by Nik Wallenda
One Night Only—Garth Brooks!
It’s 8:00 a.m. and the union man has had his breakfast and is on his way to work. The Ford pickup is gassed up and ready to roll. It’s an hour drive from Sarasota to Tampa. The Florida winter morning is clear and mild.
On I-275, he cranks up Creed’s “With Arms Wide Open,” one of his favorite rock anthems. The music energizes him and reaffirms his faith in a God that is good all the time. As he approaches the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, he marvels at the magnificent construction. His heart is singing.
In front of the big Tampa arena he looks at the neon sign that screams, “One Night Only—Garth Brooks!” He pulls into the employee parking lot, grabs his lunch box, and makes his way inside.
He punches the time clock and for the next six hours he, along with his fellow workers, does the manual labor of rigging the show. He hangs the chain motors. He works the fly rails that control the curtains. He does whatever’s necessary to make sure the mechanical side of the show goes on without a hitch.
When the work is over, he doesn’t stay for the show. Nothing against Garth Brooks—the man’s a fine country singer—but it’s time to be with the family. He punches out and heads home. He’ll be back in a few days to help rig the show for David Copperfield. After that, it’s Barry Manilow, Led Zeppelin, and Dolly Parton.
As a dues-paying member of the International Alliance of Theatrical Stage Employees, the man believes in honest labor. The man also makes no bones about the fact that he needs the money.
The man is me.
My father, already in the union, is the one who has facilitated my membership.
There’s conflict between me and Dad. I see the glass half full and he sees it half empty. To my way of thinking he can be hardheaded and controlling. Yet his skills as a master carpenter and rigger have an enormous influence on me. I may not rise to his level in those areas, but I realize he still has much to teach me. Plus, his practicality keeps me on track when it comes to money.
I’ve seen that the road to financial freedom has lots of potholes. I was dead wrong that the Guinness record–setting eight-person pyramid would have the world clamoring for my next feat. For all the attention I got for that stunt, the world was strangely quiet in its aftermath. I’m reminded that the cold-blooded media have a frighteningly short attention span. What’s hot news today is ancient history tomorrow. If a brand is to live, it must undergo continual reinvention. My world record is notable and gratifying, but, without improving upon it, it’s getting me nowhere.
If the union isn’t calling me, I’m calling John Carson at First Watch.
“I could use some work,” I tell John.
“Well, Nik, I’d turn the job of general manager back over to you but I have a man in place.”
“Who’s doing the cooking?”
“We’ve got Mario and Ted in the mornings but Ted just quit. You interested in scrambling eggs?”
“No one’s better at it than me.”
“Tomorrow morning? Seven a.m.?”
“Look for me at six-thirty.”
I scramble eggs, fry bacon, and chop up hash browns for the next few weeks. None of that stops me, though, from developing my sales approach as a performer. That means setting up a booth at the big convention of the International Association of Amusement Parks and Attractions that’s attended by some forty thousand people.
To do the booth right—to advertise the feats of my Wallenda troupe—is a major investment. There are hundreds of other booths vying for attention: companies that construct rollercoasters, manufacturers of miniature golf courses and waterslides. Among seven miles of exhibits, my challenge is to make a splash in a ten-by-ten booth. I have the materials but lack the funds to pay for the space.
“How much do you need?” asks Joseph Mascitto, my closest friend in all the world.
I’ve known Joseph since we were kids together. He’s a brilliant guy—an engineer—and the one person I can talk to about anything.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I’ll get the money.”
“No you won’t, Nik. You’re all tapped out. You spent all your money on promotional materials. These booths aren’t free. What are we talking about here?”
“Thousands.”
“How many thousands?”
“Four.”
“Fine. I’ve got your back.”
“I don’t want you to…”
“I know what you want, Nik. But more important, I know what you need. You need exposure. You need to make sure you have a presence at this convention. You need this booth.”
Everyone needs a friend like Joseph. Over and again, he loans me money to keep me going—and then doesn’t even care about being repaid. I’m careful to pay him back every dime, not because he’d ever ask for the money, but because my own sense of integrity is on the line.
On a spiritual level, Joseph is also a great confidant. There’s no one I trust more to give me the deepest and wisest advice. In years to come he will help me see things to which I’m blinded.
What I can see, though, is that I have to work this massive convention and hustle up whatever engagements I can.
By 2002, we are a family of four—Erendira has given birth to our wonderful second son, Amadaos—and I’m overjoyed. I also feel overwhelmed by a need to get back out there and put on a show. Erendira is just as eager to perform as I am. Meanwhile, the booth has paid off. I’ve booked an engagement at Coney Island in Cincinnati and for a three-month summer engagement. We’re set to do sway poles and, the highlight of the act, a stunt that has me driving a motorcycle up an inclined cable.
The motorcycle breaks down.
It’s a hand-me-down from Mom and Dad and beyond repair. This happens our first week in Ohio. No money to replace it—but no problem. Instead of riding the bike up the wire, I walk the three-hundred-foot cable. I’m also walking on air when I learn that Erendira is pregnant with our third child.
