Houdini
After four girls in a row, in the early 70’s my parents finally had a son, who immediately shook sense into them and put an end to their creation of offspring. This small, blonde, slightly pigeon-toed child gave wet kisses and had trouble saying his “L’s” so he could melt you in seconds with an “I wuv you.”
Despite being adorable, from the time he arrived on the scene, babied and held dear as the sole male child, he was bound and determined to escape and wander free. By the time he was two, he would wake silently in the early morning hours, hop the bars of his crib like a miniature parkour
Houdini in action. Note the padlocked gate: futile.
expert, and head out the front door. My mother’s Spidey Sense would eventually kick in and she’d sit up in alarm, bee-lining for the front yard. He was quick, this little weasel. In no time, he’d have yanked off his sleeper and diapers, leaving them as a trail of breadcrumbs for my poor mother to follow. Somehow, he’d make it across our suburban street into our neighbor’s house across the road. He’d climb onto their kitchen counter and help himself to a couple of cookies from their jar and toddle into their bedroom. Many mornings, they’d wake to the sight of my small brother sitting casually on the end of their bed, naked, his face smeared with chocolate chips. Social services would have had a field day with us.
His unflagging desire to be free–of crib, clothing, and boundaries–made him a walking nightmare for my parents in their house full of kids. We had a backyard pool. As a result, we were one of the first families to enlist Dr. Harvey Barnett, who has since popularized the Infant Swimming Resource (ISR) technique. Before he was walking well, you could throw my brother into the pool and he’d immediately right himself, hold his breath, and paddle to the side to get out. He swam like a fish. Water was apparently his natural and preferred environment. We worried he’d actually start to develop webbing between his toes.
No coincidence, then, that he melded instantly with my mother’s dad, who owned a charter deep sea fishing boat in Panama City. Boat! Water! Fish! Ocean!
At the PCB docks, fish bigger than himself.
My brother’s idea of heaven: sun on your face, wind in your hair, trolling on the open ocean with a fishing pole. While most kids watched Saturday morning cartoons, he preferred hours of National Geographic and Nature, soaking up information about anything marine-related. I could totally see him growing up to replace Aquaman from SuperFriends, riding the backs of dolphins and communicating telepathically with creatures from the deep.
By the time he was in grade school, he could out-fish many grown men. He’d disappear on weekends and head to the nearest canal, coming home at dark smeared with scales and slime, tanned and smiling. I never saw the appeal. I went out once with him and my father and caught a redfish, after I refused to bait the hook with anything that wriggled. He (him, not it) stayed alive in the brackish water in our cooler until we got home. Immediately, I transferred him to our laundry sink, where I monitored him all night for signs of life. The following morning I tearfully demanded my father return him to the river so he could once again be with his friends. I couldn’t bear the thought of a filet knife touching his shiny scales.
My mother tried to keep my brother in sight to corral his wandering. She’d sit him on the counter with her as she cooked
an opah, or moonfish, from Hawaii. It contains 3 different types of meat.
dinner, consulting her red-checked Betty Crocker cookbook. After she died, I’m not sure any of us were surprised when he became a chef, making his way through the industry on his own terms, without boundaries, skipping the expected college route and wrangling an apprenticeship in France. He specialized in seafood. He could spot the freshest specimens and knew which species were in and out of season. His seafood paella is like manna from heaven. As he got older, his skills expanded. He began spear fishing and free diving, holding his breath for over three minutes at depths of 50 feet or so as he scouted the sandy ocean floor for snapper. He got his captain’s license and piloted around the Bahamas, serving as a personal chef for the boat’s owner.
He worked as a chef in Alaska and Miami before his hands gave out from all the slicing and dicing. He’s still in the seafood business, now as a buyer and supplier. And he’s great to have at parties, capable of whipping up tasty morsels at a moment’s notice.
Every time I hear Lee Ann Womack’s song “I Hope You Dance,” I think of my little brother (who is truthfully no longer little and no joke to wrestle with). More than anyone else I know, and probably because he had to realize the “life is short” lesson fairly young in life, he’s done what he loves. And I love that about him. 
Career counselors tell people all the time to “do what you love, and the rest will follow.” I love that he’s kept his Houdini spirit intact, taken risks, followed his passions, and thumbed his nose at the expected and the “safe.” It’s made him such an interesting person and inevitably a happier one by using his gifts and talents to make his own path in a career that seems to fall into place tailor made just for him. Not many of us can say the same.
He’s got a birthday coming up this week. I hope he gets to spend some time out on the ocean in his kayak, doing what he loves best. Knowing him, that might be wrestling a shark or spearing eels or just paddling across the waves with the taste of salt on his lips. I wuv you, bro.