Ronald Ieva

The Legend of Cap'n Ron Ieva: Husband, Father, Papa, and the Ultimate Navigator of Life

There is no sense in sugarcoating it: my beloved dad, Ron Ieva—aka Rollie Solo—has died. The cancer finally took him, but it had to fight like hell to do it. He left us having thoroughly exhausted the limits of what one human being can squeeze out of a single lifetime, leaving behind a harbor that is suddenly much quieter, emptier, and less interesting without him. He died on Independence Day, 2026, on the 250th Anniversary of our Great Nation.  My Dad would want you to tackle that medical test you are putting off, hug a loved one and pursue something that will last a lifetime.

Born in 1947 into a fiercely proud, humble Italian-American family in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, he was a boy who looked at the horizon and decided the neighborhood was too small. It was a classic Catch-22: to get anywhere in life, you needed experience, but to get experience, you had to leave Brooklyn—the only place he knew. So, he left at age 17. My dad had few regrets, but he did regret not allowing my grandfather to accompany him to Grand Central Station; he wanted to be his own man. He didn't just break the mold; he broke family tradition by becoming the very first Ieva to attend and graduate from college. I was moved to find that, for all these years, my dad held onto a telegram from his neighborhood friends and their wives congratulating him on this feat.

But before the books came the sea. At 17, Ron enlisted in the United States Navy, serving with honor as a Torpedoman 3rd Class aboard diesel subs. Seeking larger horizons, he graduated from the Maine Maritime Academy in 1968, earning his degree in Marine Engineering.

As a Marine, I can admit my old man's naval career was both amazing and unique. He climbed the military's bureaucratic ladder with a smirk, retiring as a Lieutenant Commander (LCDR) in 1989 aboard the very sub he enlisted upon: the USS Ling (SS-297). His service spanned decades in the Naval Reserve, including Merchant Marine time in Vietnam. To his shipmates, “Ron was the steady hand and the man with the experience, both professionally and in life. You could always depend on him in times both difficult and good. We trained hard and played hard—maybe even harder. He was a fierce patriot, and there was no better friend.”

Ron's life was defined by an insatiable wanderlust, a bone-deep love for the sea, and an absolute refusal to slow down. When he wasn't navigating the oceans, he was conquering the asphalt as an amateur race car driver with the legendary Bob Sharp Racing team. He loved the speed, the heat, and the fine line between control and disaster. Watching him slide into a cockpit and push a machine to its absolute limits ignited a lifelong passion for racing in me. It was loud, dangerous, and beautiful. On Saturdays, we would take his race-configured Datsun 240Z into town, where I would sit on his lap and hit the gear shift just right while he showed me how to "heel-and-toe." One of my fondest memories is of him holding me in his racing suit; there could be no better hero. Later in life, I was fortunate to treat him to the Miami Grand Prix, where we sipped prosecco while playing bocce in the Ferrari team area.

Vive le Schwinn and Chevy

Ron was a successful businessman with a mind that never stopped scheming in the best way possible. Take his brief, wildly ambitious attempt to launch a business venture in Castro's Cuba. Ron looked at a communist island locked in a time capsule and thought, "You know what the American consumer needs? A fleet of pristine 1950s classic Chevys and vintage Schwinn bicycles." The Cuban government thought it was a capitalist plot; the American government thought it was a communist plot. It was a beautiful, circular disaster. The geopolitical logistics sank the plan, but the sheer audacity of trying to barter classic cars out from under Fidel's nose was pure Ron. 

The Red Square Incident

Of all his global exploits, nothing captures his humanity quite like a business trip to the Soviet Union. My dad was training for a marathon and needed to get his miles in. His assigned KGB handler—a man whose job description was to look miserable and suspicious—had a minor panic attack watching an American plan a long-distance running route through Cold War Moscow.

Showing the kind of empathy only Ron could muster, he cut his handler a deal. To keep the man from being sent to Siberia for administrative incompetence, Ron changed his route. He did his entire long-distance run by running laps around Red Square. Picture it: the heart of the Soviet empire, grim soldiers on guard, and one Italian-American guy from Brooklyn, sweating through his sneakers, waving at Lenin's tomb, doing laps just to be a good guy. The KGB loved him. It was completely insane, which meant it made perfect sense.

