Capetown

Casey and I met my parents in London and we flew to Johannesburg and on to Capetown to board Nautica together. After over 25 hours in airplanes I was tried. I had arranged with a tour company to meet us at the airport and show us around before we could go to the hotel and check in.

Our guide, Charl, was a retired Capetown government official. He and his wife, Erna, met when they were 10 and have been married 45-years. He considers his greatest career achievement to be helping adjust local government policies when Apartheid was abolished. Charl drove us to a small town called Stellenbosch, which is the heart of the South African wine county. We wandered the old streets, admired the Dutch architecture, peeked in a few galleries and tried to reconcile that we were in Africa. Neither Stellenbosch nor Capetown felt like the Africa we expect to see on Safari. They reminded me more of San Diego’s trendy Sea Port Village, Santa Barbara’s Stearns Wharf or the art galleries of La Conner, Washington.

“Would you like to try some wine?” Charl asked. I am in long-term substance abuse recovery (I haven’t had a drink or any other drug since May of 1990), my parents are active Mormons and my son is 12. We are about as tea totaling a crowd as he is every likely to guide.

“No,” I replied, “none of us drink. I think we’d like to head back to Capetown and see if we can check into our hotel.” As we approached Capetown, Table Mountain was partially visible through the marine haze. As more of it came into focus it became obvious why Table Mountain is synonymous with the city. Its beauty and presence overshadow the landscape and its attraction is undeniable.

We checked in and headed to the waterfront for dinner. None of us were seeking a dining experience—we have 35-days of that to look forward to on Nautica—and eventually found ourselves acquiescing to Casey’s desire to eat at a Subway. Our first supper in Africa was sitting on a touristy dock, eating Subway sandwiches, watching a giant neon Ferris wheel slowly rotate as an impromptu street band played Italian opera.

The next day I went to get my parents for breakfast. My dad had misplaced about $300 and my mom was exasperated, but trying to patient about where he had put the money. Their 50-year pattern of my dad taking care of the money, holding the plane tickets, driving and making plans is rapidly ending. “Do you remember when you last saw the envelope Pete?” She quizzed him.

“No, I don’t know,” he slowly replied. His movement and speech have slowed. The simplest questions often seem to require deep thought.

“What pants were you wearing? Was it your black ones?” He nodded. She located them, but there were no envelopes of cash stuffed in the pockets.

“I’m going to check the safe,” she said. The money was there. My dad still makes wise decisions, but he can’t remember that he made them. That morning I had woken up angry with my father. I dreamt that he didn’t really have Alzheimer’s and that he was pretending to be confused. I wanted him to stop acting silly and take his rightful place as the experienced leader of our family. I wanted to let him make the decisions, take the lead, guide us with his wisdom and take responsibility for our safety, itinerary and decisions. Now that I have assumed much of that role—a role I always lusted for as an adolescent—I wanted to abdicate it and return it to him. I wanted my dad back. Not this forgetful old man who bore a remarkable resemblance to my Stanford educated, retired professor emeritus father.

I realized that I could chose to resent, mourn and deny the truth of the progression of his disease, or I could surrender to it, accept it and have the most fun we could with the time and opportunity we have left. And that is what I chose to do. I decided today that my focus would be on making sure my dad lived his dream of visiting South Africa, that I would try my best to be patient, be of service to him, and do all I could to enjoy this strange new world we found ourselves in. I didn’t want to waste my day in sorrow over my loss—I wanted to spend my day enjoying our time together. The good thing about an aging parent with dementia is that there is plenty of time to talk, spend time together and came to grips with their inevitable demise—the bad thing is that they die a day at a time.

The day started beautifully. The weather was perfect and the cable car to Table Mountain was open.

We rode to the top, took lots of photos and admired the incredible views. We drove over Chapman Peak as we meandered along the Cape Peninsula. The highway followed the beaches and the view of the ocean waves, rocky cliffs and sandy beaches were as good as those in Big Sur, Dubrovnik, Hong Kong or Costa Rica. Along the coast we watched kite boarders use their giant kites and surfboards to allow the wind to propel them over the ocean surface in the sunlight. It was probably the most beautiful highway I’ve ever traveled.

We eventually found ourselves at the Cape of Good Hope. Although it isn’t literally, as popularly believed, where the Indian and Atlantic oceans meet, for hundreds of years it was where maritime navigators turned north and believed the oceans met. There was something ruggedly exciting about being their, knowing how many generations had eagerly waited and prayed to safely arrive so they could begin their journey home.

