There’s no question this week. This newsletter is part two of last week’s newsletter.

My father was buried on Sunday in the town of Alcobaça, where he grew up. The service, which included a full Catholic mass at my mother’s request, was held in a small chapel right next to the cemetery. The same cemetery that contains my grandparents, my sister, and several other relatives. But before you start picturing some old European gothic chapel made of stone, with a high ceiling, and featuring incredible gargoyles, this chapel was recently built, and featured all the charm of an airport Marriott conference room. (Also, he wasn’t actually buried on Sunday. The funeral service was on Sunday and then his body was driven off to a crematorium a few towns away, and buried a few days later, but that feels like a technicality, and “my father was buried on Sunday” seemed like a stronger opening line, so we’re going with that.)

I was the only son in attendance. (And yes, I am mentioning this in a very petty manner. But also, think of it like Chekhov’s gun. It goes off in the third act, and pulls the story together in a deeply satisfying way.)

The service was attended by a few family members and by my father’s friends. All of them asked me if I remembered them, which I did not. All of them asked me how my brothers were doing, and while I was tempted to make up fantastic stories (They’re off-planet and couldn’t make it back in time), or to tell the truth (They’re fascists now!), I ended up going with a non-committal “They’re fine.”

Let’s do a little geography. Alcobaça is located 13 kilometers from Nazaré, home of the world’s largest waves. (If you’ve seen HBO’s 100 Foot Wave you’ll know what I’m talking about.) My goal was to end this trip staring at those waves. So I was playing this little game where every well-meaning comment was just a wave coming at me. Rolling. Breaking. Washing over. Big waves. I was not at this service to do any mourning. That wasn’t my role. My role was to be someone all these people could say what they needed to say to and then move on. My mourning, which was still formless for reasons, would happen later. It would be between me and the sea, and the sea hates a coward.

Everything was a wave.

You’re the spitting image of your father. Wave. Let it break. Let it wash over you.

Your father and I spent a lot of time together. Wave. Let it break. Let it wash over you.

Your father was a good man. Wave. Let it break. Let it wash over you.

Your father often spoke about how proud he was of you. Wave. Big wave. 100 foot wave. Let it fucking break. Dive under. Be with the sea. Let it wash you ashore.

For the record, my father never once told me that he was proud of me. I’d made my peace with this a long time ago. The first in a long line of burials. But to find out that he was telling this to others ended up filling me with rage. It’s one thing to believe your father hasn’t given you a second thought. It’s another thing altogether to know that he has, but withheld this information from you—and apparently you alone—your entire life. It’s a mindfuck, and ultimately an act of cowardice. For fuck sake, tell your children you are proud of them. It’s the smallest of acts. Deliver it directly. Say it with your chest. Say it before you can no longer say it. Say it before they are hearing it from a stranger and wanting to pry your coffin open to ask you one last question. Because you’ll never be able to answer that question.

My father’s coffin was small. Smaller than I expected. Sitting in the middle of the chapel, a picture of him in front of it. I was expecting something larger. More imposing. He was so large in life. Looming over me as a constant threat of rage and violence. Covering all light. Covering his entire family in shadow. And now he was small. And in a box. And still. I walked up to him, and wished for a second that he could know that I was there. To know that he hadn’t broken me. To know that I wasn’t a coward. But I knew, and that would have to be enough.

