It was a couple of days after my dad had passed away, when I came to realise the gifts that he had left me. I found myself lying on a rock at the edge of the harbour from where he had sailed the day he died; the emotional exhaustion of grief from the suddenness of his death was softened by the warmth of the black granite under me, and I felt calm, light - translucent even.

It was then, after deliberating with siblings and stepmoms over who would get the house and the things - who would take care of it all - and what the place even meant to me, that I came to understand what my dad had actually left.  It was neither the house nor the things - none of that mattered, I didn't want it to, and nor had he.  What my dad had given me instead, was a sense of place.  An overwhelming sense of home - not in a structure, but in the world.  

He passed down to me a home that I could find anywhere, be it in the quality of light, in the blue of the sky or a feeling in the air. That hot black rock under the mid-day sun, felt like home.  I didn’t care who held the keys to the house.  I could hear his voice saying "Sell it! Who cares! It’s just a thing. Things are heavy”.  For my siblings, I think it was different. They found solace in the company of the home he had built. 

Sure, I had memories there, but for me, that house was a gateway to the water, to the adventure of sailing through a fog bank, or watching neon phosphorus churn in night water. It was a gateway to the magic of watching the sun set and the moon rise, day in day out, and the understanding that this big rock we all call home, is spinning through space with suns and planets and moons all around us.  On his death he had given me a final gift - teaching me that a sense of place in the world is the home he wanted me to have.  

Now it was my turn.  Izzy, the oldest of my two daughters, was one when he died, and was now eighteen.  We have shared many adventures in the spirit of my dad; I keep a small wooden boat, she has tagged along with me on various jobs since she was little, and we have travelled together. But eighteen.  I had come to terms with her childhood being over, that she would inevitably move out, and likely never move back other than for a summer or a couple months, post college.  I wanted to give to her the same gift my dad had given to me.  A comfort, a curiosity and a home that she could find anywhere.  

There are few places that I love more than Southeast Asia.  The smells, the light, and the thick air - it all feels so exotic to a New Englander.  I wanted her to see a 2000-year-old temple and understand the differences between a Buddhist country and where she grew up.  I wanted to be the bridge for my dad, and what I know he would have hoped for her.  I wanted to share with her what he had given me, before she entered the world of jobs and responsibility, a new boy or a family of her own.  It felt important and the timing was right. 

There are a million ways to travel.  A million luxury hotels, a million experiences, a million points to earn, places to see, upgrades, dinners, reservations, a million “oh my god you have to go to…” conversations.  For me, travel is at its best, when I can find familiarity in the air of a place which I visited, years before. A smell can transport me through the past, into the present and on into the future. The sound of the wind in my ear can sweep me across the grassy Oklahoma plain, to the open water in the middle of the Atlantic, all in one moment.  The gift of travel that I want for my daughter, is that one day when I am gone, she can return to Ankor Wat or Hanoi, or fly through the high billowing clouds of the tropics, with her children, and travel back in time, so that we are together; she will find me there, in the air, the light and the sounds of the world, and she will know, that she will always have a home.