Dad was a smart guy. Very smart. His college board scores and full scholarship to Yale testify to his smarts. His one mistake on the LSAT’s was further evidence. He loved to understand machines, chemistry, sailing and pretty much everything. And then, he loved to describe it back to you in vivid, excruciating, detail. In sixth grade, he tried to teach me how to compute how long it took a ball to fall 32 feet. For a science project, we, actually Dad, built a novel seismograph in the basement – from scratch; we didn’t have to run to the store for a single component! Earlier this year, when his words were often cut short, he described the inner workings of a Hudson River ferry with a novel direct drive engine from sometime around 1946. The typical story where kids in their late teens think their Dad “doesn’t know anything” never crossed my mind. I was and still am impressed. Dad didn’t just know stuff, he did stuff. He was proud of his calloused hands. He rebuilt a house, repaired his car, re-attached a lead keel to his S boat. He helped neighbors with their projects that they didn’t know how to do. A normal person’s threshold for an old appliance was no match for Dad. He could fix anything on an oven, microwave, dishwasher, you name it and enable it to function well beyond where it was safe to operate! His work ethic was un-paralleled, enabled by his ability to exist on minimal sleep. During his years in law school, I recall waking up and seeing Dad already downstairs because he had never gone to sleep. He assumed that as a 12 year old I had similar superhuman powers. I recall reinforcing the Francis Street foundation, mixing bag after bag of concrete well into the night. Or how about those 12 hour days at the boatyard, surviving on peanut butter sandwiches and plain iced tea, likely violating all child labor laws. When I went off to Cornell, Dad was uncertain whether I could do it. Little did he know that he had passed on some of his superhuman powers, and had trained me in late night work, discipline and focus. The inscription over the cabin entrance for Dad’s “S” boat read “Oh Lord, thy sea is so great, and my boat is so small.” There were several storms where I was quite scared for my life and conceded to the Lord that I respected his great sea. I can’t say that Captain Dad ever looked scared. He was a man confident in his skills. I can’t imagine the suffering he endured from the Francis Street fire, or the loss of Mom to cancer. He kept it inside. Once I was home from college, and he asked me to walk the dog with him late one evening. We walked quietly. It was too peaceful to engage in a technical conversation. Maybe it was too hard to talk about anything else. He was a verbose man on technical or legal subjects, and surprisingly quiet in matters of the heart. Yet he was so proud of his family. This was evidenced whenever he had the opportunity to introduce his children to friends. At Thanksgiving, a photo taken with Dad, Sean and Sean’s girlfriend Tab showed a very proud Dad broadcasting a big smile. Wisdom, chapter 3, says: The souls of the just are in the hands of God. No torment shall touch them. Dad was physically tormented this past year. Neither his smarts nor fix-it skills were able to ward off his un-named affliction. I never heard Dad complain. In fact, I never heard him complain about any of the hardships sent his way throughout his life. God protected Dad’s soul. Dad may you rest in peace.