1974. I was ten years old.
My father and I were riding our bikes to baseball practice. At the bottom of the driveway, I turned right. My father turned left. I rode those streets every day. Right was the only direction that made sense.
“Dad, it's this way.”
“No. It's this way.”
So I followed him. What else do you do when you’re ten and he doesn’t listen? Block after block. Him ahead. Me behind. Tears building. Screaming inside my head: “You're wrong. I'm right. You'll see.”
We got to Muirhead. The diamond was deserted. I looked at my father. I didn’t say a word. I didn’t have to. I turned my bike around. Rode to Hobart. Where I was right. And late for practice.
Somewhere inside that ten-year-old boy a sentence formed:
“Nobody is ever going to tell me what to do.”
For years I forgot the moment.
I never forgot the rule.
2024. I was sixty years old.
My eldest son, Jonathan, had just started paragliding. For the past few weeks, I'd been driving his truck down after every jump. Standing there astonished, watching my son step into the sky and fly out over the lake.
This time I wanted to see him land. Before he even launched, I started running to the truck. Got in. Began driving. Couldn't see him in the sky. The view opened up. Still didn't see him. Only trees. Clouds.
Something's wrong.
Then I saw. His parachute. Twisted. Collapsing.
Jesus! He's gotta be 200 feet up!
I didn't see him land. Only the wreckage when I scrambled down the mountainside on foot. His back. Both legs. Crumpled like an accordion. He was conscious. Howling in agony.
“Why! Why! Why did I do it!”
Trying to console him, I said: “Don't beat yourself up.”
He screamed: “Don't tell me what to do!”
Fifty years. Three generations. Same sentence.
For decades, I had called that sentence independence. Autonomy. Strength. And a lot of the time, it served me. It helped me survive. Build. Lead. Win.
Seeing my son broken, raging, the story stopped working.
Jon is walking again. Back at work. Back in the air. That is what we do. We break. We rebuild. We get back up.
But the mountain only showed me where the problem was.
It didn't show me how to fix it.