The Ferocity of a Father's Love: Protection From Above

As I pen this piece, I am in Perth, Western Australia. This city was my home for ten incredible years but I have been gone for seven now. I had to return to get what was left of my belongings out of storage — a friend’s shed in Perth’s Hills.

I had planned to return in August last year to retrieve my things and assess what I was going to keep and what I was going to let go of, but my father died suddenly and I needed to stay and help my mother.

As my travel dates edged closer, my anxiety increased. The friend mentioned that mice had gotten into the crates and destroyed some of my items. She mentioned that there were around eight or nine crates left out of the sixteen I had stored. My mind ran rampant: Were my photos destroyed? Did my childhood memories survive?

I was also dreading saying goodbye to my mother, not sure how well she would hold up as she faced living on her own for the first time in her life.

As I planned my brief visit Down Under, money drained from my bank account—accommodation, a rental car, and flights into Australia and back to Canada. My teaching schedule looked bleak as the island nation’s timezone was inconvenient for most of my regular students. I stressed over how I would replenish my depleting funds if I couldn’t schedule lessons.

Due to the exorbitant costs of life in Australia, the trip needed to be brief. More worry piled into my overburdened brain as I wondered what to do with my remaining property in such a short time. Would I be able to find a new home for everything? Would I need to spend more money sending them to Canada? South Africa? I had no permanent home and no inkling of where I was going to end up.

A Father’s Love

Fathers’ love for their daughters is a special kind of magic. While patriarchal in the belief that girls need to be ‘taken care of’, many dads become overly protective of their little girls. Mine was no different. So I turned my eyes to the sky and prayed for his protection.

“Help me through this Dad. Please.” I prayed.

And he did.

The car

Arriving at the airport, I headed to the rental car counter to pick up my car. Normally, I don’t rent cars when I travel. There are far too many horror stories of rental car companies claiming damage and taking money from bank accounts and credit cards.

The constant concern about a scratch appearing from an errant piece of gravel or a wayward car door opening into the vehicle can taint the enjoyment of a travel experience. Public transport is fine for me and is far less stressful.

Unfortunately, I needed a car to move my belongings from the property to my rented room forty-five minutes away. Australia is much like Canada and the US in that most people have cars. Public transport, while functional to get into the city centre, is not ideal for trips between suburbs.

When I picked the car up, I was informed that the excess would be AU$5,500!

“Five thousand, five hundred dollars?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes,” the gentleman said behind the counter.

I just stared at him as he searched my eyes for a moment before continuing. He then launched into the schpiel about lowering the excess if I were to increase my daily rate. Eventually, if you paid enough, the excess would drop to zero.

I was already stretched to my financial limit. The idea of increasing my daily rate was non-negotiable. It had to stand as it was. And yes, before anyone says anything — I should’ve looked the excess up before I booked — I know this.

“Help me through this Dad. Please.” I prayed.

And he did.

As I steered the car, now a precious commodity, along the roads and up into the Perth Hills, I became a middle-aged Rain Man, speaking robotically to myself out loud as I kept a lookout for anything that might impact the car.

“Five thousand, five hundred dollars” echoed in my head with each bump and turn.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said as I reached the house safely. Taking a few deep breaths, I tucked the car behind the gate — there was no way I would leave it parked in the driveway — not at that price.

The stuff

My friend was overseas with her family when I arrived and my items had been moved outside of the shed and under a tarp. The promise of half my belongings being there evaporated in an instant.

“There are probably eight or nine boxes left,” the message had said.

There were three!

Somehow, 80% of my belongings seemed to have gone missing. My mind ran a gamut of options, but ultimately, disappointment cut deep. Something just didn’t sit right, and I felt sad and betrayed by a friend I had long valued.

“Help me through this Dad. Please.” I prayed.

And he did.

When I first heard of the damage, my main concern was for my photos and a few childhood memories. As I opened each box, there they were: album after album of photos, the one-eyed pink panther that had given me comfort as a child, the awful green school uniform that I couldn’t quite let go of.

“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered into the ether.

Back to that damn car!

I needed to return it. The stress was keeping me up at night.

“Help me through this Dad. Please.” I prayed.

And he did.

A South African friend of my parents had moved to Perth about four years ago and offered the use of her car to get my belongings off the property and into my booked accommodation.

“Thank you, Dad,” I said after the call came in.

But first, I had to return the rental car — four days early.

