by Nik Wallenda
Yes, I have a job to do. Yes, I was born to do that job. And yes, the aim of that job is to thrill people by performing seemingly impossible feats. But, in realizing those feats, if I fail to reflect the glory of God I have accomplished nothing.
My ego-driven vanity is not going to disappear. I can’t wish it away and I can’t entirely pray it away. But can I accept it without indulging it? Can I say, “Hey, I’m a human being. Human beings, mired in insecurity and assaulted by uncertainty, look for all sorts of validation. There’s nothing wrong with it—as long as I don’t ego-trip myself to a spiritual death; as long as I realize that my spiritual growth, set against my high-profile career, is always going to be a work in progress; as long I continue to do that spiritual work.”
“I think your two feats in one day will be mind-blowing,” says Michelle Wiltshire, head of Atlantis marketing and a wonderful supporter. “They’ll bring out the press and heighten interest in the natural resources we’ve brought to the resort. How many interviews are you willing to grant?”
“As many as it takes to draw a huge crowd.”
The crowd arrives early that morning. The plan is to do the bike ride in the morning and then skywalk in the afternoon.
The bike ride is wonderful. I cherish the sight of the deep-blue Caribbean spread out before me. I like the heat. The warm sun in my face is a delight. Pedaling my way across with a slow and steady ease, I feel the presence of God—in the sky, in the sea, in my heart. When I reach my destination at the end of the ride, I wave to the cheering spectators below and thank God for the endless energy of His universe.
My plan is to now relax for the rest of the afternoon. I do just that, but a half-hour before it’s time for my evening walk something happens that rocks my world:
I get a call saying that my dad has passed out. An ambulance has been called. My first thought is that he’s had a heart attack. I rush over to see him. He’s still unconscious. His face is ashen. He looks weak. I’m afraid for his life. The medics arrive. His vital signs are okay but they don’t know what’s wrong. They put him on a stretcher and carry him into the ambulance. My dear friend Chris Ripo, a professional fireman, is with me.
Meanwhile, the wind whips up and the weather turns bad.
Do I get into the ambulance with Dad? Do I cancel the event? I only have a minute to decide.
“Without knowing my dad’s condition, I’m not sure I can do that walk,” I tell Chris.
“I understand.”
“And he won’t be there to do the final checks on the rigging.”
“It’s your decision, Nik,” says Chris. “I’m with you either way.”
I close my eyes, which are filled with tears, and stay quiet for ten seconds.
“No,” I say, “I gotta do it. That’s what my family does. That’s what Dad would want.”
“Then do it,” says Nik. “I’ll ride with him in the ambulance.”
Chris and I embrace. I kiss Dad on the forehead and run off to the site of the event.
The walk is between the two iconic Atlantis towers. It’s the greatest distance of my skywalking career—some two thousand feet. Before I take my first step, I look out on the horizon. Thunderclouds have moved in. Off in the distance, bolts of lightning electrify the sky.
The fact that I will be walking between these two towers over sharks and barracudas is not the issue. Neither is the weather. I’ve walked through storms before. I’ve been trained to walk through storms. It’s my father’s condition that weighs on my mind. It’s the fact that my father is not double- and triple-checking the rigging. It’s his absence that I’m feeling.
There’s a far larger crowd than there was for the bike ride over the ocean. The spectators have arrived with umbrellas and raincoats. As I climb up the rope, there’s a light mist. It’s sprinkling. The dark thunderstorms have passed but the air is still unsteady. The winds are strong. When I arrive at the top, I look down for my father’s customary thumbs-up sign and suddenly remember what, in the moment, I had forgotten. He isn’t there.
God is there. God is here. God is everywhere. God is the blood coursing through my veins. God is the excitement in my heart. God is every blink of my eyes, my every breath, my every step. God is the creator of every person watching me, the creator of the stingrays and the piranhas, the master architect, the master poet and painter, the loving master who has imbued me with gifts, just as He has imbued every living soul with gifts, the Father who has fed my faith and allowed me to take this walk over two thousand feet of wet cable—in spite of the whipping winds and the steady rain, in spite of my anxiety about my dad, in spite of all the elements that might throw me off, I maintain balance.
Two hundred feet into the walk, four hundred feet, a thousand feet—step after step after step—I praise the living God. I’m practically trotting over the cable as I pray for the well-being of my dad. I pray for the well-being of my wife and children, for all those watching me, for all who have come to Paradise Island to relax, to renew their spirit, to seek inspiration. I pray that I might inspire and be inspired by acts of courage and faith.
In a final burst, soaking wet, I complete the walk. Chris Ripo is there with a cell phone in his hand.
“It’s your dad,” he says.
I take the phone and hear him say, “I’m fine, son. Just fine.”
“You sure?”
“It was nothing more than heat exhaustion. Glad you didn’t cancel. I wouldn’t have liked that.”
“I know,” I say, so happy and so relieved, “and just thank God that you’re okay.”