In 2003, the beautiful Evita enters the world and our family is complete.
My heart is filled with gratitude. I have the family of my dreams. My wife, two sons, and daughter are—and will always be—my heart.
The human heart, a magnificent creation of God, is a highly complex machine. It pumps blood and sustains life. But it also contains feelings of warmth and love, loyalty and trust.
I can feel that my heart is also connected to my drive. The thought of making my mark—in new and dramatic ways—continues to haunt me night and day.
“Sometimes,” says my father, “a man can be too driven.”
As a man in my young twenties, I don’t like hearing that. I take his statement as a challenge.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“You can’t control everything and everyone around you.”
“Is that what you think I’m doing?”
“I think that’s what you’re trying to do.”
“Isn’t that just called hard work?” I ask.
I’m not sure what my father is getting at. I’m just trying to nail down more high-visibility bookings. In doing so, if I’m relentless and run the risk of becoming a detail-obsessed control freak, I don’t want to hear about it.
I want to hear that our engagement at the Wet ’n’ Wild Emerald Pointed Water Park in North Carolina has come through. And it has!
“Can you handle it?” I ask Erendira, now a mother of three.
“Sure,” she says without missing a beat.
“You ready to perform?”
“You don’t have to ask me that, Nikolas. You know I am.”
Erendira has been performing with her sisters and parents since she was a child. She and I were born into the world of pack-up-the-kids, hit the road, and entertain the people. Now we’re packing up our kids and following the same road we’ve been following forever.
Or is it the same?
Yes and no.
Yes, Erendira and I are able to perform as a duo on the sway poles and revolving perch. Yes, during other engage
ments we join up with my parents and recruit others to execute a seven-person pyramid.
But no, I’m not happy doing the same-old same-old. I’m looking for the Next Big Thing. But until that happens, until I come up with a plan, we simply keep on keeping on.
In 2005, Erendira and I take our act to Raging Waters in San Dimas, California, while my parents and sister take over our spot at Wet ’n’ Wild. The pattern of mixing and matching engagements and switching up family members is part of our collective strategy for survival.
When I’m back in Sarasota, I’m back on the call list of union men ready to rig the big shows at Van Wezel Performing Arts Hall. I continue to dream up schemes and stunts to bring us to the next level, but the dreams and schemes continue to elude me.
Then a break: McDonald’s has a new premium roast coffee that they want to introduce through a high-wire act. They’re willing to sponsor an entire show around a stunt. This comes at a moment when Erendira is superinvolved with the kids, so I turn to my sister, Lijana.
The McDonald’s executive in charge wants to attract as much media as possible. He’s come to the right guy. Do I have any ideas?
I do. “Imagine this,” I say. “A wire is stretched between two cranes. My sister and I ride up on a hook attached to a rope. Now she’s on top of her crane and I’m on top of mine. We walk out on the wire and meet in the middle.”
“That doesn’t sound all that exciting,” says the exec.
“It will be,” I say, “when we sit down in the middle of the cable and enjoy a cup of the new McDonald’s coffee.”
“You can do that?”
“I don’t see why not. What do you say?”
“Go.”
Just like that, I’ve planned my first skywalk—that is, a wire-crossing done outside an entertainment venue that is far higher and longer than your typical walk. This will be set up in downtown Detroit, where a street will shut down. The stunt will happen high above the Hard Rock Café.
At home in Sarasota, Lijana and I practice for a couple of weeks. My sister’s the consummate professional but doesn’t like the idea of sitting on the wire. She’s more comfortable doing a split—her specialty—but after a series of rehearsals she’s able to perfect the sitting move.
McDonald’s does a great job with promotion. The film crews are out in force. Media are everywhere.
Lijana rides a rope hook up the crane to the wire—eighty feet high. On the other side I do the same. The wire is 125 feet long. We’re each handed a cup of McDonald’s coffee. In precise syncopation, we walk out on the wire and proceed until we meet in the middle. So far so good. When it’s time to sit, though, I see that Lijana is nervous. So she does her split instead. Fine.
“Just stay calm,” I tell her. “Gently move from your split to a sitting position.”
She’s muttering something under her breath—she doesn’t like this stunt—but, following my lead, she’s able to sit.
We raise our cups in the air in a salute to the hundreds of spectators below us, and then take a few sips. Having enjoyed the taste of a good java, I stand up, step over Lijana, and make my way to the top of her crane as she makes her way to mine.
I ride the rope down to street level. Lijana is set to do the same.
When I arrive at the bottom I look up to see that Lijana is still up there. Her crane has malfunctioned, creating a panic. The rope that will bring her down is not moving. It’s stuck.
There’s no way to get her down.
I look over at the men operating her crane and see fear in their eyes. They don’t know what’s wrong.
Don’t ask me how, but I do. I have this strange instinct, this intuitive knowledge that feels like a gift from God. I realize that the boom is overloaded.
