by Nik Wallenda
When I’m not at First Watch, I’m with Chris Ripo, taking apart an old house or putting up a new one.
By age eighteen, I’ve saved enough money to buy my first car—a Nissan 240 SX. At the same time, Chris comes to me with a fascinating proposal.
“We’ve been fooling with construction for a while now, Nik,” he says, “but how would you like to buy a house?”
“You already have a house, Chris. And my parents have theirs. What do I need a house for?”
“It’s an investment. Real estate, bought cautiously, is always a solid investment.”
I check my savings account. Amazingly, during my teen years I’ve been able to put away twenty-four thousand dollars.
“Take all my savings and put it in a house?” I asked Chris. “Isn’t that kind of crazy?”
“It’s the opposite of crazy. It’s the sanest thing you can do. I’ll put in the rest. We’ll be partners in a rental property. It’s a sound investment. Don’t you see?”
I do see. I trust my brother in Christ. We buy the house. For years it provides the income that Chris promises. And we still own it today.
I’m not sure I know another eighteen-year-old who runs a major restaurant and also owns a house. Does this knowledge make me, as Chris might say, a little cocky?
The answer is yes, but under the cockiness there is also great conflict and fear. The conflict says, You’re a good moneymaker outside performing but performing is your passion. The fear says, You’ll never get to pursue your passion.
Then came the call.
“Who was on the phone?” Mom asked Dad.
“Your brother Tino. The Hamid-Morton Shrine Circus has been in touch with him.”
“What does that have to do with us?”
“They want more than Tino. They want all of us. They want us to do the seven-person pyramid in Detroit. They want the setup exactly as it was back in ’62.”
“So it’ll be in the same building?”
“Not only that, but the same area of the same building. They want the same style platform. The same everything. What do you think, Delilah?”
Mom is silent. The silence lasts longer than I can take.
“Let’s do it!” I blurt out.
Startled by my remark, Mom and Dad both turn and look at me. Until now, they didn’t know I’ve been listening.
“This is hardly your decision, Nik,” says Dad.
More silence.
“I think Nik’s right.”
“You do?”
“I do, Terry.”
“Yes!” I scream.
“Quiet,” says my father. “This is a serious matter.”
“I understand,” I say. “But I’m ready.”
“For what?” asks Dad.
“To do the pyramid,” I answer.
More silence. The silence is driving me crazy. I wish they’d go ahead and say something.
“Well?” I ask.
“Well what?” says Dad.
“Don’t you think I’m ready?” I ask.
All I get is more silence.
“I’m eighteen,” I say. “I know I’m ready. I’ve been ready for years. You have to let me do it!”
“Your mother and I will discuss it,” says Dad. “We’ll let you know.”
“You can’t say no.”
“I can say whatever I want. This is not a frivolous matter.”
“I can do it.”
“I know you can,” says Mom.
“You need to be patient,” says Dad.
“Can we start training today?” I ask. “Can we start right now?”
My father laughs. He knows there’s no stopping me.
It’s obvious why the circus has chosen Detroit to re-create the pyramid. Detroit’s the scene of the fall. Doing it in Detroit will create maximum drama and maximum publicity. In Wallenda lore, Detroit is associated with tragedy. Now tragedy must be turned to triumph. I want to be part of the transformation. I want to make it happen.
The call comes in the fall of 1997. The actual event is slated for March 1998. We rehearse in our backyard for six months.
The training is intense. The pyramid is a delicate operation. There can be no doubts, no hesitancies, no missed cues. Coolness and calm confidence are the order of the day.
On the first day, I’m out in the backyard a full hour before anyone else arrives. As I set up the platform, I feel myself stepping into family history. Now I am part of changing that history. I can turn a negative to a positive. I can help lift that darkness that has hung over us for so long.
Just as I step out on the wire for a practice walk, I spot my uncle Mario approaching in his wheelchair. This is my grandmother’s adopted brother, who was part of the pyramid that collapsed, leaving him paralyzed from the waist down.
“Hey, Nik, let me see you do that headstand,” he says.
I’m happy to do it. It’s Uncle Mario who first taught me to do the headstand on the wire. When he was still performing, the headstand was his specialty. I wasn’t much older than thirteen when Mario came over, rolling his chair right next to the wire, and instructed me on how to handle the balancing pole while turning my body upside down. He taught me the headstand, step by step. He called me his favorite student.
“So I heard the news, Nik,” he says.
“About the pyramid?”
“Yes.”
“Isn’t it great, Uncle Mario?”
“Do you know how old I was when the pyramid came down in Detroit?”
“No.”
“Your age exactly.”
His reply stops me in my tracks.
“Don’t stop,” he says. “Go ahead and do the headstand.”
I do it.
“Perfect,” he says. “But a headstand requires no one’s skill other than your own. The pyramid is different.”
