The Last Trip

This article was originally published on LinkedIn

Every year, Dad planned a fishing trip for the whole family. Mom, my brother, my sister, and I came along with our spouses, and we chartered a boat on Lake Erie or Lake Michigan for the day. Dad looked forward to it more than the rest of us combined. I personally don’t even like fishing, but Dad assumed everyone loved it as much as he did or should if they had any sense.

He was obsessed with it.

A few years ago I started a private challenge: catch my limit without ever touching a fish. The idea struck me as funny, and it was my quiet way of protesting. When something bit, I reeled it in and handed the rod to Dad, the captain or the first mate, and one of them unhooked the fish and dropped it in the cooler. After a couple of years, I told my brother and my brother-in-law, who thought it was hilarious. One year I made it all the way back to the dock. Then Dad called my bluff and wanted each of us to hold a fish for a picture. Damn. So close.

Dad always booked the trip a full year in advance. Months before the last one, his health took a downward turn, and the doctors told him his heart could give out at any time, probably within weeks. He kept talking about the trip anyway. He made sure everyone had the dates blocked off, and that my wife Carol reserved the Airbnb.

In his final weeks, Dad moved to a long-term care facility, and we knew he was never going to leave it. Even then, he was determined to make that trip. We spent those weeks worrying about how to tell him that we couldn’t take him and care for him on it. It just wouldn’t be possible, but he was bound and determined that come hell or high water, he was going.

He died eleven days before the trip. It appeared he was trying to get out of bed, unassisted, during the early morning hours when his heart finally gave out. Defiant to the end.

We kept the boat and the Airbnb reservations and went anyway. From the boat, we said a few words and a prayer, scattered his ashes in Lake Erie, and passed a bottle of Buffalo Trace around.

A shorter version of that story appears in Chapter 1 of Against the Grain: Business Lessons from the Still. Dad planned that trip a year ahead and held onto the plan while everything around him changed. The plan survived a diagnosis, a nursing home, and his own absence, and it changed shape along the way. The dates and the boat stayed the same, while the purpose became something different.

He planned a fishing trip, and we carried out a farewell.

Maybe I got some of the planning gene from Dad. For two and a half years, I had been working toward September 15, the planned publication date for Against the Grain. The book was the creative part, and the rest was a plan I built carefully: social media, podcasts, press outreach, advance readers, events, and advertising. I tested it, revised it, and eventually trusted it. The first few days matched the picture in my head. The book went live, the press release went out, and we celebrated at the launch party two days later. For a few days, the plan worked exactly as designed.

Then, six days after the book came out, I started a new job.

The timing was a coincidence, and it turned into a pretty good test of everything I had built. My plan had a place for every post, episode, and follow-up. It also assumed more free hours than I have now.

So I’m adjusting it.

Dad would have recognized the situation. A plan gives you something to show up for. The details of showing up change with the circumstances.

I’m sorting out which pieces of my plan still fit and which belonged to a schedule that no longer exists. The commitment behind the plan stays the same.

Has a plan of yours ever changed shape and still happened? Please share in the comments.