“Charl,” Casey asked. “Why aren’t their shanties near Table Mountain?” When we drove in from the airport we passed miles of cardboard, claptrap shanty dwellings. Casey was fascinated that people lived in them. My son has lived a very hard life. His mother was found by social workers living in a storage container when she was five months pregnant with him. She abandoned him to her mother when he was 11-months old and he was raised in the US equivalent of a shanty neighborhood in the inner city of Tacoma. Crime, poverty, neglect, lack of running water and violence were constant in his early life. He spent a few years shuffled between one grandmother who abused him so badly that she was ultimately arrested for the punching, total body bruising and missing clumps of hair, and another grandma who didn’t have the ability or judgment to keep him safe.

When state social workers finally removed Casey and his twin sisters from their home, Casey began a 3-year odyssey into the foster care system. He was drugged, neglected (he spent almost two years in a bedroom in a foster home when he wasn’t in school), given Top Ramen and cheese pizza for sustenance, and was suspended nine times in fourth grade for acting out all while under the protection of the state. A sad truth about foster care is often children are more likely to be abused and emotionally neglected in care than in the circumstance they were removed from. When Casey came to live with me a little over two years ago no one, including me, expected to see the progress he has made.

He gained 20 pounds in three months, he has been off ADHD medication for two years, he is successful in school, he has friends, he feels safe, and I couldn’t love him any more than if I had raised him from the day he was born. Needless to say the whole thing is a miracle in the truest sense of the word. The fact that my parents and I think he is ready to spend 35-days on one of the finest cruise ships in the world, speaks volumes about how far we have come.

“What do you mean Casey?” Charl asked in his quipped South African English.

“Well, umm why aren’t their some shanties by Table Mountain. I mean there is lots of space around there and I think if you live in a shanty it would be nice to see the mountain everyday… don’t you? So why don’t they have some shanties over there?”

Charl thought a moment before replying. “The government won’t allow them there Casey. It’s a state park and is protected for all the people to enjoy. The shanties are closer to the airport and located on land the government decided was more suitable for shanties. They don’t want shanties littering our national parks.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t think they can see table top mountain there and I just think it would be really nice to have a nice place to have a shanty if you have to live in one.” Charl didn’t say anything. There really was no reply. Personally, I agreed with Casey. If 700,000 of your 3.5 million population live without water, sewer, proper roofs, floors, walls or any of the other comforts that seem reasonable for anyone living on this planet in 2010, why not at least bring some natural beauty to their surroundings.

Changing the subject Charl asked, “Would you like to see to see some penguins?”

“Penguins!” My mom said, “I thought they liked colder weather and lived in Antarctica. I didn’t know there were penguins in Africa!”

“I want to see penguins!” Casey called out. “Let’s go!” Charl explained that the penguins once lived here and have been reintroduced, so we parked on a sunny beach near some palm trees and walked to the ocean to see penguins in Africa. Other than a few baboons on the side of the road, the first animals we saw in Africa were penguins. As I stood on the beach, enjoying the incongruity of watching the penguins, surrounded by sunlight, warm waves and tropical trees I felt the expectations of this journey washing away like sand castles in the tide. I have no clue what this trip will be like. It seems crazy to board Nautica tomorrow with my 12-year old son and 79-year old father. Yet going back to Nautica feels like going home. In 2007 when I traveled with my mom and dad from Hong Kong to Athens I experienced the greatest vacation of my life. This is a different trip. We are in a different place. Yet for all the seeming challenges, I believe this trip can be as fulfilling as that one.

When we arrived back to our hotel we returned to my room and looked out over the harbor. Nautica had docked while we were touring. She gleamed in the late afternoon sun, eclipsing the other ships and buildings around the harbor, glowing like the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center.

Tomorrow we board her and I can’t wait to set foot on my favorite ship in the world. My best vacation is being on a cruise ship with people I love. And no cruise line is more innovative and capable than Oceania. When we board Nautica tomorrow we are only spending one night aboard before we leave for three nights to take a safari in Sabi Sabi—neither my parents or Casey have ever been to Africa and we couldn’t leave without taking a photo safari—and then we rejoin the ship in Durban a few days later. Given the fact that I am traveling with my son, mom and dad on Nautica, the next 35-days hold great promise and I can’t wait to get aboard and start our cruise.