My uncle is no one I wish to challenge. I have great respect for the man. I love him deeply. But as I step off the wire and look into his eyes, I see three decades of frustration. The pyramid crushed not only his body but his hopes and dreams. There is no crueler fate for an aerialist than to be confined to a wheelchair. It is his prison. So I understand what he is seeing and what he is saying. He’s seeing himself in me. He doesn’t want to see my hopes and dreams destroyed. The caution he’s expressing is coming from a place of love.
How can I respond?
I don’t.
“I understand, Uncle Mario,” is all I can say.
“Do you really, Nik?”
“I think I do.”
“All I’m saying is that I wish your uncle Tino and your parents would change their minds. I don’t believe this is a good idea.”
I have no response. At the same time, my determination to accomplish this feat is not diminished. My determination is stronger than ever.
Uncle Mario stays that day to watch us train. He returns the following day and every day thereafter. His presence is powerful. As he watches us from his wheelchair, I can feel his steely gaze. And although he may be looking on with a degree of disapproval—wishing that we wouldn’t tempt fate—I don’t take it that way. I prefer to absorb his energy as something positive. I see him as a man who, despite his bitter history, has loved me enough to become one of my devoted teachers. If I do anything wrong in this pyramid, no matter how subtle, Uncle Mario will point it out. I see his presence as a comfort.
The training goes well. The four anchormen forming the base of the pyramid—my dad, my uncles Tino and Sacha, and I—are steady and strong. Cousin Alida and Tony Hernandez, who has since married my sister, Lijana, are superb. Seated on a chair atop the pyramid, Mom is the consummate professional. During rehearsals, when we are only a few feet off the ground, there are no slip-ups. As we move to the regulation height, the formation never falters. It’s beautiful to be part of such precision.
The re-creation of the pyramid comes at an especially critical moment in my life. About to graduate high school, I’m facing a major decision—what to do next. Before this D
etroit booking comes along, the aerial business for Mom and Dad is agonizingly slow. They have to depend on their other jobs—Mom is a hostess at a country club restaurant, Dad a union-member carpenter.
They are not encouraging me to carry on the tradition—not because they don’t love it but because in all good conscience they don’t see it sustaining me.
John Carson is telling me that, whether I go to college or not, I have a future at First Watch.
In addition to his many business activities, Chris Ripo has become a fireman and is encouraging me to do the same. The salary is good and the benefits excellent. What do I think?
I think that I want to go to Southeastern University in Lakeland, Florida, a great Bible college. What could be better than pursuing a serious study of God’s Word?
I think that eventually I want to go to medical school and become a pediatrician. What could be better than promoting the health and healing of the very young?
All these ideas are great. I know that being a Bible scholar and a baby doctor are wonderful pursuits. At the same time, my first love is the wire. But the wire equals being broke. Or does it?
The press excitement surrounding the re-creation of the pyramid begins to build. The hype comes fast and furiously.
When we get to Detroit, there are a dozen media trucks. Entertainment Tonight. Larry King Live. Hard Copy. Extra. CNN.
Uncle Mario has come to watch the event.
“They’re here to see if history will repeat itself,” he says. “They’re here hoping for another tragedy.”
I don’t view it that way. I’m thinking that if the Wallendas can generate such widespread publicity, why have my parents been struggling so hard and long to get work? Why should the Wallenda brand be dying when, with the right event, the Wallenda name can excite this much interest?
Maybe there is a career here after all. Given the right approach, maybe there’s a way to regenerate Karl’s tireless drive to keep himself in the public eye.
The public loves the idea of this Detroit re-creation. They love the story behind it—that thirty-six years later the same family has returned to rewrite their own history.
On the night of the event, I feel no tension. I see Uncle Mario watching—he’s always watching—and thank God for his presence. On a spiritual level, we’re doing this to honor his sacrifice.
We’re doing this to display courage and confirm the continuity of a tradition that began hundreds of years before I was born. We’re doing this without fear or apprehension. We’re doing this as professional performers whose mission is to entertain and thrill the audience.
I’m thrilled to see the enormous press coverage. It seems like a thousand cameras are aimed in our direction.
The seven of us are standing proudly on the platform.
I walk out first and put the bar on my shoulders.
Standing on the platform, Dad puts that same bar on his shoulder before our cousin Alida stands atop it.
The first three-person pyramid steps out onto the wire.
In the same fashion, Uncle Tino and Sacha, with a bar on their shoulders supporting a standing Tony, create the same configuration.
A six-person pyramid has now been formed
Atop the bar supported by Alida and Tony a chair is put in place. My mother, seated in that chair, becomes the seventh person.
We’re ready to roll. We wait a few seconds so the audience can cherish the drama. Now we slowly start to move. Before we do, though, a slight slump from one of the men on the bottom tier causes a horizontal wave of motion that moves across the pyramid. To keep this remarkable human structure from collapsing we all must move with the wave. Then comes another wave—this one coming from someone on a higher tier who has lost a bit of balance. This wave moves vertically, from top to bottom.
Rather than fight the waves, we must move with them—side to side, up and down. We must let them ever-so-slightly bend us without breaking us.
