Talking with Grandpa

I called my grandfather the other day. I haven't talked to him in a while. He has Parkinsons and dementia so it's hard for him to talk. And it makes it hard for me to call. It's difficult to hear him in a state he so obviously has no control over. Sometimes when we talk, he's pretty good, meaning he is lucid and tells me about his surroundings, the dog, the weather. But if I call later in the day, he's usually set sail into another world. Literally. I think when the current state of mind goes, a person drifts back to the time they most cherish. For my grandfather, that was when he was on the sea with his boats.

Our recent conversation went a little something like this:

Me: Hi Grandpa
Grandpa: Oh, hello....
Me: JD, it's JD.
Grandpa: Ok
Me: How are you doing?
Grandpa: Oh, doing fine, about to set sail here pretty soon. We have dinner plans at the next port.
Me: Sounds like a great time. Is the weather right for it?
Grandpa: Should be. The water's calm.
Me: That's great. Just wanted to call to say hello. Got a new job and just started.
Grandpa: Hmmm?
Me: A new job. Just working.
Grandpa: Ok. Well I think Eve will be here soon. There is a group in San Juan we're picking up, docking down there for a week.
Me: That will be a nice trip. It's gorgeous down there.
Grandpa: Yes, what is the name of your lady friend?
Me: Liz
Grandpa: Eh?
Me: Her name is Liz.
Grandpa: Ah, well that's good...
Me: Ok, I'll let you get ready for the trip, Grandpa. Just wanted to say hello. Love you.
Grandpa: Ok, bye for now.

In the conversation, he sways back and forth from reality and foggy memory. I know I shouldn't engage him in the fantasy, but in truth this distant time he travels to sounds like a much better place than where he actually resides. He's essentially bound to his chair, very immobile. A huge man crippled by an illness that has no cure. But in his head, he is the statuesque sailor steering his boat, a full gale filling his sails. Most of my early memories of him are like this; his perfectly-placed white hair keeping its shape as we skirt across offshore swells aboard one of his many boats. He never said much when we were younger, at least not to his grandchildren. On occasion, he'd have us take the wheel of the boat in open water when an error in direction meant nothing. He'd outfit the entire family in dark Yale blue slickers with white zippers- life preservers for the children- and meander up the Connecticut coastline. A scotch in hand, he'd watch the horizon as if it might otherwise vanish without his constant vigilance. Another constant was his mouth, frozen halfway between grit and grin.

Now in the twilight of his life, I think he's back on his boat, manning the helm, heading for that horizon. Maybe he's with his whole family. Maybe he's with his wife, my grandmother, Tabby. Maybe he's by himself. But I'm glad he's back on board, navigating himself, half grit and half grin. I wish I had heard his stories when he was healthy enough to tell them, but I appreciate the chance to catch the flash of memories as he sails along.

If my mind goes, I wonder where I will return to...