A Flautist, a Civil Engineer, and Sugarloaf: Thriving Seniors

Some people don’t seem to work very hard at health, yet somehow live deeply regulated, connected lives.This is a story about noticing that kind of alignment up close.

Derek and Lisa Brunsley are unconventional in the best ways.

In their 80s, they seem to suck the marrow out of life in ways many of my contemporaries could not fathom. Not through optimization or discipline theater, but through something quieter and far more durable: temperament, connection, and play.

Derek, a retired civil engineer, gardens, fishes, reads, and moves through the world with a steady sense of peace. Conversations with Derek don’t rush forward. They settle. He speaks thoughtfully about his work, his belief in more collaborative forms of government, and the importance of cultural understanding. Time with him feels grounded, regulated, and spacious.

Lisa, a gifted flautist, is something else entirely.

She is vibrant, kinetic, and wildly alive. She laughs with the intensity of thunder, but far less predictable. Her energy crackles. You cannot help but smile when she is near. Lisa moves through the world with an unabashed sense of self, her presence echoing like a pulsed Fourth of July fireworks release, sudden, joyful, and impossible to ignore.

This unconventional duo welcomed me into their home on the coast of Maine while I was taking classes nearby. Their house felt less like a residence and more like a refuge. Mornings became ritual. Derek and I would share breakfast as he told stories of his career, of proposing to Lisa, of the family they raised together. Nothing performative. Just a life, well lived, spoken plainly.

Then there’s the annual lobster bake.

Calling it a “family gathering” hardly captures it. It feels closer to a Woodstock variant. Bonfires, music, food, laughter spilling late into the night. Loud, inviting, connective. Almost tribal. You don’t attend it so much as you’re absorbed into it.

When I sit with Derek and Lisa, I don’t see a couple trying to optimize longevity with hacks, metrics, or lab panels. I see two people living, thriving, loving, exploring, and then crashing every night like toddlers after a long day of play and a full belly. There is no judgment in their presence. They are open to influence. They share what they’ve learned freely, without agenda or any need to change others.

Derek steadies the room.
Lisa electrifies it.
Together, they make it livable.

One afternoon, Derek dared me to plunge into the cold waters of midcoast Maine in September. With near reckless abandon, I accepted. The water was stifling. Shockingly cold for me. Derek barely flinched. There’s a temperament there. A resilience. An ease with discomfort that doesn’t posture or announce itself. It just is.

And then there’s Mount Sugarloaf.

Sugarloaf isn’t just a mountain they ski. It’s symbolic terrain. Proof that play doesn’t expire. That challenge can remain an invitation, not a warning sign. It represents the slope they still choose to engage with, year after year. Not to conquer it, but to move with it. To remain in conversation with the world rather than retreat from it.

Derek and Lisa don’t preach. They don’t prescribe. They simply live.

Who knows how long they will thrive. Who knows what the future holds.

All I know is this: if I make it into my 80s skiing black diamonds, plunging into cold water without hesitation, laughing freely, welcoming others into my orbit, and falling asleep each night exhausted from a life fully lived, I will consider that an enormous win.

And that stays with you long after you leave their table.

Ryan Travis Woods