One of the few regrets I have about living in Baltimore is that it's 800 miles away from my dad in Harbor Springs

Girls' Life, April-May, 2003

One of the few regrets I have about living in Baltimore is that it's 800 miles away from my dad in Harbor Springs, Mich. But every summer, I return to Harbor Springs for a week of hanging out with my dad--playing tennis, tooling around town in his Jeep, stuffing my face with the world's best fried chicken, homemade noodles and cherry pie at the Dam Site Inn. It's great.

Cruising up I-75 last August, I called my dad's office at the dock (he's the dockmaster, which makes him only slightly less powerful--at least for summers in Michigan's most popular harbor town-than God) to let him know I'd roll into town at about 6 p.m. so, gee, let's meet at the Inn, lest I have to wait an extra second before popping that first biscuit, dripping with butter and honey, into my mouth.

Instead of getting my dad on the phone, I got his co-worker, Casey, on the line.

"Hey, tell my dad I'll meet him at Dam Site at 6." I happily chirped. "Uh," said Casey, pausing for more time than I was comfortable with, "I don't think he'll be able to make that."

"Why not? Is everything OK?" I asked, having visions of my dad falling off a pier and hitting his head on the deck of a 100-foot yacht. Casey cleared her throat. "Your dad is going skydiving at 6, so unless he's parachuting into the Dam Site parking lot, that won't work."

Skydiving? My father is 76! Excuse me?

An hour later, Dad and I were off to the landing spot/cornfield where he'd be touching down. I knew better than to try to talk him out of it. My dad has never been talked out of anything in his life.

The year before, I'd practically had a heart attack following him down a steep Colorado ski slope. I watched aghast as he ducked into trees, zooming through foot-deep powder and dodging evergreens. When I caught up to him, I asked if he thought that was a good idea. "I do it all the time when I go helicopter skiing," he replied. Of course.

Then there's his habit of mountain biking, climbing 14,000-foot peaks and, generally, doing things guys half his age would think more than twice about. "OK, let's go!" yelled out Luke, the rather hunky skydiving instructor, as he finished a safety check of my dad's parachute. I felt better knowing my dad would be securely strapped to an experienced guy like Luke, who'd made more than 1,000 successful jumps. I'd have felt a whole lot better if I could be strapped to Luke for a picnic in the cornfield...

I waved as he, my dad and the pilot tucked down the road to the airport. About 45 minutes later, we heard a plane coming. A few of my father's friends had come to watch his jump-even the local paper showed up. No, not because my dad was the oldest guy to ever skydive but because, well, it's Harbor Springs and unless someone catches a 4-foot brown trout, my dad qualifies as news.

I could barely make out the steady speck in the sky. Suddenly, 11,000 feet seemed like a heck of a long way up. As my stomach lodged in my throat, the plane cut its engine, and I saw a small dot begin to drop. Fast. After what seemed an eternity, the colorful chute popped and bloomed. Two figures gently descended against the sunset. As I watched them float to earth, I thought of the risks I've taken.

Three times, I've moved to places where I didn't know a soul. At 23, I quit a fabulous job to follow my dream of starting my own magazine, GL. Heck, I'd recently even got bangs for the first time!

My father is proud of me--he tells me. But, growing up, he never encouraged me to take risks. Maybe to him that seemed like boy business. Maybe he was afraid I might hit a tree--physically or metaphorically. Or maybe he just thought that by watching him, I'd learn what an amazing, exciting adventure life could be.

As he and Luke came in for a perfect cornfield landing, I ran over to welcome them back to terra firma.

"Boy, that was super! Just super!" my dad said. "You should really try it some time."

The cherry pie tasted especially good that night.