But he was also home a lot. And that was a slippery slope. It would begin with us out of school and Dad planted on the porch reading a law journal, a newly-submitted brief, or the biography of one historical figure or another. Occasionally he joined us on the beach and actually seemed to enjoy it. He taught me how to swim. I do remember that, rather a tough-love kind of throw-her-into-the-water experience, but he did the same with my sisters, and he did reward us with smiles when we got it right. He had us picking up surf clams. He led us to hidden rocks where blue mussels clung, and set us to harvesting enough for dinner. He taught us to recognize the color of a rip tide and how to swim at an angle to escape it—taught us the difference between a rip current and the less dangerous undertow. And he was animated, totally into what he said.

These memories are good ones. I can complain all I want about his authoritarianism, but we did have fun. Because he liked doing these things. This explained why we lived at the shore. Tom Aldiss had grown up vacationing on Cape Cod and had dreamed of becoming successful enough to buy a shore place himself, which he had. He took pride in our house. And the boat? His escape. Rarely did a day pass when he wasn’t out on the ocean. Fog, wind, rough surf—he handled it all with the skill of a man who had learned as a boy.

Those summer days, he took us on boat trips, and on road trips like the ones I described to Joy. I remember Mom cooking chili, which he loved, using tomatoes from the garden—actually from the greenhouse nook of the potting shed, which was as much hers as the boat was his. He loved grilled steak, so she grilled steak. And made clam chowder from the clams we gathered. And boiled lobster.

These memories, too, are good. Sure, we chafed in the backseat of the car, and quickly learned that if we didn’t have a destination, spending hours on the boat while Dad stood tall at the helm with his ball cap clipped to his collar so that it wouldn’t blow into the sea, was boring as hell. Still, when he was happy, we were happy. Even Mom. She didn’t have to make clam chowder from scratch, when she could as easily have bought homemade in town. But she did it for him. That was proof of love. Wasn’t it?