China on Two Wheels

In 1983, we took a special trip to China together. It was a different world then. We rode bicycles through Tiananmen Square, two Americans blending into a sea of flying pigeons and black Flying Pigeon bicycles. Suddenly, President Ronald Reagan's motorcade swept through. We stood there with our bikes, watching the limousines pass within feet of us. It was a moment of pure history, caught by two Americans who just happened to be there, existing in the center of the world for a brief, striking minute. We later rode to the Summer Palace and shared the best Chinese food we have ever enjoyed.

The Joy of the Sea

What bound us closest, through all the years and all the miles, was our mutual love for sailing. On the water, the noise of the world fell away. My dad was a master of the craft, and he became my master instructor. He taught me how to look up at a dark, open sky and navigate by the stars, reading the ancient ledger of the universe to find our way home.

He was a patient coach at the helm... actually, that is a joke. Cap'n Ron was stern and decisive. He taught me the quiet tension of being close-hauled before the wind, trimming the sails to the absolute limit, and the pure, clean joy of harnessing a force you cannot see but can deeply feel. We operated as a team without talking—just teamwork. Those long hours on the water changed me. They made me more acutely aware of our world, of the grand architecture of our universe, and gave me a permanent piece of his own soul: the unmatched, eternal pleasure of the open sea.

A Legacy of Courage and Toughness

Beyond the sea, Ron's true compass was his family, defined by a code of conduct that was tough as nails. His favorite book was Joseph Heller's Catch-22. It became my favorite book, too. It taught us about the beautiful, tragic absurdity of the world, the madness of institutions, and how a man must maintain his sanity, armor, and humor through it all.

He was a man who lived his life in ink and action. Years later, when I was a Second Lieutenant stationed in Hawaii, we found ourselves wandering the neon-lit streets of Waikiki. In a moment of pure camaraderie that blurred the line between father and friend, we walked into a parlor and got tattooed together. It was a sailor's tradition, a shared mark of the bond we carried across every ocean and duty station.

He possessed an unwavering courage to always do what was right, consequences be damned. When I was 14 years old, we were driving through a rough, unforgiving section of New Brunswick, New Jersey. Through the window, we witnessed a man physically attacking a woman in an apartment entryway. My dad didn't hesitate. He didn't weigh the options or wait for someone else to step in. He slammed on the brakes, pulled the car over, jumped out, and thoroughly pummeled the man into the alcove before calling the police. He taught me right then and there what real strength looked like.

I saw that exact same toughness decades later in his final gridiron fight against stomach cancer. The disease was brutal, but Ron was brutal right back. Even when the pain was at its worst, he would rise, squaring his shoulders to make the rest of us feel better, refusing to let the illness dictate his dignity. Through it all, he remained an absolute rockstar with his grandkids—fierce, present, and completely undefeated in spirit.

He revered history. In a beautiful act of love, Ron retraced the exact footsteps of his own father—my grandfather—who fought his way through Italy during World War II. He walked that same dirt, honoring the sacrifices that paved the way for his own journey and mine. I later learned from Cousin Randy that, for over fifty years, Ron had carried a picture of a sailboat tied up by the piazza in Vernazza, a picturesque town in Cinque Terre, Italy. On this trip, Ron finally fulfilled that half-century dream: sitting at that very piazza, sipping grappa, and taking in the view alongside his family.  He will be buried in his Cinque Terre ballcap.

My dad was there for the bookends of my own military life. He stood proud at my commissioning, and he stood just as proud at my retirement on the sacred, blood-stained sands of Normandy, France. The circle was complete.

As a father, his advocacy, support, and love for me were unparalleled. When I was deploying for combat, heavy with the weight of what was ahead, my dad looked at me and made a promise. He promised to help raise my kids so that I could focus entirely on taking care of the Marines and Sailors (someone else’s kids)  who were entrusted to my leadership. It was a heavy promise, made lightly, and kept perfectly. That was the caliber of man he was. He was our rock. And as a grandfather, Papa was totally defenseless against his grandkids. He poured his whole heart into them.

