I was born Cudjoe, but my father called me Champion. He was away at sea on the Monday I was born. Four weeks later, when he held me for the first time during my Akan naming rites, I did not cry when our elder put his index finger into my mouth and poured cold water over my naked body. Dad said I sucked our elder’s finger, looked up at him and blinked. “He’s a real champion,” the ceremonial crowd whispered.

As a young boy, living on the shores of Winneba, I dreamt of stringing a kite and flying it as high as the Great Blue Turaco. Once we grew out of toy cars and action figures, flying was all that mattered to us seven, eight, and nine-year olds. Sometimes, younger boys as little as five and six joined us on Asaba Field as we competed in games of kite-surfing on weekends.

My father taught me how to string kites. He showed me how to navigate a kite’s ropes so that it soared at its highest. The day I turned eight, he said to me, “The sky is your guide. Never look down.” The sky always seemed impossibly far, but once I set my kite soaring hundreds of feet above my head, I felt as if I had superpowers. Flying gave me the strength to believe that anything was possible.

I lived in Winneba Bay with my parents and two-year-old sister, Abena, in a house that sat on the low-lying slopes of Labadi Beach. From our home we could hear the thundering waves, loud as the roars of the Ashanti masquerades, and because of this, we were known as the “children of the ocean”. However, we feared the water. We prayed for a peaceful ocean, for when it grew angry, the tides sent waves across the land, striking everything in their path. The ocean was off limits to us, and so the sky became our playground. 

On Saturday mornings, I sat beside the stereo, anticipating the afternoon forecasts, shouting in glee if a windy afternoon was predicted. As the second half of the day arrived, I’d put on my tennis shoes and grab my kite. My father would stop me at the door, and together we’d recite, “Beware of the storm, always look out for power lines, play safe, and remember: the sky is your friend.”

On Asaba Field, my friends and I dug our feet into the grass. We loosened our grip on our strings, our kites soaring in response. I’d stand with my back to the wind: pulling the strings urgently, and then gradually letting go. I’d watch as my kite flew higher than the others. Kwesi would smack his fist into his palm because I always won, while Afi would shake his head. Mumbling, Afi and Kwesi said that the only reason I always won was because my father taught me everything. They were right. Dad taught me one of the simplest tricks: that to fly a kite I should tilt my arms at an angle, back to the wind, and retract my strings. As the kite rose into the sky it would ease into the wind, gliding, in much the same way that my dad adjusted sails on the big ship where he worked. 

The Christmas before I turned eight my father returned from sea. When the holidays ended, I packed a bag, determined to join him when he returned to the ship. I believed he had the coolest job as a marine man, and I was certain that I was going to live onboard one of the ships of the Eagle Marine Fleet. Just like him.