Batman, Robin and the hovercraft: Jonathan Crowe's memories for Father's Day

Who do you turn to when you need a sober second thought? Who's the voice in your head that tells you you're doing the wrong thing?

In my case the voice has always had an English accent. It's a firm, sometimes loud, no nonsense voice.

It belongs to Ian Benjamin Crowe. I am proud to say he is my father.

There are many kinds of men, many kinds of fathers, and my Dad has been most of them.

Dad was born in the north of England. He was the oldest child in a family of five. My granny Crowe had my dad, then two sets of twins. Dad was the only one who couldn't be replicated. How true!

​My granny Evelyn Charlotte was a force of nature; there wasn't a fight or confrontation that she didn't embrace. And for about 20 years her main adversary was my dad.

Her parting shot to my mother on her wedding day was, "I've done my best with that boy for 23 years, now it's your turn."

Grandma's adversary

From day one, dad was a restless soul. He grew up at boarding schools, but this wasn't Eton.

These were your mid-tier English public schools. Discipline was the watchword. The food was post-war stodge, hot water was scarce and bullying was de rigeur.

Dad has always hated bullies. As the vicar's kids, my dad's younger siblings were often targeted in the village. There are several stories of dad coming home at the school holidays and seeking retribution. One famous incident ended with dad locking four or five village kids in the post office.

In another story my grandmother is engaged in polite conversation with another village lady, while in the background dad had just cold-cocked the lady's son, who'd been picking on my uncle Michael.

From his earliest days, dad was mechanically gifted. His mother had been determined that he'd become a Royal Naval officer, and dad almost followed the plan.

He got a great grounding in marine engineering at the Royal naval college, then rebelled against his mother by flunking all his finals. He once bragged that he'd achieved the lowest mathematics mark in the history of the Royal Navy.

Ian Crowe married my mother Judith and they moved to East Africa, and in 1960 I was born.

Dads were different back then; they didn't carry their youngsters in snugglies and they didn't change diapers.

I grew up, and I suppose once the danger of potential diaper changing passed, I became a little more interesting. Dad took up flying and he'd take me along. At six or seven, I remember flying over the Kenyan bush with dad.

My job was to drop frozen tetra paks of milk into his friend's hunting camp as we skimmed over the landscape, with the door off Dad's Piper Cub plane. This was my introduction to the sometimes hazardous job of being Ian Crowe's son and sidekick.

Robin to his Batman

Fathers start relationships with their sons by trying to mould their boys into some facsimile of themselves. It never quite worked out for me.

I was unco-ordinated, had terrible eyesight; I was as cautious and meek as my dad was adventurous and brave.

Ian Crowe came to Canada with next to nothing and carved out a career as a sales executive, selling locomotives and rolling stock all over the developing world. In the mid-70s dad made some of Canada's first business deals with Castro's Cuba. He also had his passport confiscated by Saddam's people when negotiations went temporarily sour in Iraq.

He was a towering figure in my life and I learned early on that I couldn't compete.

But as I reached the early teens I figured out my role: I was Robin to his Batman. Of course, that's the chain-smoking, slightly profane Brit version of Batman. On the weekends, dad relaxed from his high-pressure job by working around the house.

One weekend we'd build a deck, the next overhaul a car engine.

It was right around this point that I was introduced to words and turns of phrase that are unique to my dad. What's said in the garage stays in the garage, but safe to say no one could utter oaths or string together colourful language like Ian Crowe.

'Don't tell your mother'

Then there was the hovercraft.

Yes, my dad built a hovercraft. It was actually a warm-up for his building an entire light aircraft 30 years later. He flew it well into his seventies.

The hovercraft started as a sewing project. There's something suspicious about a 250-pound man furtively sewing a canvas skirt in the garage.

"Don't tell your mother," he'd say. But by the time the Bombardier snowmobile engine appeared, the cat was out of the bag.

The hovercraft made its maiden voyage some time in the summer of '75 or '76. We chained it to a tree in the front garden just in case it ran away, and up it started with a great roar.

Small children and pets were in danger of being sucked under the beast's canvas petticoats.

Finally, with dad at the rudder, we unchained her. Up the road she went with a trail of kids and dogs in her wake.

The maiden voyage lasted a little longer than the Wright Brother's first flight, but building it was the great challenge. Dad quickly lost interest and moved on to other projects.

My dad, these days

Dad's temper could and can be fearsome and his manner often very much "in your face," but to sum him up in those terms is to commit a grave injustice.

He can be gruff in one moment, kind and generous to a fault in the next. In one moment he's what my brother and I call "the 15th-century inn keeper," pounding the table as he delivers the punch line of some bawdy tale from his post colonial past.

In the next moment he's dispensing wise, well-considered advice as one of his adult children contemplates a life changing decision. And he is generous to a fault.

These days dad is trying to put a new adversary in it's place. He has cancer, but he presses on.

Every morning he shakes off the exhaustion that comes with chemotherapy and walks his beloved golden retriever. On a recent trip home I was his walking companion, watching his quiet determination as he pushed himself. Around the block, up the hill on his loop around the subdivision.

Some mornings we'd share stories about the old days. Other mornings, silence — more like two old friends than father and son.

Never an exact science

The worst thing you can say about anyone is that they are boring. But my father has never been that.

At 80, despite his illness, there are still moments when his energy fills a room.

Parenting isn't an exact science. My dad is the first to admit he might have made a few gaffes along the way. I'm a dad now too, and I understand it all a little better.

So to my dad, thanks. I've listened to most of the advice you've given me. Thanks for your occasional tough love and your generosity over the years. Hope to see you again soon.