When people talk about leaving "generational wealth," they usually mean stocks and real estate. But the true wealth my dad left behind cannot be taxed or spent. His generational wealth was his boundless love, his expansive perspective on the world, and the endless opportunity he created for us by breaking barriers. He taught us to look at the world not as something to fear, but as a map waiting to be sailed. Whenever I buy wine, I hear his voice reminding me that life is too short to buy cheap wine.

Finding Love with Teresa

After the devastating loss of my stepmother Carol to cancer, watching my dad open his heart again to find love with Teresa was a true blessing. Together, he and Teresa embarked on a vibrant new chapter, building a warm life in Key West where the tropical waters and ocean breezes perfectly suited his sailor's soul. Whether setting sail across open seas or embarking on travels around the globe, my dad thoroughly maximized the sunset years of his life with his loving companion. They cherished every moment, turning ordinary days into extraordinary memories filled with shared joy and laughter. Their connection was anchored by simple daily routines and quiet rituals—from sharing morning coffee on the deck to watching the evening sunset side by side. He lived those years to the absolute fullest, squeezing every bit of joy out of life with Teresa right by his side. When his health ultimately began to fail, Teresa stood by him as an unwavering pillar of grace, strength, and tenderness. She dutifully and kindly took care of my dad in his final days, surrounding him with immense comfort, dignity, and deep affection. Her selfless devotion was the ultimate testament to the rich, loving partnership they had built together. Teresa gave my father a beautiful second act, ensuring that as he set his final sail, he left this world feeling profoundly cherished and at peace.

A Lifetime Circle of Family and Friends

In 2007, Cousin Laurie and her husband Randy moved to Annapolis and were immediately told they needed to track down the legendary "Cousin Ronald," whom Laurie had heard about her entire life. They found Ron living nearby aboard his sailboat, Last Dance. Over dinner at Annie's on Kent Island, an immediate bond was forged, kicking off a twenty-year family journey of shared adventures.

A man like Ron does not sail through life alone. He leaves behind an incredible, tight-knit crew—a vast circle of loyal friends and extended family who loved, respected, and absolutely adored him. To everyone who shared a dock, a drink, a laugh, or a wild story with Ron over the years, please know that I am eternally grateful for the support, love, and genuine affection you showered upon my dad. You made his world as big and bright as it was. Pro Tip: When you have parents who are your eternal advocates and supporters, there are no limits in this world. I miss him more than anything, but he prepared me for life.

Following my retirement in Normandy, France, my dad, Teresa, Laurie, and Randy embarked on a two-week journey down the Saône River in Burgundy, France. Onboard a 42-foot Le Boat, they effortlessly shared the helm. True to form, Ron started every morning by hopping on his bicycle to joyfully greet the locals with a booming "Bonjour!"—though his ongoing quest to find and wear a traditional French beret famously remained unfulfilled.

Or did it?

In his very last days, Randy and Laurie brought not only comfort, compassion, and support to his hospital room in Tampa, Florida, but they also brought him a French beret to his bedside.  I secretly believe he was wearing the beret when he called me to say good-bye and I will forever believe otherwise.

The Final Anchorage

Ron is survived by his beloved wife, Teresa; his son (me), Lieutenant Colonel Chris Ieva, United States Marine Corps (Retired); his little brother, Anthony; and his adored grandkids, Fiorello and Alexandra.

He will be laid to rest at Calverton National Cemetery on Long Island, returning to the earth alongside his parents, his brother, and his previous-wife, Carol, who also passed from cancer. They are together again in the quiet ground of Long Island and will await us all in heaven.

In lieu of flowers, the family respectfully requests to make donations be made in Ron’s name to either the Maine Maritime Fund (https://mainemaritime.edu/giving) or Chris’ Non-Profit Leggio XCI focused on sending the elevator back down to students of North Brunswick Township Highschool with the aim of establishing a Ronald A. Ieva award (https://tinyurl.com/leggioxci).

You lived a big life, Dad.

You loved us well, Papa. I promise to cook the seven fishes on Christmas Eve

I will always cook risotto slowly and with care. I understand that it is better to reef the sails early and to turn into the mountain

.

I have the watch.

Sail on.

With love and Semper Fidelis,

Your Son Chris

I may outrank you, but I will eternally remain your “Mooch the Gooch”

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