My father has told me that there is only one death he would accept. Death at sea. He does not want to pass in a white hospital bed surrounded by people he doesn’t know, or even at home, with the people he loves.
“Better go doing what you love,” he says.
One evening, after dinner, as we lie in the main cabin of our sailboat, our home, my father tells me, “I’ve bought a ticket to Patagonia.” We’re on our third glass of wine, looking up through the hatch at the darkening sky.
“Patagonia?” I ask, also speaking Polish, any other language being foreign between us.
“I wish you could come. But you can’t miss any classes.”
My mother is in my parents’ cabin watching Polish television on her laptop. She already knows of the trip. She doesn’t approve, but she understands.
“Why Patagonia?” I ask.
“It’s the southern end of the world, one of the last places uncorrupted by man.”