The Wheel of Steel reclaims its original name—the Wheel of Death—and I decide to incorporate it in my act in Atlantic City. I don’t use that name to be overdramatic, but only to be historically accurate. Ringling Brothers thought it sounded too dire. They cleaned it up for public relations purposes. But I believe that the public relates best to artists who, in an attempt to raise the stakes on entertainment, are willing to stare death in the face. Besides, it’s a good title for an episode in my Discovery series.
“Do you feel like you’re defying God?” a skeptical reporter asks me before the show that starts with a tightrope walk across the shopping center at the Tropicana.
“Not at all,” I say. “Why should I defy a God I love?”
“You’re doing things that mortals weren’t meant to do.”
“According to who?”
“According to the laws of reason.”
“I look at my work in the most reasonable light possible. I am blessed to have uncles who are noted engineers, men of reason, who tell me whether my feats are practical and possible. My uncle Mike, for example, is a genius, and operates at the highest level of the engineering profession.”
“But if you aren’t testing God or defying God, aren’t you defying death?”
“I’m affirming life. I’m saying that life is about risk—and moving to the next level is about assuming risk. I’m saying that it’s good to break through boundaries. When you see someone do something that has been called impossible, you’re inspired to attempt the impossible. Sure, there are voices of doubt and despair. I have them. Everyone does. But those voices, though powerful, are self-defeating. They get you nowhere. They make you retreat. I’m not about to retreat. I’m not about to give up. My mantra is never give up!”
“You must know that not everyone watching you is hoping that you make it,” says the reporter. “They’ve come out to be witness to what could be a catastrophe. Isn’t that the lure?”
“I don’t believe it is. I believe the lure is—hey, this guy is showing some determination and that makes me feel like I have to be determined as well. I can’t speak for everyone who comes to my shows, but I feel like the overwhelming majority is cheering me on. They don’t want me to fall. They want me to succeed.”
“And you really don’t think it’s a matter of showing them how close you can get to the face of death?”
“I’m not looking at death,” I explain.
“I’m not thinking of death. It’s not challenging a negative. It’s asserting a positive. When I’m in the middle of a walk or on the wheel, my heart is in a whole different place. I see it as physical poetry. It’s an artistic expression. It’s uplifting. When I do these feats, my spirit soars. I’m hoping that what I do lends life—which can be mundane and boring—a certain beauty. Inspired by God, the human spirit can soar. That’s the point I’m trying to make.”
“What’s the point of walking a high wire across a shopping mall?”
“It was a whim,” I say. “I came here and saw that the ceilings were painted to look like a sky. I loved that look. It made me think that I’d like to climb up into that sky and give the shoppers something to look up to—something that might make their day even brighter, a memory they could bring home, a story they could tell to their friends and neighbors. I thought it would be fun.”
It is fun. In the middle of the walk I drop to my knee—and then turn over on my back. I slowly get up and, rather than walk forward, walk backward. I feel suspended in time, suspended in space. I feel free.
That same day I’m on the roof of the Tropicana, twenty-three stories above the boardwalk, where I climb atop the Wheel of Death. I walk inside the wheel as it rotates a dozen times. I climb out, put on a blindfold, and then climb atop the turning wheel, where I jump rope. That makes me feel like a little boy. And again I feel free.
Guinness is back to report that a new world record has been set: No one has ever performed on the wheel at this height.
It’s another one for the books. It’s good to be making news, it’s good to be back in the good graces of my wife, it’s good to have my children with me, as I was with my parents, traveling from city to city. Continuity is good. Tradition is good. Family is good. Family is everything. And family history is still driving me, still haunting those dreams that continue to amaze me. Even more amazing is how my dream life and real life are suddenly intersecting.
What can it all mean?
17
Dreaming Reality
I wake up and can’t remember my dream, but I know it was about my great-grandfather. He was taking me somewhere, speaking to me, urging me on. I want to recall the specifics. I want to know what it all means.
“Were you a little boy in the dream or a grown man?” Erendira asks me at breakfast.
“I can’t remember. I think both.”
“Were you frightened? Happy? Excited?”
“Excited.”
“Then it was a good dream.”
“I’ve dreamt about Karl a thousand times, but this was different.”
“You’re always dreaming about him and Niagara Falls. Were there any waterfalls in the dream?”
“There was water!” I suddenly remember. “Water was definitely part of the dream.”
“Then it’s probably that same Niagara Falls dream.”
“The dream,” I say, “that won’t go way.”
“Have you ever thought about walking across Niagara Falls?”
The question shocks me. Am I hearing this man correctly or am I putting words in his mouth?
“Would you mind repeating the question?” I ask.
“I said, have you ever considered setting up a tightrope and walking across Niagara Falls?”
I’m in my booth at the International Association of Amusement Parks and Attractions convention. I’m there to attract new bookings. I’m used to entertaining all sorts of inquiries, but this one has me floored.
