This notoriety did not escape the attention of my fellow survivors, who were not happy with my behavior. For them the ordeal had been a transforming experience that had showed them the dignity of human life and had led them to commit themselves to living lives of morality and high principle. In their eyes, I was forgetting the lessons I had learned. At some point in the summer I was asked to judge a beauty contest at the beach, an offer I happily accepted. The news was announced in a local paper, which ran a photo of me smiling intensely, surrounded by half a dozen bikini-clad beauties. This was too much for the others, and out of respect for them I backed out of the deal. Still, I thought my friends were taking themselves a bit too seriously. After all, considering what we’d been through, didn’t the world owe us a little fun? I told myself I was savoring life, making up for the time I’d lost on the mountain. But perhaps I was fooling myself. I think now that at the center of my soul there was a numbness, an emptiness, and I was trying to fill that emptiness with night after night of carousing. I was still denying the pain I had held inside me since the first days of the disaster. I was trying to find a safe way to feel.
One evening, at a Punta nightclub called 05, I was talking with my date and sipping a Coke, when reality ambushed me like a billy club to the head. I had spent so many nights at the same club with Panchito, and now, out of habit, I found myself waiting for him to walk through the door. I had thought of him so many times since our rescue, but that night, in that place, I felt his absence viscerally, as a pain in my gut, and I understood with brutal certainty that he was gone. The realization of that loss brought all my other losses to the surface, and for the first time since the Fairchild fell in the mountains, I began to cry. I bowed my head and sobbed so hard I could not control myself. My date kindly helped me home, and for hours I sat on the balcony of my flat, watching the ocean, alone with my thoughts. As I brooded on all the things that had been taken from me, my grief soon gave way to outrage. Why had this happened? Why was I made to suffer so much loss when so many others were allowed to live their lives happily? For hours I sat like this, cursing God or my luck, and torturing myself with possibilities: If only the pilots had seen that ridge sooner. If only Panchito had taken a different seat. If only I hadn’t invited my mother and sister to come along. I thought of boys who had dropped out of the trip at the last moment, or had missed the plane and had to take a different flight. Why wasn’t I spared, like those boys? Why was it my life that had to be destroyed?
As the hours passed and I sank deeper into these bitter thoughts, my anger grew so strong that I thought I would never forgive life for the way it had cheated me of a happy future. But then, sometime before dawn, as weariness softened my rage, I remembered the advice my father had given me at Viña del Mar: You will have a future. You will live a life.
And as I pondered his words, I saw the error I was making. I had been thinking of the disaster as a horrible mistake, as an unscripted deviation from the happy story of the life I had been promised. But now I began to understand that my ordeal in the Andes was not an interruption of my true destiny, or a perversion of what my life was supposed to be. It simply was my life, and the future that lay ahead was the only future available to me. To hide from this fact, or to live in bitterness and anger, would only keep me from living any genuine life at all. Before the crash, I took so much for granted, but the mountains showed me that life, any life, is a miracle. Now, miraculously, I had been granted a second chance to live. It was not the life I wanted or expected, but I understood that it was my duty now to live that life as richly and as hopefully as I could. I vowed to try. I would live with passion and curiosity. I would open myself to the possibilities of life. I would savor every moment, and I would try, every day, to become more human and more alive. To do any less, I understood, would be an insult to those who hadn’t survived.
I made these vows with no expectation to be happy. I simply felt it was my obligation to make the most of the chance I had been given. So I opened myself to life, and, to my great fortune, my new life began to happen.
IN JANUARY OF 1973, some friends invited me to go with them to see the Argentine Formula One Grand Prix in Buenos Aires. At the time I was not eager to travel, but my time in the mountains hadn’t dulled my passion for motor sports, and this was a chance to see the greatest drivers in the world, so I agreed to go. We hadn’t been at the track long before the press caught wind of my presence, and soon I found myself surrounded by photographers. I let them snap their pictures, then we moved on. A few moments later I was surprised by an announcement on the track’s PA system.
“Will Nando Parrado please report to the Tyrell F1 pit area …”
“It’s probably some newspaper wanting an interview,” I told my friends. “But that’s the pit area for the Tyrell racing team. Let’s go. It’s a chance to see the cars up close.”
When we arrived, the Tyrell pits were buzzing with activity. Some twenty mechanics in blue coveralls were busily attending to two beautiful grand prix racing cars. When I introduced myself, one of the mechanics took me by the arm and led me past the cars to a patch of asphalt at the rear of the pits, where a long motor home was parked. The mechanic opened the door for me and motioned me in, then went back to the pits. I climbed a small set of stairs and stepped inside the trailer. To my left, a slender, dark-haired man was sitting on a sofa, tugging bright gray fireproof racing coveralls over his legs. When he looked up, and I saw who he was, I gasped and stepped backward.
“You’re Jackie Stewart!” I blurted.
“Yes, I am,” he said, in the smooth Scottish accent I had heard on television a hundred times. “Are you Nando Parrado?”