I signal to Lijana not to worry, but she is freaking out. She is convinced that she’ll never get down safely. Her lips are saying, “I’m afraid, please help me, please do something now!”
“I have it all under control!” I shout. Of course I’m frightened inside but need to maintain outside composure. “Stay calm, Lijana! I’m coming to get you! It’s all gonna be all right!”
Keeping my cool, I show the operator how to let off on the winch a little bit at a time. I tell the men operating the ropes to do the same. Then I jump on the rope and ride up on a hook. Lijana is still freaking out and I’m still urging her to stay calm. Finally I grab hold of her and lead her to the rope. She rides down and I follow.
We embrace, praising and thanking God for keeping our family safe. Our brother-sister bond is stronger than ever.
The press is all over the story—brother saves sister. The headline reads, “Hero of the High Wire.” No one minds being called a hero, but I give credit to my dad. I’m the lucky inheritor of his great technical gift for mechanics. When it comes to the nuts and bolts of the business, I’ve been watching him since childhood. He’s given me the knowledge that makes me feel that, no matter how complicated the stunt and the rigging that supports it, it’s possible to be in control.
That’s a great feeling, but also a dangerous one. If you feel like you can control something as precise as rigging, it’s easy to fool yourself into believing that you control absolutely everything.
Control is a tricky commodity. Seems like the more I have, the more I want. I don’t see that as a bad thing. I want to be in control of my craft. I want to be in control of my career.
But what about my wife?
How is she feeling about my controlling nature?
11
The Joy of Dancing
You’re my husband, not my father.”
“Isn’t that kind of obvious?”
“If it’s so obvious, why are you acting like my father?”
“I’m not. I just get worried when you and the kids don’t get back from the mall when you said you would.”
“The shopping took a little bit longer.”
“You should have called.”
“You should have relaxed.”
“I was afraid something had happened.”
“What could have happened?”
“A car wreck.”
“You’re always imagining disasters, Nik.”
“That only happens when I don’t know where you are.”
“That’s not my problem,” says Erendira.
“You could be a little more understanding,” I say.
“You could be a little less commanding,” she says.
“I believe that the man is the head of the household.”
“I thought God was supposed to be the head of the household. Aren’t you confusing yourself with God?”
When God is introduced into our argument, I pause. After our marriage, Erendira deepened her relationship with God. She became an impassioned follower of Jesus. In becoming a mother, she has deepened her capacity for love. She lavishes a sweet tenderness on our children that never fails to move me.
I also love them with all my heart. I like to think that I’m a strong emotional provider for my kids, but, given my extreme commitment to work, that role is primarily filled by Erendira. Her maternal care is a beautiful thing.
My own mother, also a devoted Christian, is a woman who, unlike Erendira, does not challenge her man. She accepts him as our family leader. In our home, Dad’s word is law. That’s the only kind of husband/wife relationship I’ve seen. Even though my mother earned her own reputation as a gifted performer, she has always acquiesced to Dad’s plans. He was the director and we were his subordinates—that is, until I had my own family and became a director myself.
Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to work?
Not if you’re married to a woman as fiery as Erendira.
Growing up, she witnessed her father’s disloyalty to her mother. That did not help her develop trust in men. Unlike my mother and father, her parents were not disciplinarians. Erendira and her sisters were largely left to their own devices. So when she and I began a family on our own, I naturally stepped into the role of enforcer.<
br />
I believe this is a vital role. It comes naturally to me. Who can deny the fact that the psychological health of a family depends on firm guidelines and clear boundaries?
“Who can deny the fact that you treat me like a child?” says Erendira.
The accusation puzzles me. I love Erendira. I don’t see her as child. I see her as a gorgeous woman, incredible artist, and loving mother.
“What are you talking about?” I hear myself asking her. “I treat you as my wife, not a child.”
“You treat me like someone who needs close supervision. You treat me like someone who must fall into line.”
“You make me sound like an army sergeant.”
“Well…”
“You’re exaggerating.”
“You don’t see yourself, Nik. You don’t hear yourself.”
Anything I say will sound defensive, so I leave the argument alone.
We return to our routine. I’m out there working union jobs at the arena, I’m setting up booths at the big amusement conventions, I’m doing all I can to keep the family business afloat.
Erendira is behind my effort to build the brand. When it comes to business, she’s with me a hundred percent. She wants to perform as much as I do. Unlike my dad, who can’t help but express some skepticism at my latest schemes, Erendira is always encouraging. She believes in me and I believe in her. But that doesn’t stop the growing tension between us.
It’s Wednesday night. I’m just back from Tampa where I’ve done the rigging for Toby Keith.
“Mind taking care of the kids tonight?” asks Erendira.
I love spending time with my kids. “Not at all,” I say, “but where are you going?”
“Dancing.”
“Alone?”
“Of course not alone. I’m going out dancing with the girls.”
Erendira loves dancing. She and her sisters have danced ever since they were little girls. Her family life was filled with music. Everyone played an instrument. I understand that dancing gives her joy. But…
“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” I say.
“I think it’s a great idea.”
