Here, at the lighthouse pier, my rod rests on the railing and for a moment my line slices open the moving water below. It is early morning, not far past six, still too soon see the sun, but the dock to my north is now visible in the charcoal light, and the lighthouse now reveals its stripes.

In the summer of 1962, my father imagined aloud this life I now live, next to this very lighthouse and not far from our ‘57 Chevy with New York plates, though too far from ever reaching his own retirement.

I often say these days that I am living my father’s dream, though right at this moment I cannot help but wonder whether I am dreaming of my father, or for him, or (could it be?) my father is dreaming of me.