I nodded dumbly.
“I heard you were here,” he said, “and I asked them to find you.” Then he told me that he had wanted to meet me since he’d heard the story of the Andes disaster. He was very impressed with what I’d done, he said, and he hoped I wouldn’t mind talking with him about it.
“Yes,” I stammered, “I’d be happy to …”
He smiled and looked me over. “Do you like racing?” he asked.
I drew a deep breath. Where should I begin? “I love it,” I said, finally. “I have loved racing since I was a kid. You are my favorite driver. I’ve read your books. I know all your races, I have your poster in my room …” I don’t know how long I rambled on like this, but I wanted him to understand that I was no mere fawning fan. I wanted him to know I had studied his techniques and that I respected his mastery of the sport—the virtuosity with which he pushed his car to the limits of physics without going over the top, how he balanced aggressiveness and grace, risk and control. I wanted him to see that I understood racing in my soul, and knew that good driving was more poetry than machismo.
Jackie smiled kindly as he finished dressing. “I have to qualify now,” he said, “but stick around the pits and we’ll talk when I come back.” In less than an hour, Jackie returned. He showed me his car—he even let me sit behind the wheel—then he invited me to stay for his team’s pre-race meeting. I listened in awe as Jackie discussed with his engineers and mechanics the last-minute adjustments they’d make to the car’s engine and suspension to bring it into racing tune. After the meeting, Jackie and I talked for hours. He asked about the Andes, and I asked him about races and cars. After a while, it was not so mind-boggling to be with him. For all his fame and stature, he was a genuine, generous man, and as we got to know each other, I realized, in amazement, that my boyhood idol and I were becoming friends.
A few months later I accepted Jackie’s invitation to visit him at his home in Switzerland, where I grew close to his family, and our friendship deepened. Jackie and I spent hours talking about cars and racing, and I tried to absorb everything he said. Finally, I confessed to him that I had dreamed of driving race cars since I was a child.
Jackie took my interest seriously, and encouraged me to do the same. In 1974, at Jackie’s recommendation, I enrolled in the Jim Russell driving school at Sn
etterton in Great Britain. At the time, this was the premier racing school in the world, and its graduates—Emerson Fitipaldi among them—were racing at the top tracks around the globe. At the Russell school I trained in sleek Formula Fords—as spectacular a machine as any car I’d dreamed of as a kid—and proved to myself that I had what it takes to be an elite racer.
When classes ended, I went home to South America and spent the next two years racing motorcylces and stock cars in Uruguay, Argentina, and Chile. I enjoyed my share of victories, but I always dreamed of driving on the great tracks of Europe, and it didn’t take long for that dream to come true. In 1973, at the Buenos Aires Grand Prix—the same race at which I’d met Jackie Stewart—I’d been introduced to Bernie Ecclestone, the British racing impresario who is now considered one of the founding fathers of modern Formula One racing. At the time, Bernie was already one of the most influential figures on the international racing scene, and the owner of the great Brabham racing team. Like Jackie, he recognized my passion for racing, and this became the basis of a strong friendship. Since then we had kept in touch, and he had followed my short racing career. In early 1977 I learned from Bernie that Alfa-Romeo’s prestigious Autodelta racing team was looking for drivers. He offered to arrange an introduction for me, and a few weeks later I traveled to the Alpha-Romeo offices in Italy with three other South American drivers—Juan Zampa, Mario Marquez, and Eugene “Chippy” Breard. Our meetings with the Autodelta officials went well, and by May of 1977, Juan, Mario, Chippy, and I began driving as teammates in long-distance races on the European Touring Car Championship. I had made it happen, the life I’d dreamed of, racing fine cars against elite drivers at the greatest racetracks of the world. We did well, finishing second at Silverstone, in England, and at Zandvoort, in the Netherlands, and taking our first win at Per-gusa, a very fast track in southern Italy. With each race I felt more confidence. I drove more smoothly, with more balance and precision and speed. I pushed the edge farther and farther, and proved to myself that even in competition with the very best, I could hold my own. And, little by little, I was realizing the dream I had as a boy—the dream of finding poetry in the power and precision of a fine machine.
It was an incredible year, filled with excitement, great challenges, interesting people, and glamorous travel. I was living a dream come true, and when we arrived in Belgium for a race at the Zolder racetrack in September, I had no reason to think it would end. But in the days before the race, as our team prepared the cars, I wandered into a VIP hospitality area hosted by Philip Morris, looking for a Coke, and was struck by a tall blonde in a red blazer and white slacks. She was standing with her back to me, but something about her stopped me in my tracks. Then she turned around and smiled.
“Nando?” she said.
“Veronique?” I stammered, “What are you doing here?”
