sometimes, Father’s Day is celebrated in May

A year after I was born was the year my father started sailing. Twenty-five years later, I could count on my fingers the number of times that we were able to celebrate Christmases, birthdays, and other important occasions together, much less, Father’s Day.

Daddy Nowie has been a seafarer for as long as I can remember. My mother said that my birth as the eldest child had prompted my father to look to the sea for livelihood, knowing that his working situation in the Philippines at the time just wouldn’t have worked for us.

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Even at my young age, I already felt my father’s physical absence, that I began to cherish the precious few times that he was actually with us.

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“Tumatakas pa ako noon kapag aalis ako kasi humahabol ka sa akin kapag papasok ako sa work,” my dad used to say.

(I would slip away quietly back then whenever I had to leave because you would chase after me whenever I left for work.)

This is the reality of the family of an OFW (overseas Filipino worker) — borrowing time for special occasions that we would miss with our loved ones, settling for crumbs of their presence in exchange for a few creature comforts that their hard work away from family could afford.

Thus, while Father’s Day may not be until the third Sunday of June, our family of four already celebrated ours in May. It was just a simple, unplanned celebration — much like every seaman’s onboarding, where departures are rarely set in stone. Everything depends on when the ship can anchor, and whether that means leaving sooner or staying a little longer. Two months would become a period of catching up, of reseting and connection.

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This also means that even though dad is here on vacation, his suitcases would come with us wherever we would go, in anticipation of a sudden call to leave. He would often say, “Hindi pwedeng maiwanan ng lineup. Kapag tumawag, sampa agad.” (You can’t afford to miss the lineup. When they call, you boardimmediately.)

That he would cut short his vacation is no longer new to us, as it comes with the understanding that this is part of his commitment to give us a good life.

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When the recent Middle East conflict arose, stakes were even higher. He has barely been home for a few hours, and already, he has to think about when he will leave again.

Distinctly, for years, my dad would say, “Sana makaalis ako ng ganitong buwan para sakto ang end of contract sa December, makapagbirthday at pasko naman dito.”

(I hope I can leave by this month so my contract ends in December. That way I can celebrate my birthday and Christmas at home.)

I knew that my father feels extra lonely when he would have to spend his birthday, just a day before Christmas — away from our family. He would go on to say how it was in 2012 when we last spent our newyear together, recalling the firecrackers, what he cooked, the inside jokes.

But it was a sacrifice that he would bear willingly. Those days that seemed quite distant in my memory but quite vivid for his recollection just shows just how much he valued them, and us.

On May 14, we received a call saying he was scheduled to leave the following day.

He immediately checked if his maintenance medications were complete and gathered the rest of the things he needed to bring onboard.

Instead of going out, we decided to stay home and order pizza instead. He even joked, “Libre ni Belle.” (“Belle’s paying for it.”)

While my mother was at a medical check-up, my dad had already sent several messages asking her to come home because he missed her and asked her to simply wait for the doctor another time.

When she arrived, she carried the gifts we had secretly prepared for him: small things that would make his life easier, small things he had mentioned wanting in passing.

These are usually the only things he asks for: a blue friction pen to keep his notes tidy and a headband because working as an electro technical officer in a ship’s engine room often leaves him drenched in sweat.

But these were all work-related items, things that would simply make his work more efficient. They were never the things he truly wanted for himself. So we bought him a card holder, a watch, and a comfortable shirt.

Their monetary value was insignificant compared to what he earns at sea. Insignificant compared to his daily sacrifices. Insignificant compared to everything he has provided for us.

But because they came from us, their value became priceless.

My father then proceeded to carefully unwrap each gift, clapping with both his hands and feet like a kid being given a toy.

We told him to just tear open the wrapper. He refused.

“Di pwedeng mapunit ‘yung sulat niyo,” he said. “Ano ba yan, pinapaiyak niyo ako.”

(No, I can’t tear up your letter,” he said. “Come on now, you’re making me cry.)

When I was a child, the only thing my father ever asked from me was a poem. Now that I have become a journalist, I want to tell his story too.

I want to tell the story of how he sails and endures the waves daily so we can stay afloat.

How he bears loneliness day after day so he can make sure that when the time comes, we will have a secure future waiting for us.

My father is not perfect. No one is. But I know that the man he is today is far removed from the scars hecarried from childhood. The person he has become is the product of 55 and a half years of choosing, every single day, to become a better version of himself.

I may not have loved all the things that he did, but one thing is for sure: I love every version of him. We all do.

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And we love him enough to believe that sometimes, Father’s Day can happen in May. /edv