A Salute to My Father

My Dad was born in Costa Rica and as a child dreamed of moving to the states. He traveled all over Central and South America in his twenties and lived more in one decade than most do in a lifetime. This made him a very eclectic individual—he could fix cars, work with leather or wood, if it was even remotely manly he could do it. When I wanted a bike, he asked me to design it on a piece of paper. Two weeks later he had welded together the coolest Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle bike a kid could’ve ever asked for. This thing was so amazing I wish I still had it. He preferred to do things himself. I can imagine backpacking through South America in the sixties one would develop many useful skills, and he put them all to good use raising my sister and I. He also could clean a house just as easily and with the same attention to detail as his BT7 restoration. That was the kind of guy my dad was.

He loved fixing things, including his children. Whenever I had a problem my old man would always be the first one I turned to for advice. He was a do as I do kind of guy, who preached patience, kindness and work ethic. “Never do a job half way. It’s either all the way or leave it to someone else.” He was forgiving and understanding and bore a strong resemblance to “the most interesting man in the world.” He was never afraid to show emotion, and was always willing to put his kids first. He came to the U.S. with nothing and carved out a place in this country for himself and his family. We were lucky enough to share many of the same interests: Seiko watches, cars and airplanes. My sister and I always got a call from dad every day when he could not be there physically, that alone will leave an impression that will last a lifetime.

I was lucky enough to have a dad who made his kids the first priority in his life. Of course, like any Healey man, the 3000 was never too far behind on that list. We grew up modestly, and the BT7 was what brought my father, sister and I all together. We all worked on the car together and often drove in the car with my sister saddled over the transmission tunnel. She never complained, because even Jacklyn, a little girl, knew how special this car was. I can remember changing the clutch in a parking lot with a jack, a plank of wood and a torque wrench. The “big six” was always a great source of pride to the Prado family. David Prado Sr. was a man’s man, he loved all things British and secretly we all knew he was an Anglophile. Afternoon tea while watching “Are You Being Served?” Tweed suits in the winter were commonplace in my house. Even though English was his second language he was adamant about maintaining proper diction and correct grammar, frighteningly so. He was the kind of guy who was never late to pick us up, and never liked to miss out on anything that involved his kids. Even if the Healey felt temperamental, he would always find a way to be there on time.

Because my old man was such a good father, we always got along, even in my teens. I would often grab the keys to the Healey and go to school in it, the attention I got was unrivaled even by the expensive German cars that were in the school parking lot. My dad would warn me, “Junior at your age, the girls are more interested in the car than you, so make wise decisions.” I never did. There was a girl in the tri-carb all the time. Of course, they were all interested in Austin and not Junior, a lesson well learned in high school. My Dad relished the fact I grew up to be a car guy. How could you not be with a Healey 3000? The combined influence of my father and this car on me is immeasurable. As an adult I constantly find myself taking the road less traveled because as a kid that is what my dad and the Healey represented.

I was born in 1986, long after the glory days of British cars, which only added to the mystique and style of our old Healey. As a kid, my friends would come over and say “what is that, a Shelby?” I would laugh as if I knew anything and say, “It’s a Healey with 3 carbs…” Many times Dad was approached by folks who wanted to trade 60s muscle or a Porsche 356, but my old man would politely turn them down and say to me those cars lack sex appeal. I nodded as if I understood exactly what he meant. Now I do. It’s not just that the car is stunningly beautiful to look at. It’s the car as a whole, even down to the boat anchor straight six; I love Austin for exactly what it is, nothing more and nothing less.

Dad taught me lessons with the help of that car. Deductive reasoning and patience, lots and lots of patience were the qualities he instilled in me. When he got older and truly needed my help to work on the Healey he would never admit it. He drove that car often right up until he went to that Big Healey racetrack in the sky.

Now it’s just me and Austin for now. A few days ago we both celebrated my Father’s birthday. I was invited to drive someone’s classic Mini at a car show and later, on the ride home, the Healey’s slave cylinder gave out—a fitting tribute to the real owner of the BT7: David Prado Sr.

It’s funny, my Dad always said “this car is yours, I built it for you.” I’ll forever think this car is his, but he built it for me.

My dad would say, “When I’m gone, that car will be with you as a reminder of us and the time we spent together…” The old man was right, as I squeeze under the transmission I can see Dad’s fingerprints and blood around the bell housing and it makes me smile a big, tearful, goofy grin. I laugh to myself about that day we changed the clutch in a parking lot, like a pair of World War II Hawker Hurricane mechanics, scrambling to prep their planes for their next sortie. We got the Healey running again, it still does and it always will.