Bem-vindo(a) ao dia 18 do meu experimento: Atravessando o Vale do Desespero.

Today my father, Pokie, and I went to Castlepoint Beach.

The idea was simple: to climb Castlepoint Rock, that hill at the edge of the beach where you can see everything. A path I already knew. An easy route — at least in my mind.

Before getting out of the car, I asked whether we needed to bring water. My father couldn’t say — he had never been there. I knew. And precisely because I knew, I decided it wasn’t necessary. I didn’t take a backpack. I didn’t grab the bottle. By my measure, it wouldn’t be a long walk.

At first, everything seemed normal. But soon my father began to stop. He stopped often. Short breaths, a body asking for rest. With each pause, something in me adjusted for good — he no longer walks the way he used to.

We didn’t even reach halfway up the hill. Somewhere between the end of the first stretch and the start of the more open climb, it hit me: we were missing water. Not because the route was difficult — it wasn’t. We were missing it because I measured the path only by my body, my pace, my ease. I forgot to care for those walking with me.

Pokie was also more tired than I had imagined she would be. How did I — the healthiest and most responsible person in the group — fail to think of the basics?

The surprise wasn’t their exhaustion. It was realizing that the mistake wasn’t the walk, but my assumption. I thought caring meant knowing the path. It didn’t. Caring meant bringing water.

I walked back with this echoing inside me — not as guilt, but as a shift in perspective. Having my father here now, walking beside me, even at a slower pace, is a privilege that asks for a different kind of attention… a different measure.

Going to the same place over and over still changes when you walk with someone who has never been there. A first-time gaze changes everything — especially when the pace is no longer the same.

Till tomorrow,