A Large Leap of Faith

By nature, I am not a gambler. I neither particularly enjoy riverboats nor Kenny Rogers' music, although I did quite like his duet with Dolly Parton - Islands in the Stream. It's a catchy tune, I think, but lyrically not Shakespeare. Gambling does not light up any particular pleasure center of my brain. Taking risks does not really thrill me; I am perfectly comfortable making few waves and testing the water with my toe instead of my head.

For me, it is always enjoyable to go to the swimming pool and watch people to see where they are on the Risk Factor Scale. The RFS can be used in all sorts of places besides swimming pools - the RFS works at airports, amusement parks and public restrooms. Using the scale at swimming pools is quite easy. Those lowest on the RFS are usually the mothers of plural children who have simply come to the swimming pool to enjoy the liquid babysitter. Mothers of plural children (MOPC) wear bathing suits but never fully intend to use them. MOPC's usually have five or six different swimming suits gathered over the years of bearing children, but are hesitant to throw them out - and why would they? They've never really gotten them wet before. MOPC's on the low end of the RFS usually wear floral colored bathing suits with little skirts attached to the waist and are covered with a bathrobe. As they deftly prepare all the children for their afternoon of swimming, they are careful not to come in to contact with the water - generally for fear of ruining their coiffure, or more importantly, getting their hands wet so they can't read their Danielle Steele novels. After administering all the sunscreen and instructions to their plural children, the MOPC will check the surroundings and approach the water very carefully. If there are any splashing children in the vicinity, she will offer a visual reproach letting any child in the area know that she is not in the mood for any Tomfoolery. After the area is clear, she will sidle extremely close to the edge of the pool, swaying this way and that and slowly dip the largest toe of one of her feet into the pool. Satisfied that the 90 degree pool water is definitely too cold, she will retire to the plastic chairs affixed under an oversized rainbow umbrella where she will submerse herself in the lives of rich and romanced.

On the mid range of RFS sit the parent of small children (POSC). Usually, the POSC have only one child, although there have been instances where POSC's will have twins or other multiples. But, the parent of small child must go into the water with the child. The humor arises when the parent places the child into his or her flotation device and begins to follow him or her into the three feet of water. As the water level arises, the parent begins to bob a bit like a the head of a duck, the water chills each rising inch of skin. Of course the POSC has to avoid being splashed and sprayed by nearby children. There are certain impossibilities, and this is one of them. Measures are taken to make sure that no water is splashed either on the chest or back. As the parent goes farther and farther into the water following his child, his chest makes a concave shape, his mouth forms the letter "O" and he breathes in and out deeply sounding like a locomotive. Then, when least expected, he is splashed from behind and the supercooled water hits his back. His chest turns convex and he turns around wanting to impale on his gaze, the impish child who dares get him wet in a swimming pool. But, he has overcome the medium risk factor.

The Maximum on the risk factor scale are considered the kamikazes. They take no notice of their own bodies or the bodies of anyone else in the general vicinity. Often, they are swimmers who where cutoff jean shorts and sleeveless t-shirts to the pool. Kamikazes are basically adult children who come to the pool and actually beat their kids to the water. Kamikazes will race to the deep end, ignoring the screaming whistles and shouting of the life guard to "Walk!" and hurtle themselves through the air oblivious to the icy immersion that is coming. Because kamikazes have little regard for their bodies or their lives, they are also the ones who would dare push into the water a low risk MOPC.

I've known a few kamikazes over the years; I have never been one but I was surrounded by them in college. One bright sunshiny day in the fall of 1994, my five college housemates and I, along with 6 other young men, traveled to do something that most TV commercials will put disclaimers on shouting "Do not attempt this at home!" Once per year, classes are cancelled for a day of rest and relaxation. The 12 of us men decided to board up into two vehicles and drive north for a bit of exhilarating fun. The crisp autumn air pinched our cheeks as we squished all 12 of us into two vehicles. My friend, Tim, owned a late '70's Ford LTD that could have carried all twelve of us, but wisely we separated for the journey to near Nashua, Iowa.

