My Dad. The gift of a lifetime.

December 9, 1939 – September 20, 2025

My dad was my longest love and my best man. Devastatingly handsome—a man’s man—with piercing blue eyes that always looked at you like an eagle, knowing more than you could tell. He was impossible to fool. He was also my biggest admirer; his eternal belief in me made me reach higher and cemented in my heart the conviction that I could achieve anything.

I love that he fiercely defended my mom—against the world and against my teenage attitude. He shined my shoes daily during my school years and woke me each morning with coffee. He was competitive and competent: His lawn was the envy of the street, and his swimming pool was always sparkling blue. But when I think of my dad, it's his passion for life and deep love and respect for people, that seeped into my heart and DNA.

He loved his career. From enlisting in the South African Air Force to completing the Officer course and resulting endurance training, he emerged as a natural leader. Scoring top place in the buddy ratings, he was promoted over longer-serving officers many times. He was unapologetic in his leadership, opinionated but loyal to a fault and quick to apologize. A sheepish grin would always give him away when he knew he was wrong. These traits made him a sought-after mentor and earned the respect of his peers. Those were also the days he smoked 60 Chesterfields a day (!!).

He loved the hunt. He loved my mom. He loved road trips, beautiful scenery, shore fishing, and camping at Mile 72 in Namibia. He planned trips to the Kruger National Park with the same precision he applied to procuring Mirage Aircraft for the Air Force. His happy place was Happylands in Hoedspruit, the Tonzing game farm, where he hunted many impala and kudu. Uncle Tonzing would phone him at work, lamenting that the hunters from some other country could not find any game, and would Okkie come and shoot a few impala for them to take home? Dad would go and shoot seven. “Seven! I said a few, like 3!”

Another happy place was the Van Staden family game farm, Koedoeskop near Swartwitpensfontein, where he spent many weekends hunting and walking the trails at 5 a.m. with the tracker Martiens, who loved my dad so much he named his son after him. Time spent at Koedoeskop is probably one of my childhood's core and fondest memories. I crashed my mom’s Datsun bakkie there while learning to drive. Oh, Dad was so pissed at me (because Mom was pissed at him!)

Dad kept a hunting scrapbook of every hunt. He never did it for trophies but for the pure joy of the hunt. He meticulously documented the grain of ammunition (which he loaded himself), the distance and location of the shot. A notch on his hunting knife sheath was carved for every kudu he got. More than a few bucks may have been poached and skinned before noon. Fearless, he was a phenomenal marksman with a twinkle in his eye that never dulled. His Sauer 8x64 was his prized possession. He loved coaching other hunters, celebrating their shots, and proudly retelling their stories.

Bad knees ended the hunting chapter, but a new one began when he retired in 1991. He and Mom took the long road—1,758 km up the west coast—to Swakopmund and Mile 72, camping there three to four months each year for 12 years, driving the Atlantic shoreline in search of the best fishing spots. They lived for it. Their campsite was always the envy of the campground (dad pulling General rank). The only thing that brought them home was when missing the grandchildren became unbearable. People often asked Dad if my Mom was Sarah de Jager.

He was impeccable with his word. He always did what he said. I cannot recall a single time he didn’t honour his word. He was stubborn and hardheaded, but Mom was the one person who could stand up to him—and he loved her all the more for it. I never slammed a door, back-chatted my mother, or snuck out—because Dad could see through walls and read my mind. Boyfriends hung up the phone when his barked “Maritz!” answered (😂)

He was a storyteller, able to light up an entire room with his tales—especially the practical jokes he gave and got in return. From shooting the Greek’s horse at 16 (“I was aiming high over its head!”), to landing my grandpa in a long drop, to crashing my grandma’s Royal Albert tea set on his bike, smuggling cigarettes into South Africa from Rhodesia, to countless stories of hunting, hyenas almost catching my brother, and Martin racing go-karts off Mariepskop mountain side—my dad was a master storyteller. He was magnificent. He loved J&B whiskey, good lamb tjop and Romany cream cookies.

I loved how he loved me. His highest wish was to see me happy and my girls thrive. He always thought the best of me, and I know—without a shadow of a doubt—that he was prouder of me than I ever deserved. I love him for it. He was so unendingly generous. I loved how this fierce man cried uncontrollably when he walked me down the aisle and when my babies were born. He was unafraid to show emotion and unashamed to show love.

Martin, you are right up there with Dad in my eyes and heart. I cannot thank you and Barbara enough for the care you gave him over the last few years and the patience you showed with his stubbornness and absolute refusal to give in to old age. I love you, boetie.

Thank you, God, for showing me a father’s love through my dad. Thank you for giving him to me—the best man I know—to call my dad. 

My dad, the gift of a lifetime.