As for most little girls, Dad was my first hero. To me, he exemplified commitment, responsibility, and stability. He was the straight and narrow arrow that accepted nothing less than the center of the bull's eye.

Growing up with Dad was a wonderful experience; he taught by example and he lived life, not on the edge, but fully.

For as long as I can remember, Dad has always called me "Sunshyn", a name he and my brother, Butchie, bestowed upon me, but lately, he has begun to call me the "the chosen one". I'll never pretend to understand why, and chosen for what, I'm not sure, but the title I'll proudly serve whenever called upon to do so.

Such a call came recently. A few weeks ago when I was visiting him at his new and my sister's old home, kneeling aside his chair as I always do, we listened to oldie songs that I had given him the Christmas past.

Out of the blue, Dad asked "Where do you catch fish?"

Caught somewhat off-guard, but with all the confidence of a trophy fisherman from one of those Sunday afternoon catch and release shows, I responded confidently.

"At about 150 feet of Lake Superior water, Dad, where else would one catch Lake Trout?"

I saw his deep smile rise his cheeks up to fold the laugh lines around his eyes that glistened with the twinkling that I recall having always desired to see when a child - the twinkling of pride - and his face begged the next question.

"Dad, would you like to go fishing with me on Superior?"

Nearly overwrought with emotion, choking the words to his lips, his voice barely audible, he said first, with eyes wide open, "Yes", then with eyes closed in thought, "Yes."

The following week, Dad asked my brother-in-law to take him to buy his fishing license. The next time I called, he told me he was ready. We waited upon Mother Nature to provide the opportune time of warm weather, sunshine, and calm seas, but she had other plans.

At 4:00 AM, I left home for a 5 hour journey to my Dad. Along the way, I worked with eased direction, timely focus, and a witnessed excitement for the day that lay ahead. At noon, Dad and my husband joined me at my doctor's office where I would receive confirmation that my surgery was inevitable. My husband held my hand in what I'm quite sure was an expectant manner for my reaction, but there was none. The news couldn't shatter the vision before me... at least not until Dad placed his hand on my shoulder and whispered,

"Priorities in order. Priorities in order."

I knew what he meant.

An assessment of Superior's waterfront readily revealed a distant fog bank heading in from Canada. I took in a deep breath of UP air and looked at Dad, watching him do likewise. He titled his head, his look asking me "whatchya gonna do kid?" When my glance responded with a "you tell me" look, he raised his eyebrows so as to ask the question once more, only with more importance. I looked to my husband and our eyes met. Surely the thought of a forlorn puppy left out in the rain awaiting rescue must have come to his mind. He smiled, winked, and simply said,

"I've got your back, babe. Your Dad will have a good day. Take the first drive after old M-28." And with that, my white knight was gone.

The 30 minute jog on down to old M-28 was filled with talk of the days that Dad spent building the credit union, selling K-C employees on the concept of saving for a rainy day, loading trains, and all that other logistics stuff he did day in and day out with a loyalty that put him in place on the docks every day. We talked of Edgu and Elsie, the days they snowmobiled and that he missed them now that they were gone.

He spoke of Bobbie, Bertie, and Donnie, each with pride that swelled from his very soul. Then he simply added, "Butchie would be here with us."

I replied, "I think he is."

Dad went silent for moments in his own thoughts - a silence I had learned to respect, a silence whose thoughts I can sometimes hear.

We crested the hill over Shelter Bay, the still inland lake to our right lay as smooth as glass, the greatest lake to our left peaked through trees, but showed no white caps. Our excitement grew.

"About 100 feet, Dad, and we'll be there."

"It'll be a good day." he responded.

True to form and perhaps expectedly, the boat for our adventure was named the "Jodi Lee". Its decks were clean and swabbed, its railing shining from the layers of poly, just like Lee's. Downriggers manned the sides like soldiers ready for battle and tackle lined the cab's wall readied as ammunition.