Finally, all seven of us, our long balancing poles undulating, are slowly moving across the wire. Halfway across, we stop in our tracks. That’s when Mom stands in the seat of her chair and lifts her balancing pole above her head. The audience gasps. The symmetry of the seven-person pyramid is perfection itself. Mom sits down, and, after a few more seconds, we walk across the wire. The walking pyramid is poetry in motion. Every member of the audience—every man, woman, and child—holds their breath. The whole operation takes no more than four minutes—four minutes that many of the spectators will remember for the rest of their lives.
One by one we step off the wire onto the platform and slowly disassemble the pyramid. When the last man has reached safety, we extend our arms to mark our triumph. The crowd roars.
We’ve redeemed history.
We repeat the stunt thirty-eight times in the next seventeen days.
We leave Detroit as heroes.
I can’t deny it; I love heroics; I love doing what everyone warns me against doing.
At the end of the engagement I see Uncle Mario wheeling himself into the dining area where the performers congregate after the show.
“Well, Nik,” he says. “You paid no attention to me.”
“Not true, Uncle Mario, I always pay attention to you.”
“No, you ignored my warnings. You did as you pleased.”
“But aren’t you pleased, Uncle Mario?”
He pauses. His eyes are teary. He’s too choked up to speak. He nods his head and is finally able to say a single word.
“Yes.”
8
Dinner and a Movie
I saw where your family re-created the seven-person pyramid,” says Erendira.
“We did.”
“I think that’s great.”
“Thanks.”
We’re at a circus in Sarasota where we’ve both just performed. I haven’t seen Erendira in several months. I wrote her a note but never heard back. That broke my heart. I figured I didn’t have a chance. But now she’s being nice to me. I don’t know what’s going on.
“I wrote you a letter,” I said.
“You did? I never got it. Where’d you send it?”
“Your home address.”
“Well, you know we’re never home. What did you write about?”
“Nothing in particular. Just wanted to know how you were doing.”
“That was sweet of you. How are you doing?”
“Okay.”
“I hear you have a girlfriend,” Erendira says.
“What! Where’d you hear that?”
“Word gets around. Is it serious?”
“It was over before it started. She wasn’t even a girlfriend. Just someone I dated a couple of times. It happened after I never heard back from you.”
“Wait a minute, Nik. You’re telling me that if I’d seen and answered your letter, you’d have never asked out that other girl.”
“Maybe.”
“There’s a smile on your face. Does that mean you’re lying?”
“No, it means I’m happy to see you. How about dinner and a movie tomorrow night?”
“Sure.”
I’m sure about Erendira. I’ve been sure about her since we met as kids. She’s beautiful, smart, and talented. She has a fiery spirit and a sparkling personality. She understands the life I lead—and want to lead—because she’s been living the same life.
The next night we go to a little Mexican restaurant. We discuss everything. She’s the kind of woman who’s easy to talk to. She doesn’t criticize or judge. She gets me. She feels the depth of my financial fears because she has them herself. She tells me how her family, for all its artistic brilliance and proud history, has gone through the same thing. If anything, their economic desperation has been worse than ours. Over the years, they’ve nearly starved. Erendira talks about living for a whole week on nothing but rice and ketchup. Yet the Vazquez crew, like the Wallendas, have not given up. They continue to pursue their craft.
Erendira’s life has not been easy. Her f
ather has not been loyal to her mother—to say the least. The fact has made her suspicious of men. She isn’t sure she could ever fully trust a man.
“You can trust me,” I say.
“How can I know?” she asks.
“Listen to your heart.”
“I think you’ve given your heart away to more than one girl,” she says.
“I haven’t. I promise.”
“It’s easy to promise.”
“But what I’m about tell you isn’t easy to say. Most guys would never admit it.”
“Admit what?” she asks.
“That I’m a virgin.”
My confession hangs out there. Erendira considers my words carefully.
“Is that something you’re proud of or ashamed of?” she asks.
“Proud.”
“So you’re saying that you’ve just been too shy or that you’ve been saving yourself for the right woman?”
“I’m saying that, for me, sex is something to be cherished in the intimacy of a committed relationship.”
“I don’t know how to take this all.”
“I’m just being honest, Erendira. I’m just saying that I believe in God and God’s morality.”
“You talk like you’re older than you are.”
“My best friends are all ten years older than me,” I say. “My mentors are family men who lead exemplary lives. I want to follow in their footsteps. They’re happy, productive, and filled with ambition.”
“And what are you ambitious for?”
“Happiness, a family, and a career as a performer.”
“Given what both our families have gone through, you don’t think that’s a pipe dream?”
“I don’t think it’s easy, but I’m not the kind of guy who gives up. Ever. I want to build up the Wallenda brand. I want to bring it back to where it was when my great-grandfather was at his height. And then go up from there.”
“Other Wallendas have tried to do that,” says Erendira. “There are a lot of Wallendas flying around the circuit.”
“But there’s only one Nik Wallenda,” I say.