It was my father’s 90th birthday. I woke and got up to make coffee. While the kettle was boiling, I lit the candle I had set out the night before.

“Happy 90th birthday Dad,” I whispered into the morning air, taking a moment to honour the man I had loved so dearly.

I sat sipping my morning elixir, contemplating the task before me: get the car back to the airport.

“Help me through this Dad. Please.” I prayed.

And he did.

Two cups of coffee and a light breakfast later, I was dressed and ready to make another Rain Man-emulating trip back to the airport to return the car. For the occasion, I threw on the Gremio t-shirt I had bought Dad in Brazil on my way to South Africa a month before he died.

Gremio is a Brazilian friend’s favourite soccer team, and I love the colours and style of the logo and branding. Knowing the soft navy T-shirt would bring out the blue in my father’s eyes, which it did, I bought it for him. When Dad died, I took the T-shirt back and have been wearing it ever since. I needed a piece of him close to me that day.

“Get me to the airport safely, please,” I pleaded as I climbed into the rented vehicle and eased it out from behind the gate.

Slowly but surely, I trundled down Perth’s roads as I made my way to the airport, talking to myself every step of the way. As I got closer to my destination, I started looking for a gas station. I wanted to fill the car up to avoid the extra charge of post-rental refilling. Nothing!

Surely, there must be filling stations close to the airport, I thought. Nope, not a one. I was on edge and resigned myself to the extra charges as I pulled up to the boom gate to enter the parking lot.

The windows were down as the day was heating up, and the city had been in the midst of an extreme heatwave.

“Are you returning a rental car?” I heard the voice drifting through the open window. Looking left, I saw a young, dark-haired man calling to me from the parallel gate.

“Yes,” I replied, surprised that he had noticed something so arbitrary.

“Follow me,” he yelled back.

“Thank you, Dad,” I whispered, knowing he had sent me this man.

As I got out of the vehicle, preparing to take the keys inside, the gentleman wandered up to me wearing a t-shirt branded with the company’s logo. He swiftly scurried around the car, checking for signs of damage and taking the fuel reading. I trailed after him, babbling as my anxiety lifted, akin to a party balloon flying about the room as it deflates.

“I couldn’t find a petrol station to fill it up,” I said as he checked everything.

“No need,” he said, showing me the picture he had taken. “It’s still full.”

I stared incredulously into the angel’s eyes. Not only had Dad managed to get me back to the airport with no issues, but he had sent this young man to check me back in seamlessly and without moving the needle on the fuel gauge.

“Your deposit will be put back into your bank account,” he added as I thanked him for the quick inspection.

The process took less than five minutes, and after asking me where I was going next, he explained exactly how to get the train back into the city. I thanked him for his kindness and walked away, feeling the presence of my father’s protection.

Smiling and grateful for my father’s gift, I wandered into the airport train station. As I focused on the ticket kiosks, I heard, “Gremio!” exclaimed happily to my right. I looked over as the tall Brazilian transport officer added, “You must be from South Brazil!”

“No,” I smiled, “it’s my Brazilian friend’s favourite team. I bought it when I was in Brazil last year.”

He seemed pleased by my response as I asked the ticket price and started walking me toward the kiosks. Once out of sight of the second transport officer, he turned to me and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small piece of white paper.

“Your friend told me to give you this,” he said with a broad smile, handing me a fully paid ticket for the entire day with access to all regions. I can only guess that a traveller had given him the ticket to pay it forward.

“Thank you,” I said, my words not enough to repay his kindness.

He turned me around and started walking me back to the entrance for the trains. I thanked him again, smiled, and nodded as I headed down the ramp. Tears in my eyes, I turned my gaze to the sky and spoke to my father, grateful for his presence as I continued on my journey.

“Thank you Dad,” I whispered for what felt like the hundredth time that day.

Still grinning, I sank into hard seats on the train bound for the city, my body slowly releasing the unease that had built up.

A Father’s Love

The events that transpired on that January day may not be considered miracles for others, but to me, they were. The level of stress and anxiety I had been under during the previous month was higher than I had experienced in a very long time.

From the concerns over my dwindling finances to leaving my mother to fend for herself. From the disappointment over a perceived friend’s betrayal to the irrational fear of a rental car, I was strung tighter than a professional tennis racket.

While some of these issues linger as I face my final days in Australia, one thing is for sure: my father has walked by my side each step of the way.

His love surrounds each step I take, and I say again:

Thank you Dad.

Please feel free to buy me a coffee if you like what you read.