I’ve never seen him flinch. Maybe he has but I haven’t seen it. He has muscles but this is one he doesn’t seem to have.
“He” is Mark. He is my oldest brother. He just turned 70.
Normally, 70 is cause for alarm. Cause for reset. Cause to retool one’s “goals and objectives.”
Not here, not him, not yet. There is not a whisper of working less, doing less or playing less. If anything, Mark is in the more group. Amping it up as if this moment, this session and this day was his last.
He charges. Not what you do on your tab at the country club. Not sliding in your Visa at Lowe’s.
Charging as in not holding back. Not calculating the odds or anticipating the consequences. Acting now and checking for broken bones later.
Mark’s done crazy stuff, some of it in the ocean. Once we were in Mexico on a big day, big at least for guys who don’t live at the beach and surf five times a week. We were in a panga, which is an open, outboard-powered, fishing boat heading for a break called Palo Alto or A frame, named for its almost perfect wave that simultaneously affords surfers both a right or a left.
The swells were massive and when we arrived at the spot where we were to surf — that is if we decided to leave the safety of the boat to do so — Mark threw his board and himself over the rail and into the 80-degree Mexican water and started paddling into position, seemingly all in one motion.
Nobody else had moved, lest it be interpreted as a sign that he might do what Mark had done, risking what appeared to be a large dose of pain and punishment. While we wrestled with our insecurities and the terror in our frightened souls, Mark paddled into one of the biggest waves I’d ever seen in person.
He caught the wave. I think he caught the wave. Whether he caught the wave or didn’t catch the wave, we didn’t see him again for almost an hour.
Dead, drowned, who knew but what we did know was he was gone and we had no idea whether we’d see him again and if so, if he would be short a pint of blood or a body part.
When we did see him, and he had spent some time in the impact zone, pinned to the shore and presumably have taken a number of waves on the head, not only was he unperturbed but had a big smile on his face as if he had had the time of his life and as if this was the outcome he had expected and for which he had hoped.
That’s Mark. Jumping out of the gondola at the top of the mountain and hurdling off the avalanche-loving lip. Already halfway down the mountain while some of us are assessing, reassessing, and generally spending an inordinate amount of time thinking about our safety.
It doesn’t feel like he’s trying to prove anything, nor does it present as conceit or a chip on the shoulder. This is just where he meets life, finds life and discovers life.
Blame it on Mom. That’s where it comes from. Both are riverboat gamblers with death wishes when it comes to the outdoors.
His parenting style — he has two boys and a girl — seems equally unrehearsed. He has done it his way, which often involved throwing his kids into situations where they had to fend for themselves. It seemed to work because not only did they become independent and develop a knack for navigating difficult situations but rather than resenting him, they appear to get a giant kick out of their father.
We’ve had our moments. Most brothers do. However, his heart is made of gold and in the end, that kind of gold is what matters.
Gold that manifests itself in boyish enthusiasm. One that is the first to say yes to any cockamamie idea. The first one out of the boat, in the car or on the plane.
Mark is 70. I doubt he flinched. He probably just doubled down and let it fly.
Contact The Californian’s Herb Benham at 661-395-7279 or hbenham@bakersfield.com. His column appears on Sundays, Tuesdays and Fridays; the views expressed are his own.
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