Baywatch star Michael Newman has tragically died at the age of 68.
Newman rose to fame in the ’90s after playing a lifeguard on the long-running series, starring alongside Pamela Anderson and Carmen Electra.
The heartbreaking news was confirmed by Newman’s close friend, Matt Felker, who revealed the late actor died “from heart complications” on Sunday, October 20, according to PEOPLE.
The 45-year-old, who directed the recent Hulu docuseries After Baywatch: Moment in the Sun, shared that Newman was “surrounded by his family and friends”.
“I got to see Mike the last time he was conscious and he looked [at] me and in typical Mike fashion said, ‘You’re just in time,'” Felker revealed to the outlet.
Newman endured an 18-year battle with Parkinson’s disease.
He was first diagnosed at the age of 50 in 2006 and devoted his later years to fundraising for the Michael J Fox Foundation.
In a heartfelt interview with PEOPLE this August, the late actor opened up about his desire to raise awareness about the condition through his own experiences.
“This terminal disease has allowed me a lot of thinking time, which I maybe didn’t want, but it’s brought me wisdom,” he said. “My body has changed so slowly that I hardly notice it, yet I am constantly reminded that Parkinson’s has now become the center of my life.”
Newman revealed he took 10 medications a day and would often wake up “jittery,” adding: “I am cherishing the days that I get to be on this earth with family and friends. I’m taking life seriously.”
He said that his life mantra is, “It’s not a run-through,” and concluded: “All those things that you thought you were going to do with your children and grandchildren, pictures we were going to take, all the plans I had… stopped.”
Newman was the only member of the Baywatch cast who was actually a lifeguard. He was also a firefighter who balanced his on-screen career with his full-time career.
Once the show concluded in 2001, he returned to firefighting before hanging up his helmet 25 years later.
The late star is survived by his wife of 36 years, Sarah, their children Chris and Emily, and their one-year-old granddaughter, Charlie.
Our thoughts are with Newman’s family and friends at this time.
She inquired, “What’s the price for the eggs?” The elderly seller responded, “0.25 cents per egg
The old egg seller, his eyes weary and hands trembIing, continued to sell his eggs at a loss. Each day, he watched the sun rise over the same cracked pavement, hoping for a miracle. But the world was indifferent. His small shop, once bustling with life, now echoed emptiness.
The townspeople hurried past him, their footsteps muffled by their own worries. They no longer stopped to chat or inquire about the weather. The old man’s heart sank as he counted the remaining eggs in his baskets. Six left. Just six. The same number that the woman had purchased weeks ago.
He remembered her vividly—the woman with the determined eyes and the crisp dollar bill. She had bargained with him, driving a hard bargain for those six eggs. “$1.25 or I will leave,” she had said, her voice firm. He had agreed, even though it was less than his asking price. Desperation had cIouded his judgment.
Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months. The old seller kept his promise, selling those six eggs for $1.25 each time. He watched the seasons change—the leaves turning from green to gold, then falling to the ground like forgotten dreams. His fingers traced the grooves on the wooden crate, worn smooth by years of use.
One bitter morning, he woke to find frost cIinging to the windowpane. The chill seeped through the cracks, settling in his bones. He brewed a weak cup of tea, the steam rising like memories. As he sat on the same wooden crate, he realized that he could no longer afford to keep his small shop open.
The townspeople had moved on, their lives intertwined with busier streets and brighter lights. The old man packed up his remaining eggs, their fragile shells cradled in his weathered hands. He whispered a silent farewell to the empty shop, its walls bearing witness to countless stories—the laughter of children, the haggling of customers, and the quiet moments when he had counted his blessings.
Outside, the world was gray—a canvas waiting for a final stroke. He walked the familiar path, the weight of those six eggs heavier than ever. The sun peeked through the clouds, casting long shadows on the pavement. He reached the edge of town, where the road met the horizon.
And there, under the vast expanse of sky, he made his decision. With tears in his eyes, he gently placed the eggs on the ground. One by one, he cracked them open, releasing their golden yoIks. The wind carried their essence away, a bittersweet offering to the universe.
The old egg seller stood there, his heart as fragile as the shells he had broken. He closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face. And in that quiet moment, he whispered a prayer—for the woman who had bargained with him, for the townspeople who had forgotten, and for himself.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, he turned away from the empty road. His footsteps faded, leaving behind a trail of memories. And somewhere, in the vastness of the universe, six golden yolks danced—a silent requiem for a forgotten dream.
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