The Great Escape

For my dad’s sixtieth birthday, he flew about 8,600 miles away from home. No party, no family, no friends. He took three weeks off from work—the most vacation time he’s ever requested from a high-pressure job that has him literally dreaming about conference calls at night—and took his girlfriend, surfboards, and a few pairs of swim trunks with him for his grand escape to Indonesia.

When he first told my sister and me about his plan, I was a bit hurt. Why wouldn’t he want to celebrate such a significant moment in his life with us? I knew he wanted to travel for his birthday, but suddenly he was going to Indonesia a good two weeks before the date, a Houdini act to avoid the inevitable fanfare. 

“I don’t want to do anything but surf,” he said.

Was my dad scared of turning sixty-years-old? He certainly has a good hold on youth, so maybe the number sixty was too heavy, too refined, too old. He prides himself on his physical agility—as he should. Every morning before work, he jumps in his VW surf van and heads to the beach for a run and to catch some waves. He lives for the rush of adrenaline that he gets from pushing his body and playing with his muscles’ capacity for strength and flexibility. I think he especially enjoys when he is in better shape than the twenty-five-year-old surfing next to him in the water—which is often the case.

Most of the truly special memories I have with my dad involve our shared love of physical activity, a lively enthusiasm that I inherited from him. He pushes me just like he pushes himself, challenging me with a competitiveness that infuriated me when I was younger but I understand now as the fuel that keeps him so shockingly spry.

When I was four-years-old, he surfed waves with me on his back. I gripped the surfboard with my tiny, pudgy toes and wrapped my arms around his neck while he rode on his knees. When I was still a pole-less ski bunny, he took me on the highest chair lifts on ski trips—upon my stubborn insistence—and then when I balked at my boldness and tried to sidestep my way down the icy face, he ordered me to make well-formed turns because that was the only way I would learn. As I got much older and I needed his serious council, we took our conversations to the beach where we ran down the cusp, side-by-side. That is still my favorite form of discussion with him.

With the way my dad races down mountains of fresh powder, I wouldn’t hesitate to call him the oldest kid I know. But his playfulness, his ability to accept any physical challenge like it’s a game that he knows he can win—that goes beyond the foolishness of youth and steps into a whole new territory of play that transcends age restrictions.

My dad is a laughing Buddha. His dimples betray him when he’s attempting a straight face and he can turn any moment of tension into a joke. As much as he has dedicated his life to working hard, he has dedicated an equal amount of energy to appreciating life for its silliness, brevity, and joy. He seems to live the Madhyama Pratipad, Middle Path, albeit to an extreme.

Although, in retrospect, maybe the scales were out of balance as he approached his sixtieth. In fact, they were probably out of balance for a while. Like I said, he dreams about conference calls. My dad is not one to say, “I need a break,” but he is a man who will seize an opportunity for adventure. I have a feeling his three-week-escape was the perfect combination of excitement and peace, an act that needed no explanation, since he clearly needed to free himself from attachment: work, definitely; home, certainly; and family and friends, yes, those too. He only needed his partner and a beautiful place to surf.

I don’t believe my dad was afraid of sixty—or growing old—when he decided to fly the coop. I think he was finding his way back to the Middle Path. For someone who works as feverishly as he does, it was a beautiful move for him to cool off so completely, immersed in a vacation dedicated to peaceful living.

Indonesia was a gift that my dad gave to himself, but from that gift, he also imparted a gift to me: From his example, I deepened my understanding of non-attachment. I didn’t even know what I was witnessing at first, because my initial reaction was to feel personally affected by my dad’s decision to travel across the world for his birthday. But what he did had nothing to do with me or anyone else—it had everything to do with following his own path regardless of others’ expectations. He honored his birthday—a moment commemorating his life—by stripping life down to the barest essentials of what he needed: he had love and relaxation, a new space for exploration, and plenty of surf to play in.

July 27, 2012

After days of feasting, fast.

After days of sleeping, stay awake

one night. After these times of bitter
storytelling, joking, and serious
considerations, we should give ourselves
two days between layers of baklava
in the quiet seclusion where soul sweetens
and thrives more than with language.

-Rumi