Our path was there before us, the fog folded back, the water bluer than I ever remembered it, the huge ropes that bound us to a dock now lay scattered there as though discarded in the excitement to be out there on the wave. And we were launched. While Dad stood atop the well cover to gain the height that years had taken from him, his legs weak, I stood behind him, my arms wrapping his left side, my body ready to catch his fall, and I remembered the times he had held me in protection while we braved an angry Superior, while we walked the rocks of ever rising cliffs on the north side of the island, while we huddled down to let a bear pass our path and was thankful that I was able to return a sense of security. I watched him peer out at the land to the east of us, pointing to the home he had built atop the hill, where all his children had grown. He focused on the west, naming the point "Laughing Whitefish Point", named after an Indian maiden, Princess Whitefish.

The heavy fog wrapped and unwrapped us as though a thick black velvet cloak, but we held our path electronically - up the bank's edge, around its flat end, down the rescinding edge, and along the drop-off at its top. Pass for pass, we marked no fish. But it mattered not; the camaraderie was grand and filled us all and the stories were endless of times and people who had left, but were unforgotten, the great fishing trips of times long ago, and of course, of Superior.

Just a few months ago, Dad underwent his fourth surgery for cancer. The day after Dad returned home from the hospital, he lost his only brother to cancer. Weak and frail, but with the ever present chilvary and honor Dad has always held, he sat aside Aunt Lois, greeting people, thanking them with her for their prayers and for sharing this last farewell.

Uncle Carl was a man whom touched everyone's life in some of the most remarkable ways possible - it was as though he knew a person's deepest more tresured needs and he sought to meet them through love and sharing.

The one sentence in the eulogy that gave meaning for Dad conveyed the very life that Uncle Carl and Dad have lived, "We fished all day, but caught nothing, neither here nor there, the splashing midst upon Uncle Carl's face put a smile there that we knew meant he was thankful just to have shared the day with us." In Dad's silence, I heard these thoughts.

"Prepare to stay until we've met our limit."

Dad nodded as though that was an obvious conclusion. I sat erect, looking at each of them thinking that dinner would be a novel idea come sunset, then quickly glanced towards the head and bow. Dad rested back into his deck chair and continued watching the lines. Seeing my concern of missing dinner or darkness on Superior was unshared, I smiled and returned the nod. Dad just kept watching the lines.

Captain Mitch scooped it up and swung the net around, slowing just in front my Dad, "That's a nice one." And with that, Dad pierced his gills and held him up for his photo.

"What I wouldn't give to see you if we were hitting on two down riggers on each side one after another. You would surely be excited. What I wouldn't give to see you then."

"Another day, Daddy, another day."

Captain Mitch began the ritual of the hunt's end. Lines released from their booms, the retreivers brought them home and each was wound tightly and bedded in its reserved spot on the top of the cabin ceiling.

Dad asked me, "Remember?"

On occassion, Dad travels through time, picking up a favorite memory in this year, adding it to a favorite from another year. But it matters not. His remeniscing way means only that these memories are the heart of his soul, regardless of their time and place. Even so, I wasn't quite sure what he referring to. My inquisitive face told him I needed more of hint.

He pointed to the setting sun that had tried so hard to burn off the fog and shine upon us all day. "Remember?"

Oh, and I did. When I was about seven and half (which for any girl of that age is 'going on 10'), Dad and I were fishing at the mouth of the Anna River. We sat in silence - probably the only time I did at that age - when I couldn't hold back my question any longer. "Dad, what is the meaning of life?"

When Dad looked at me somewhat amiss at such a question, I explained, "Well, as I see it, you can't win this game. You are born, but no matter what, you die. Just like the fish, we get taken out of here and we're dead."

Expecting that parents had all the answers and responded immediately, I was sure they were clueless when the answers didn't come quickly. The silence continued for what seemed like hours, which was probably only 15 minutes or so, but I was sure he didn't know. As the sun filled the horizon with a fiery red, Dad pointed to it and said, "That's the meaning."

I looked at Dad and smiled, tears filled my eyes. "Yes, Daddy, I remember."

Then Dad patted my hand and proclaimed it to have been a good day.