Dad had striking, beautiful green eyes. Long before my mum ever noticed them across the deck of an ocean liner, those eyes had been his truest feature—a direct window to his soul, consistently revealing the warmth and wit that lay beneath his quiet exterior.
He was never a man for stern lectures, heavy-handed punishments, or theatrical dressing-downs. In fact, across my entire childhood, I can only recall him delivering an official reprimand on one single occasion.
We were holidaying in Pringle Bay alongside our close family friends, the Rusconis. Mrs. Rusconi was, in many ways, the polar opposite of my dad—a formidable woman who ran a tight ship and was not to be crossed. One afternoon, her son Julian and I got up to some brand of juvenile mischief. The exact infraction has long faded from memory, but Jocelyn’s reaction has not: she promptly marched Julian around the corner and gave him an almighty, blistering lecture.
Seeing this display of resolute parenting, Dad felt duty-bound to follow suit. He pulled me aside and began delivering a solemn dressing-down of his own—a routine so completely unnatural for him that it felt almost foreign.
Yet as he spoke the stern words, his green eyes told an entirely different story.
They looked down at me and practically whispered: I am taking zero pleasure in this. Under normal circumstances, I would let it slide. But Jocelyn expects an exhibition of discipline, so we must both play our parts.
I picked up the transmission loud and clear. Standing there taking my scripted medicine, I didn't feel chastised at all; I felt a swell of profound affection and quiet sympathy for the gentle man forced into playing the disciplinarian for an audience.
Years later, during my late teens, those eyes betrayed him once again.
A group of female friends had come over to the house for an evening get-together. Our parents were gathered in the lounge chatting over drinks, leaving us to ourselves outside by the pool. Under the cover of the dark, innocent flirtation gathered momentum, and before long we had all slipped out of our swimming costumes for an impromptu game of midnight Marco Polo.
It was harmless teenage bravado, but when the swim finally ended, disaster struck: my trunks had completely vanished into the black water.
Leaving the girls behind, I hauled myself onto the coping and executed a frantic, soaking-wet nude dash across the paving, slipping through the back entrance to my bedroom to scramble into a pair of dry shorts before the lounge door opened.
The following morning, I walked into the kitchen to find Dad making tea.
Without a word of fanfare, he reached over and handed me a damp bundle of fabric: my missing swimming trunks.
"I found these jammed in the Creepy Krauly," he said evenly.
He launched into a brief, dutiful lecture about pool maintenance—how fabric ruins the suction, how delicate the pump mechanisms are, and why swimwear must never be abandoned in the deep end.
Once again, his eyes blew his cover completely.
Right behind the technical advice about pool filtration was that unmistakable, familiar twinkle. There was genuine amusement dancing in those green irises, along with something more subtle: a a glint of paternal respect.
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