My favorite memories with my father revolve around our car trips—mostly the long, winding conversations we’d have during the drive.
We’d talk about music, culture, travel, mythology, history, the human condition, philosophy and so many other topics. I was just a child, lacking the depth—but through our talks, my mind widened beyond what I understood at the time.
I believe some of us are just wired this way—to search for more.
And the more you find, the more you crave to know, to understand, to explore, to integrate.
—
The journey begins in the evenfall hours on a chilly October evening back in 2006.
Father’s fingers turned the dial on the radio. Driving through the golden mountains of Ioannina, the connection would often fail, resulting in a moment’s sizzling high-pitched electricity in the cochlear. Nevertheless, this was part of its charm and the view always distracted my mind enough not to pay much attention to the disruption.
The Doors crackled into being, mayhem calling itself Classic Rock.
The chords alone could birth revolutions. But it wasn’t just the music. Havoc sounded like freedom, Morrison’s cry broke through silence, pulling me into the blaze.
A match struck in my mind and I remember asking my father what that was and if we could listen to more of it. He smirked lightly and asked me to open the glove box. There I found his big collection of CDs (Yes—CDs. I’m that old) and I swept through the pages until I found “Morrison Hotel”.
He encouraged me to go ahead and insert the CD. So I did.
Roadhouse Blues started playing—my dad sang along.
Loud, wild, alive.
At merely ten years old, I could have sworn he was a bandmate and just didn’t want to tell me about it—because I wasn’t yet cool enough to be in on it. Father was a sailor, a captain back in the 70’s. This wasn’t just his jam—it was his companion while sailing the oceans.
You never really know what you’re going to get with him.
He could have been a hippie blacking out at Woodstock, a sailor dodging thieves in Brazil after disembarking at the harbor, with a half-lit cigarette hanging from his lips because style clearly makes it harder to take an L. Apparently, professional pickpockets and straight up thieves loved harassing sailors as they knew they hadn’t been on land for a while and their pockets were fat.
Or my absolute favorite lore—arrived in NYC and saw skyscrapers for the first time.
In awe, he walked and looked up—and boom, he got dizzy and fell flat on the sidewalk. In young and typical Tatsakian fashion, dare I say (could be me).
Well, I woke up in the mornin’
And got myself a beer
The future’s uncertain
and the end is always near.
I sang along.
—
People are strange
When you’re a stranger
Faces turn ugly
When you’re alone
(Morrison hit a nerve with this bar.)
“What does he mean?” I asked, a little bit confused.
My father could tell I was working this lyric over in my head. He remained silent for a bit before replying.
“Well, you know the words, right?” He asked and I nodded, knowing he saw my gesture through the rear mirror. I always felt his heavy gaze, even if only through this tiny mirror.
I had just recently begun learning English, I was around A1-A2 levels, so I did understand the basic language. But that wasn’t what I wanted to dig into.
I wanted the behind-the-scenes.
“What do you think he meant?”
I squirmed a little in my seat. I feared saying something outwardly silly like that one time when I asked my half-brother how the car knows when to switch on the blinders when he’s taking a turn…well…
“I think he’s saying that people get weird…around strangers?” I asked it more than I said it.
—
Sailors are truly fascinating. They have this endless well of wisdom and simply by looking at them, you can tell that they have not only seen stuff…but possibly also Gods and Monsters of various cultures and beliefs.
Can you imagine sailing the coldest waters on earth, on a ship, for years?
What even is a ship in the grand scheme of the ocean? Nothing.
How fearless must one be, to survive this?
—
Anyhow—as you can imagine, I was a very adventurous and curious child.
I dug through my father’s library and somehow always ended up finding books I probably shouldn’t have read at such a young age—but did regardless (10/10 experience—would recommend).
I asked him if he’d ever seen mermaids because of course I would. I asked him about the Bermuda Triangle, the Panama Canal, the Arctic region and probably a lot of other things I can’t even remember right now.
How rich is a sailor?
I think—only as rich as his only daughter’s inner world…but I could be wrong.
Maybe that’s what belief is—sifting through static until something breaks through. A voice, a story, a chord. And maybe meaning isn’t found, but passed on—through glove boxes, scratched CDs, and the warm silence between questions.
I’ve always felt a strong pull towards the sea.
Lately, I think it’s probably because my father has left parts of himself there—scattered in the bruised hues and amber sunsets.
—
The connections we build with those we love are often unseen. And unseen forces tend to soothe the searching souls in their own way.
So, when I am worried, a little lost or confused—Driving, writing, or walking downtown…
When I turn the dial, I receive my answers.
And the poet of chaos still whispers through my radio:
shadows can be defied.
My Father In Venice 2021
