(Not a) Macho Man
I’m no “Walker, Texas Ranger”
One of my former co-workers always jokingly called me “Walker, Texas Ranger.” He knew I was born in the Lone Star State, so he thought it fitting. I still laugh about it, mainly because I know I am nothing like Chuck Norris. I don’t seek out trouble; I’m not intimidating. I don’t have bulging biceps; I haven’t been in a fist fight since fourth grade.
Maybe that’s why I didn’t do well at the father-son retreat twenty years ago when my boys were in middle school. The theme of the weekend was “Be Strong, Be Courageous, Be a Man.”
There was nothing wrong with that theme, except, as I came to learn, the emphasis was heavy on physical challenges, with only a passing reference to leadership and spiritual strength.
I had taken my boys to several father-son weekends before. We rode horses, played softball, performed skits and ate s’mores around the campfire. The only danger we faced at those early retreats was forgetting to reapply sunscreen. In contrast, the camp where we found ourselves this time was labeled “high adventure,” featuring obstacle courses and high wires requiring tethers and harnesses and absolutely no fear of heights. The hikes and other activities seemed less about having fun and more about testing the limits of physical strength and endurance.
As I discovered, I was destined to fail the test.
I started the weekend with a major deficit already, having worked the overnight shift all week and suffering from five days’ worth of accumulated sleep deprivation. By the time we arrived late Friday afternoon, I had clocked only four hours of sack time out of the previous 24. My hopes of catching a few winks before dinner were dashed when I found out there were no cabins and bunks, only a rickety structure open on three sides with a splintered wooden floor on which to lay our sleeping bags. As the evening’s activities lasted late into the night, my need for sleep grew, and my patience shrunk.
When we finally turned in, I immediately drifted into dreamland, but only for a few minutes.
I was awakened by a loud thumping noise above me. I opened my eyes and realized that raindrops were hitting the sheet-metal roof of our sleeping pavilion. As the storm picked up, the sound of rain transitioned from annoying smacks to machine gun fire. Even so, I managed to drift off again as rumbles of thunder sounded in the distance and something inside my twilight brain whispered, “That can’t be good.”
Suddenly a lightning bolt hit with a simultaneous and deafening crack of thunder. My eyes flew open, I bolted upright, and said to my sons, “Guys, we’re going to the car. Right now!”
My oldest boy refused. “The whole idea of this camp is high adventure,” he said. “I’m not scared.”
“Well a little healthy fear is a good thing,” I retorted, explaining to him that we had no protection from the lightning. As we continued to argue, I pulled out my flip phone to look at the rudimentary weather radar on it. Cell service was spotty in this remote area, and the signal wasn’t strong enough to access the information. I listened to the thunder, counted seconds to calculate how far away it was, and after a couple of minutes realized that this was not a single storm that would quickly pass, but a series of storms, one right after the other.
During a brief lull in the lightning I coaxed my younger son out of the near-open-air canopy and into our minivan. Trying to calm myself from the anxiety generated by leaving my strong-willed son in the sleep shed, I tried to doze. It was pointless; every few minutes lightning and thunder jolted me awake. The storm went on for hours.
When daylight finally came, the sunrise blazed through our windshield, signaling the storm had passed. I jumped out of the car, and navigating around massive deep puddles to where I had left my stubborn son, was relieved to find his peaceful form zipped up to the neck in his sleeping bag.
It was now 37 hours since I had enjoyed any meaningful sleep, and I was a dead man walking. We gathered for our outdoor breakfast in the crisp morning air, as the well-rested camp counselors emerged from their four-walled cabins and their double-mattress beds. After the morning session on “Real Manhood” led by a gruff-voiced hulk of a man 20 years my junior, we were instructed where to meet for the day’s physical challenges. Minutes later we found ourselves standing next to what, on most days, would have been little more than a babbling brook, but after last night’s deluge, was now a raging torrent.
Gathering the campers together, Mr. Gruff-Voiced Hulk instructed that, at sound of his whistle, we were to plunge into the river, wade across it, and then emerge on the other side before jumping in again for the return crossing.
I looked at him, horrified. For years I had warned my weather viewers of the power of water after a storm, and had seen countless videos of people who underestimated the danger and depth of a swollen river, and as a result were carried away by the strong current. After telling TV audiences innumerable times NOT to do what we were now being told was necessary, I made a firm decision; there was no way my sons and I were getting into that water.
My two young teens looked up at me with disappointment. “What are we supposed to do?” they pleaded.
“Wait until the other guys come back across,” I said, knowing full well that in my effort to save their lives I was completely spoiling their fun. My boys watched the other fathers and sons struggle across the river, stumbling against the rapid current, but managing to cross and re-cross the surge of floodwaters. My sons hung their heads with ignominy at not having joined in, and as their resentment toward me grew, so did mine toward the camp’s leaders, my emotional fuse shortened by the previous night’s lack of protection from the lightning, and by my desperate need for sleep.
I stormed over to the man in charge of the perilous exploit and opened up in rage. “You’ve asked us to do something dangerous,” I roared, “and now I’m the bad guy and the ‘fraidy cat’ in my boys’ eyes. You have disgraced them and me, and have undermined my efforts to be a good example!”
Mr. Hulk eyed me with a mixture of pity and scorn, instantly pegging me an alarmist and a coward. “We’re all about taking chances here,” he lectured. “It’s healthy. It builds character. That’s what you should be teaching your sons.”
“What does blindly taking stupid chances have to do with building character?” I bellowed uncontrollably.
The Hulk looked at me. “You really need to calm down,” he said. “You’re embarrassing your boys.”
What I really need to do is sleep, I thought. But he was right; my sons were rattled, and completely ashamed of their dad.
The rest of the obstacle course was on dry ground, and my boys and I finished it as best we could. But the damage was done. Though the skies were now cobalt blue, a dark cloud hung over our father-son relationship for the rest of the day.
When dinnertime came, I apologized to Mr. Hulk for my outburst. I explained what I did for a living and the safety messages I espoused and how they framed my outlook. He said he understood, and then hurriedly dismissed me, obviously uncomfortable with the idea of a grown man stooping to ask forgiveness. I had the same conversation with my boys, and their forgiveness seemed more genuine, but I was drained, emotionally as well as physically.
Twenty years later, as I relived the memory of my tantrum, it still made me cringe with regret. I decided I had to know what my sons, now adults in their thirties, could recall about that day. Dreading what they might tell me, I emailed them, and their prompt responses left me dumbfounded.
“I remember this vividly,” my oldest son wrote. “But in hindsight you 100% made the right call. As a father [with three kids] I have a lot of opinions about true manhood and what leadership as a father looks like. And Dad, I’m telling you, you crushed it at that camp.”
Really? I thought. Then I read the reply from my other boy.
“Dad, what you may not know is that the camp director (not the hulky guy) approached the two of us later; you weren’t present. He wanted to console us, to help us understand why you wouldn't let us cross the river. At some point in the conversation he told us, ‘Your father loves you.’ That’s when I burst out in tears, I guess because I suddenly remembered that you were for us and not against us. At the time I didn't completely understand why I was crying, but I know now it was because we had actually experienced the love and protection of a good father. And frankly, we might have been the only ones who did that weekend.”
Reading those replies brought on some tears of my own. (Not very macho, I’ll admit.)
Moral of the story: When it comes to protecting your kids, go with your gut, not with the crowd. And talk to them, not just when they’re young, but after they’ve grown up too. They have important things to say, and those things can make a world of difference in your perspective. You might even heal a little too.
And one more thing: even macho men need sleep.
© Nick Walker 2021
