A couple of weeks ago, our family ventured to Belmont Plaza Pool in Long Beach, CA for a swim meet. Certain parts were largely the same as at any meet. An announcer calling out heat numbers, the smell of chlorine in the air (which I love), plus wet towels and lycra clad kids everywhere. The meet was open to anyone, so long as they met minimum qualifying times. Anyone also happened to include several Olympians with a passport stamp from Beijing including Katie Hoff, Jason Lezak and some guy named Michael Phelps.
We generally have a rule with our daughters. No TV on a school night, which only gets broken for random select occasions including major national news events, ACC College Basketball and once every two years, the Olympics. For me, the timing of the Winter Olympics could not be more perfect. The volatile map of what these athletes have faced to become the worlds best is both staggering and inspiring. For nearly all of them, every waking and sleeping moment for the past several years has been dedicated by an opportunity of a few minutes. One by one, they each step forward and take their shot at destiny.
Back at Belmont, my oldest daughter is called out of the stands by her coach, who walks her to meet and spend a few moments with his friend, Jason Lezak: the Savior of the Men's Relay in Beijing. Two years ago, Jason's moment with destiny came and he nailed it. Behind by a body length, he chased down one of the top swimmers in the world to touch first. The swimming equivalent of lifting a car above his head. Magic of the 5 Rings. My daughter returns to us floating above the ground because she has met royalty. Then there's Michael, the most celebrated olympic athlete on the planet, standing 30 feet from us wet from warm up. No entourage, no logos. As he takes his place to start, what strikes me is all the corporate sponsorship and PR hype is vacant. He's just a guy with no place to hide, no lip-sync track or second take parachute and 7 others gunning for his place as the best. 16 lung burning laps later, he proves he is yet again.
That night my daughter writes on her bedroom wall "Push Hard to make JO's (junior olympics) and I just smile knowing it's the first of many notes to come.
Jason Lezak with my girls
Phelps after winning the 400 IM
Several weeks ago, my friend Mark quietly slipped away. His unlikely journey started before Christmas: a result of a motorcycle accident that injured his brain. He was 31. For 36 days, I was welcomed into his big, warm, faith based Clan of a family - to cry, to laugh, to talk, to Pray, to eat junk food... Walking through adversity naturally brings people together. Strange how life is deliciously alive while suffering heartache and loss. I have always loved the adage "it takes a village to raise a child" I can also attest to the comfort of a village during tragedy. I have to admit, I knew Mark in a very small slice of his life. We had backpacked together over the past couple of years. For a few hours a day, over several days and many miles of trail, we talked - especially this past year. Talked about marriage and how to work at it, raising kids, finding a path for life, for work, the struggles, frustrations and joys of it all. In between, he would fish... and this past summer, I photographed him doing so. Just two guys following what their heart's told them to do.
I woke this morning to the sound of steady rain. Living here in Southern California, it's a welcome feeling. My mind wandered to the nearby hillsides that recently burned and how quickly from the ash, life will start to grow. My next thought was the nearby Sierra high country that Mark loves so much. There in the alpine air, winter has clearly arrived. Rain here means snow there - deep and pure white. Bears fat with berries and trees drunk with sunshine are settling in as the Mountain nods to sleep. All will be quiet now. 
Some of my earliest memories as a child revolve around a firehouse. My father was a volunteer fireman in the Virginia town we lived in at the time. Now the memories are fragments - helping to wash the truck, hanging hoses, riding in the 4th of July parade, and the amazingly loud sirens. There was lots of laughter and joy associated with the work and my father seemed to love it - which meant that I loved it too. A lesson I hold close to this day. I also learned process. There was a rule - if they had a run while I was there, I was to stand in a certain spot of the house until the trucks were safely away. One time, being a veteran now of I guess 5-6 years of age, a call came and I stood where I knew I was safe - but it wasn't the spot. At the last second I hedged and ran to the spot, right in front of a truck about to pull out. I still remember that lecture when they returned. Couple of years later, we moved to California so my father could go to work in a family business. He still has his Helmet hanging on the wall of his office.
It's funny what triggers memories. Recently, Southern California had another round of fires in the open scrub lands surrounding paradise. This time, it was fairly close to us and took a number of homes with it. Just about everyone in our circle of friends knows someone who lost. My parents house was close and my Sister-in-Laws house was within a block. The immediacy and randomness of it all can only be considered after. Through a connection and a favor, I was able to get access to the burned area before people were allowed to return. I stood in what was the living room of a home. Although the house was missing, the front lawn was fine. Power poles were being replaced as the bases were gone - they were hanging from the wires at top. Walking in the hills felt like winter as the ash crunched under foot like 6 inches of snow. Snow on the moon.
