Dad. He was the guy who introduced me and my five older siblings to fishing, camping and the outdoors.

I know how to pack a station wagon because of him. I know how to tie great monofilament knots. I know what a pile worm is, what grass shrimp look like, and what a broken back rebel can do when fished at night in the estuaries of San Francisco Bay.

Dad gave me my earliest memories of West Coast Striped Bass. I was a solid 4-year old boy in 1970, but the striper he brought home was even bigger than I. Whenever I land a nice fish I wonder if it’s bigger than the one Dad caught.

Dad was a civil engineer, a professor at the Far Eastern University, Philippines, and along with a passion for hunting and fishing, he had a passion for auto mechanics. He was known as Uncle Doc, the car doctor, to family and friends. I remember having to hold the flood light in a specific direction for an eternity just so Dad could see what his shrek-size fingers were doing in the small crevices of the ‘65 Mustang engine. He loved Mustangs.

My guess is that he’d be proud of the fact that I found, pulled and replaced the thermostat on my motor and that I was able to finally extract the length of bolt that I inadvertently broke off in the process. If it wasn’t for Dad, I wouldn’t have dropped the lower unit of my 1-year old motor, just to check things out. Nor would I be more the wiser because of that lesson in boat mechanics.

I have to hand it to Dad. Without him, I wouldn’t have any of the tools, literally and figuratively, that I use to thoroughly seize and enjoy life.