I knew her. Her name was Veronique van Wassenhove, a Uruguayan by birth, whose parents had emigrated from Belgium. She was a striking girl, tall and willowy, with long hair and wide-set green eyes. I had met her three years earlier, in 1974, in Montevideo, when she was dating Gustavo Zerbino’s younger brother, Rafael. Rafael had suffered a minor car crash just before a big party, and he’d called to ask me if I would pick up his date. I was on my way to the party with Roberto and his girlfriend Laura, so we stopped at Veronique’s place to give her a lift. Rafael was supposed to meet us at the party, but he never showed up, so I became Veronique’s date for the evening. She was only sixteen at the time, but she had an easy grace about her and a quiet sense of maturity that told me she had her feet planted firmly on the ground. I liked her right away. We had a wonderful time together, talking and dancing, and she impressed me more and more as the night wore on. But she was much too young for me, and besides, she was dating my friend, so I never thought of it as anything more than a casual evening. In the next few years I would see Veronique at the beach, or at clubs or parties, and we would always say hello. One afternoon my friends and I were in the audience at the annual Miss Punta del Este beauty pageant, a prestigious event that draws the loveliest women from all across South America, watching as one breathtaking woman after another appeared in elegant evening dresses. After a while, a tall blonde in a sleek blue dress took the stage. She moved differently than the others. Her stride was less studied and more naturally graceful. There was humor in her eyes, and while the others seemed to be working very hard to present their glossiest, most glamorous image, this one had an easy smile and an effortless bearing that told me she was really having fun. It was Veronique, of course. She had entered the contest at the last moment, urged by friends who thought it would help launch her modeling career. I chuckled as she passed by the judges’ table. The other contestants had obviously spent much time and effort polishing their looks and outfits, down to the fancy shoes each of them wore. But as Veronique crossed the stage I saw, beneath the hem of her long gown, that she was barefoot. I was completely charmed, as were the judges, who, at the end of the evening, awarded her the crown.
Now, here she was in Belgium, a few years older, no longer with Rafael, and looking even lovelier than I remembered. She told me she was staying with her mother at their apartment in Brussels, that she had taken a temporary job in public relations here at the track, and that she was planning on going to London to study English, but my thoughts were too scattered to register much of what she said. I couldn’t stop looking at her. I could barely breathe. I had wondered, since I was a boy, what it would be like when I first met the woman I would marry. How would I know her? Would I hear a thunderclap? See fireworks in my mind? Now I knew. It was nothing like that, there was only a firm, quiet voice of certainty whispering in my mind: Veronique. Of course …
It took no more than a second. I saw my future in her eyes. And I think she saw her future in mine. We spoke for a while, then she invited me to lunch on Monday at her family’s apartment. I raced the next day and finished second, which was a miracle, because it rained heavily, and racing in the rain requires fierce concentration. But as I threw my car into turn after turn, and accelerated into the straightaways, I wasn’t thinking about balance or traction or the importance of finding the most efficient line through a curve. My mind was on Monday, when I would see Veronique again. When Monday finally arrived, I found myself at lunch with Veronique and her mother at their elegant apartment on the Avenue Louis in Brussels. Veronique’s mother was an impressively aristocratic woman who greeted me warmly but must have been wary of a twenty-seven-year-old race car driver calling on her nineteen-year-old daughter. I tried to be on my best behavior, but already I was madly in love, and it required all my effort to take my eyes off Veronique, and to remind myself there was anyone else in the room.
After lunch we took a day trip to Brugge, the romantic medieval city of canals and cathedrals. With each step we walked, I felt the connection between us growing stronger. When the afternoon had faded and it was time to take her home, I begged her to visit me in Milan.
“You’re crazy!” she laughed. “My mother would kill me if I even asked.”
“Come to Spain, then,” I persisted. “I am racing next week at Jarama.”
“Nando, I can’t,” she said. “But we will see each other soon.”
I went back to my apartment in Milan on Tuesday, missing her terribly, but on Wednesday she surprised me with a call, saying she was on her way. There was nothing giddy or impulsive about her decision. She had thought things through carefully, and had made a conscious choice. We had spent just one day together in Belgium, but there was no question that there was something real between us. She was choosing her future now. Was I ready to do the same?
On Thursday night I met her at the Milan train station. She stepped off the train with only a backpack and a small duffel, looking very beautiful, and I fell in love with her all over again. Veronique came with me to Jarama, then we traveled to Morocco and vacationed there for a couple of weeks. I realized I was facing a great decision. I had proven to myself that
I had the makings of a top-flight driver, but to make that dream come true would require an ever-increasing commitment to the sport of racing. Driving would have to be the center of my life, and that was not the sort of life, I knew, that would interest a woman like Veronique. Could I give up all my racing dreams, the dreams of a lifetime, just as they were about to come true? I knew that if we settled down together, it would be in Uruguay. Did I have the strength to trade the glamorous life I was living for long days toiling at my father’s hardware stores, balancing books, filling orders, tracking shipments of nuts and bolts? In the end, there really was no question. The lessons I’d learned on the mountain prevented me from doing anything but choosing correctly; I would make a future with the woman I loved.
Miracle in the Andes Page 24