“I’ve not only thought of it,” I say, “I’ve dreamt of it.”
“Well, dreams come true,” he says, “if you want them bad enough.”
“I want this one real bad.”
“Then let’s talk.”
We do. He says that he has the political clout to make it happen.
“It can’t happen,” my father says. “You need two countries to agree—the U.S. and Canada.”
“The man says he has the right connections,” I argue.
“Two countries,” my father reminds me, “with two political systems that invite dissent. You have the involvement of the state of New York and the province of Ontario. You have governors and senators and parks commissioners. You have a cast of dozens of politicians, any one of whom can pull the rug from under you.”
“I want to believe this will work.”
“And I don’t want to see your heart broken, son.”
“My heart’s pretty strong.”
“I know that, Nik, but look at this thing objectively. Too many obstacles stand in your way.”
“Isn’t it all about overcoming obstacles?”
“Yes, as long as you have a fighting chance. Even if by some miracle you resolve the political issues, there’s the money. Do you have any idea what it would cost to rig cable over the Falls?”
“I have some notion.”
“Take a guess.”
“A half million.”
“Double that,” says Dad. “More than double that.”
“Discovery will go for it.”
“I doubt it. It’s way outside their budget.”
Dad’s right. “Concentrate on something else,” he says. “Something a little less grand. Dreaming is something you do when you’re asleep. Reality is what happens when you wake up.”
But then I have another one of those recurring dreams that involve my great-grandfather. I want to discuss it with my mother.
“Do you think that Karl had any premonition of his death?” I ask my mother.
“No. Why do you ask, Nik?”
“I had a dream where he was on his way to a big event. But then he stopped. He turned to me and said, ‘You go ahead. You do it for me.’ ”
“He witnessed death, of course, when the pyramid fell in Detroit. He had seen many people in the circus die, both relatives and friends. But he never spoke of death and I know he never feared it.”
“I’m sure that’s true, but it’s also true that his own death got more news coverage than probably anything he did in his life. I hate that. I hate for that to be the last image of him. How many times have you heard someone say they watched it on YouTube?”
“I hear that all the time.”
“I think we should change that.”
“What are you talking about, Nik? How in the world are you going to do that? People are fascinated by tragedy.”
“By turning tragedy to triumph. By going to Puerto Rico and recreating the walk.”
“The same walk where he fell?”
“The same walk, the same height, the exact same spot. I want to do it.”
“And you don’t think you’ll be tempting fate?”
“I don’t believe in that kind of fate. I don’t think it’s any of our fates to fall. It wasn’t his fate. It was the fault of his rigging. You and Dad have told me a hundred times that his rigging was wrong. Well, this time Dad and I will be there to make sure that the rigging is right.”
There are dissenters. There are those who say there is something perverse or even exploitative about replicating my great-grandfather’s walk in Puerto Rico.
“Nik’s trying to cash in on a catastrophe,” says one relative.
“Nik’s opening an old wound,” says another.
“Nik’s looking to glorify himself by pointing out Karl’s mistake.”
I understand the opposition. Not everyone has to think the way I do, but, from my perspective, my vision is clear:
I’m going back to rectify history. It’s a multigenerational feat of love. I feel Karl’s spirit encouraging my every move. He doesn’t want to be remembered as someone who has fallen, but someone whose dynasty has redeemed his lifelong passion for creative and daring entertainment.
Yet the negative voices persist.
“Don’t let those voices get you down,” says Erendira.
“I don’t feel down,” I say. “I feel the same way Karl must have felt when after the collapse in Detroit he left the hospital and showed up at the circus the very next n
ight.”
“Someone said to me the other day, ‘Your husband is just doing it for the press.’ I said, ‘Of course we want press. That’s part of our business.’ ”
“Karl died in the very act of getting press,” I say. “He did the walk in Puerto Rico because attendance was down. He needed media attention to sell tickets. Now I want media attention to show the world that the Wallendas never give up.”
The Discovery Channel agrees with me. They like the idea and grant final approval. This dream will become real.
The dreams stop just when I think they would have intensified. With so many of my thoughts on my great-grandfather and his final act, I almost expect him to reappear in some sort of sleeping vision. But he doesn’t. I’m left alone with my thoughts. I can focus on nothing but this hundred-foot-long walk between the two ten-story towers of the Condado Plaza Hotel in San Juan.
My parents and I go down for an initial visit. We meet with the city officials and the hotel executives. We look over the site. For a walk of this kind, it is relatively routine. But because of its history, the walk will be anything but routine. The press picks up the story and plays it for all it is worth. The city and hotel see it as a boon for business. Tourists will flock to the event. Television will cover it live.
Yet the negative voices persist.
“They’re waiting to see history repeat itself,” says one detractor. “They’re waiting to see Nik fall. That’s the story they’re hoping for. That’s what all the interest is about.”
I refuse to believe that. What I believe is that those following the story are harboring the same hope I am: that history will be rewritten and flip the script from negative to positive.