During the service, the priest spoke about Jesus’ sacrifice, as priests like to do. And he spoke of fathers and sons. (Catholicism is a man’s game.) He spoke about how God the Father sacrificed his only begotten son blah blah. And I wondered if there wasn’t a better gospel. One where Jesus lives a nice long life. One where he meets someone and encourages her to follow her dreams, but also brings her (or him! or them!) blankets when they’re cold. A gospel where Jesus has kids and teaches them how to fish, or woodworking, and bandages their knees when they trip. A gospel where Jesus and his family are gathered together for Christmas and he receives lots of gifts (Jesus would get birthday gifts on Christmas). A gospel where Jesus teaches his kids kindness, and is there for them when they need someone to listen. A gospel where Jesus is your first call after a breakup and drops everything to meet you at the bar. A gospel where Jesus gets a dog, and ends up hanging out at the dog park. A gospel where Jesus picks you up after school and attends your soccer games, and isn’t one of those asshole parents who yells at the ref. A gospel where Jesus reminds you to make every minute count. A gospel where Jesus eventually slows down a little bit because his knees start to hurt, and maybe he grows a little paunch, but still enjoys working in his backyard garden, and eventually teaches his grandkids how to pull weeds so the tomato plants have room to grow. And maybe he has a few olive trees and makes his own olive oil. A Gospel where Jesus dies peacefully in his sleep, surrounded by family, and friends, and they miss him when he’s gone.

I wonder how different our lives would have been if my parents’ faith was centered on how to live a good life, instead of how to die a dramatic death. A good life is worth more than a dramatic death. A good life plants seeds in soil that a dramatic death steals to bury our sins.

The priest continues about how our suffering in the here and now ensures our place in paradise later, and I think, silently, that he can go fuck himself. Which may be unfair, as he is playing his role, as I am playing mine. All of this is happening as my mother, playing hers, holds onto me and cries loudly and I think of big waves.

After the service ends the mortician asks us if we’d like the coffin open and I say “NO.” before my mother can get an answer out.

The next day I meet my mother to help her tie up some loose ends, and she decides this is a good time to chew me out in public for never being there for them, being negligent in my duties as a son, not being there for my father when he needed me, telling me she needs me because she is mourning my father, and honestly I stop listening after a few lines and start thinking of big waves. Breaking. Washing over me.

“We have loose ends to tie up, correct?”

“Yes, but first I want to stop at this pastry shop and pick up some sweets for your brothers.”

The ones who love us least are the ones we try hardest to please.

The day before my flight back I wake up at dawn and take the bus to Nazaré. I walk along the beach, towards the large cliff where I see the funicular that takes you to the top. This is where I spent summers with my grandparents. The beach is calm. The sun is shining on the cliff, doing a whole postcard-worthy thing. In the summer this beach is crawling with tourists, and the smell of sardines being grilled on the sidewalk. Today it’s empty. It’s raining a little bit. It’s perfect. I’ve always appreciated the beach more in the winter, when the sea reclaims what’s theirs. I ride the funicular to the top of the cliff where I walk along a small winding road to the lighthouse at the tip.

More geography: the cliff separates Nazaré, a small fishing village with a nice calm beach from Praia do Norte (the north beach) which is where the big waves are. The big waves are caused by an undersea canyon right offshore that doesn’t extend to Nazaré. So you get a calm beach and you get a big wave beach, split right down the middle by a giant cliff. Duality. Metaphor. Blah blah.

I ended up missing the 60 foot waves, and the surfing competition that came with them, by a day. Which is fine, because although the waves weren’t as big it also meant less people, which fit what I needed to do. Which was staring at the ocean for a while. Which I did. I watched the big waves beat the fuck out of that cliff for a couple of hours. I watched the cliff stand there and take all of those beatings. Unbent. Unbowed. I watched waves form. I watched them grow. I watched them break. I watched some of them reach the shore, while others crashed into the cliff. I watched the sea put on a show. And the sea doesn’t put on shows for cowards, because the sea hates a coward.

If you’re waiting for the moment where I pulled out my father’s ashes and threw them into the sea it isn’t coming. One of the errands we’d done the day before was to settle up with the funeral agency. My mother asked when my father’s ashes would be returning and the funeral director said “Oh, they’re already here” as he rolled back his office chair and clipped the urn which was leaning against the wall on the floor with one of the chair wheels, giving a very satisfying clink.

Thanks to everyone who sent kind words last week. They were incredibly helpful and nice to read. And thanks to everyone who’s been patient about the erratic schedule of the newsletter lately. This will be the last one of 2025. We’ll start back up, hopefully on our regular schedule in January. Which means…

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