We were full of laughter and expectation. During that same summer, my workmates from Godfather's Pizza had taken me on the same journey, to the rockpits to do some cliff jumping. I am not afraid of heights, nor am I ponderous, normally, when it comes to trying new things. It was fun flinging one's body from three stories to fall into 12 feet of water - kind of. After the initial rush of adrenaline and a slight degree of "Uh oh, what have I done," hitting the water, albeit like a bowling ball hitting the floor, there was a sense of accomplishment. To a young mind, it might be something like this - "Well, I've succeeded in surviving another bout with stupidity."

We 12 had decided to try out the pits. Of course with young males, braggadocio is a constant. Puffing out our chests we boasted who would jump the highest and the farthest; who would scream the most and who would not utter a sound. We laughed and joked until our chests hurt, but all the while a gnawing sense of anxiety permeated our large automobiles.

As we arrived, Tim's LTD doors screamed in protest as we pushed them open. The ticking of the engine provided a backdrop for us young roosters crowing and clucking out of the cars. We journeyed briefly through a patch of trees to the edge of the water and across the pond we saw the cliff. "That doesn't look that big!" Curtis exclaimed. Everything looks smaller from a distance, I think: mountains, buildings, problems. We took off our shirts as we swam to the other side of the pond. The water was freezing - perhaps it wasn't that cold but my blood was not pumping as well because of an increase in nervousness. The closer we swam, the bigger the cliff got. At the base, where the footpath led up to the ledge, 10 young men treaded water while two convinced the treaders that everything would be all right.

Shaking our heads, up farther and farther we climbed until I stopped them at the place we had jumped last - about thirty feet above the water. My brother Ryan shook his head, "Anybody can do this - come on, girls - let's go to the next level." In reality, there was no next level but higher my brother took us - no one wanted to be the one to say stop; no one wanted to be the one labeled as a chicken.

At forty-five feet above the water, my brother stopped at a very small out cropping and said, "Here is where the rubber hits the road, Boys!" In my own mind I thought, "Here's where my brain has taken a vacation." "Well," Ryan said, "Who's first?" Surprisingly, no one raised their hand.

Ryan looked over the edge, took a deep breath. I wanted to shout, "Stop! This is ridiculous!" But isn't it funny, how at some of the most important moments of life you can only move in slow motions, almost as if you are living in a dream? Ryan's body hurtled, plunged off the side of the cliff hitting the water forty-five feet below. A tremendous splash attempted to reach us as the rest of us carefully peered over the ledge hoping to find a young man swimming and not lay broken on the rocks below. For a few moments, nothing, and then Ryan's head came bobbing up to the surface, his first yell, "Yaaaaaaa!" His second, "Oh man, that stings!" A sense of relief huddled over us; the sense of foreboding left us -palpable sighs of joy. Tim said, "All right, who's next?"

None of us should have gone next. Just because one person made it doesn't mean the other 11 of us would have the same luck. But, one by one, we took the leap. Like lemmings, we followed a leader off the side of the cliff to the sparkling greenish-blue water below. I was the last one to jump. I'm not sure whether from personal fear or I wanted to make sure everyone was safe first. Leaping without knowing the resolution is a difficult thing. It's one thing to know the consequences; it's another thing to know the consequences and still jump.

I took three steps back, the gravel crunched under my tennis shoes. Quickly taking breaths in and out I ran forward and jumped into open space as far as I could. At first, there was a feeling of being suspended, perhaps somewhat like a puppet on a string, a kite flying, a dandelion seed finding a new home. But then the plummet. I'm not sure that I actually hit terminal velocity but I was going plenty fast. The whole trip took maybe two seconds at most but the water rushed up at me like a runaway train. There was no stopping this trip. The water and I met quite hard. I had been leaning back a little bit and the slap of the water on the skin of my back echoed in the pit. My brain registered the pain milliseconds after impact. I was underwater, trying to take a breath and scream at the same time; when I came up, my friends were all standing on the shore holding their hair and laughing. I wanted to scream but all the air had been knocked out of me. After being under water for a brief time, it was almost like coming out reborn.

Water is a funny thing - it's crucial for life and it can kill. Its chill is a salve for warm skin. Hit hard enough it can burn. When water is in us, we have life; in it we can die.

It was a baptismal like day. My life truly changed that afternoon. My friends and I experienced a transformation. Into the water, braving death, we went - scared and afraid. Out of the water we came, confident of life.

I'll let all of you finish the analogy in your own lives.