Читать книгу Renegade at Heart - Lorenzo Lamas - Страница 6

AS WHITE-CRESTED WAVES crash on the shore with a loud thundering roar, I feel his presence stronger than ever, standing at our favorite spot on Will Rogers Beach in beautiful Malibu. This powerful, graceful, confident, conspicuous but refined man swimming like the champion he was. Laughing and breaking into that wide, infectious grin as he playfully lifts me up on his broad shoulders to surf ashore as crashing waves lather us in white foam. The same man I admired so much, the man who built his career through blood, sweat, and tears and fought hard every step of the way to become accepted, respected, and successful. My hero, my confidant . . . my father, Fernando Lamas.

As I gaze out at the blue Pacific sparkling like diamonds as the layers of dense fog give way to brilliant rays of sunshine, I truly miss him. That rich baritone and overdramatic lilt in his voice—surprisingly sounding more like Count Dracula than the native Argentinean he was—as he would offer his wise counsel and timely words of encouragement. Every time I come here it is only natural I think of Dad. This beach was our place. It is here we spent so many times together. Although the quantity was not there, what we had, as he used to say, was “quality.” Something I would never trade for anything.

One of my father’s favorite things was cruising up Pacific Coast Highway in his luxurious, shiny, tan-and-gold Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow so we could spend the day together on the beaches of Malibu. My father loved that car. It was a hard-won prize, representing years of toiling and paying his dues to make something of himself as a foreigner with a foreign name in an alien land. I can still hear him saying as if he were performing onstage, “In a Rolls, Lorenzo, you’ve arrrrrrr-ived!”

Dad left a major imprint on my life with his many life lessons and his penetrating words, none of which have lost their significance for me. If anything, unlike small grains of sand swept away by receding waves into the abyss, they have taken on greater importance with age. He was always sharing, always instilling, always preparing, always planting seeds. His eyes were on the future—my future, my life—and what he thought was best for me.

As the majestic waves crest out in the distance, I remember one such example clearly, like yesterday. Dad picks me up from school. I run out to the parking lot to find him in his usual parking spot, doing his usual thing—reading the newspaper. Looking up, he smiles when he sees me and excitedly honks the car’s distinctive horn. I climb inside his sparkling Rolls to the usual looks of envy from other kids waiting for their parents. Then we speed off.

The glow of pride on my father’s face instantly fades. He sees I have been crying. He knows why: Other boys have been teasing me about my name. There are no Lorenzos or Fernandos in the neighborhood where I live or in the school I attend. Dad never says a word to me about it. Instead, he heads down Sunset Boulevard toward the Pacific Ocean. He is on a mission. He has a point he wants to make.

“Aren’t we going to Bel Air?” I ask. It is where he and my stepmom, movie star Esther Williams, have lived since he and Mom divorced.

“No, amigo, not yet,” he says. He reaches over and gives me a reassuring pat on the leg. “I want to show you something.”

We drive for what seems like thirty or forty minutes. Finally, Dad comes to a stop at a quiet intersection on a hillside high above the blue Pacific as the sun’s golden light cascades over eucalyptus trees lining both sides of the street.

“Come over here,” Dad says, as he gets out of the car and walks across the street. “I’ve brought you here to show you something, something I never want you to forget. Look up there and tell me what you see.”

I stare somewhat blankly. “A street sign?” I ask.

“Exactly!” Dad points to the sign above the lamppost. “What does the sign say?”

“It says Lorenzo Place.”

“That’s right, Lo-ren-zo Place,” he says, pronouncing the name in syllables. “You, mi hijo”—meaning “my son” in Spanish—“have a very important name!”

Father gestures with both hands toward the houses below and the ocean in the distance as if he were encompassing all of California, a reverse conquistador who has found the Promised Land. He calls out to the residents as if they are an audience waiting to acknowledge and applaud the names of the streets on which they live: “Santa Monica, San Vicente, La Cienega, La Jolla.”

Father lets the moment sink in before concluding. “Remember, amigo, that before there was a Harry and a Chuck, there was a Pedro and a Lorenzo. Wonderful names with a history! A courageous band of settlers who built missions up and down the Pacific coast hundreds of years ago—El Camino Real!”

My beacon of light, Father always knew what to say and when to say it. Even at times when I did not agree with him and wish I had.

Lesson over, we walk back down to the car. Smiling, Father gently wraps his arm around my shoulder. Then, as only he could, he puts it all in perspective for me: “People may forget what you say or do, but never forget your history.”

Father’s wise words wash over me as we surge down the Pacific Coast Highway in his fancy chariot. They echo in my mind as the road gives way to the spectacular, unobstructed view of gigantic waves cresting and crashing on the brown sandy coastline below . . . and now again years later as I stand here on the beach thinking of him. I understand better now what he was trying to tell me: Be proud of who you are. Never have an ounce of “quit” in you. Always do your best. Let the chips fall where they may. And . . .

“Mi hijo, as important as the rest, live and love, make wise choices where your heart is concerned,” Father says, even as he swerves to avoid a deep crevice in the road, “and remember, the true measure of a man is how he handles the curves in his life.”

It has taken half of my life—four divorces, two broken engagements, more busted romances than I remember, millions lost, and many therapy sessions—not to mention years of guilt and heartbreak—to understand how right my father was. Why did nothing satisfy me, even after enjoying tremendous fame and fortune, owning spectacular mansions, airplanes, boats, and racing cars? Why did nothing fulfill me? Why did nothing complete me? Then it became clear to me: because I am a renegade at heart.

Renegades never settle. They are never satisfied. They keep exploring, keep discovering, keep trying until they get things right. They live every day more anxious about what lies around the bend than about living in the moment. They enjoy the thrill of the ride for however long, no matter where it takes them, regardless of the consequences, regardless of the outcome. It is all part of the journey . . . my journey (and I have the scars to prove it). It is exactly how my father would see things if he were here today, on this sandy coastline, reliving cherished memories with me.

“They . . . the choices, mi hijo,” he pauses. “They define who you are as a person and a man.”

I have lived those words as best I can. Not a day goes by that I do not miss my father. His spirit, his grandeur, his unsettling smile, his wisdom, and, yes, even his favorite pungent cologne, they are with me always, every second of every day. I am sure he would have wished he had attained the success I ended up having. He did not live to see it, but he wanted me to embrace his advice and go beyond anything he imagined for himself. I thank him for that.

The other great measure of a man, my father would say, is to “learn from your mistakes.” I am here to tell you: I have. For the first time, I am at peace in my life. I am now a clear-minded father of six, with a woman I am with for all the right reasons, more satisfied and healthier than I have ever been, thanks to diet and exercise, and—most important—having so much to live for.

Father always encouraged me to remember my history. I do. All of it vividly, as if it happened yesterday. Every detail, every key moment, every turning point. And all the baggage that goes with them. It may not be exactly the life my father imagined for me after first laying eyes on me the day I was born. It is, however, my life, my career, my marriages, my romances, even my foolish mistakes. And nobody else’s. Lived as only I know how . . . a true renegade.