I closed my eyes as the ground
separated from my feet. The air swallowed me whole as I shot down, 30
feet straight, with my knees tight together, and my arms flailing above my
head, looking very much like a marionette dropped off a stage with strings still
holding her hands. It took less than two seconds for me to hit the water.
I was surprised I could hear the slap as my feet hit, less shocked to feel it.
I sunk down, eyes closed against the coolness of the water, pumped my legs, and
broke through the surface, relieved to be able to breathe, and loving the view
of the cliffs from the lake.
*
*
*
* *
The first time I remember jumping, I was 16. We had driven up from
New Jersey for the 25th anniversary of my Uncle Steve's purchase of Better Farm.
He bought it with the $25,000 he was awarded after a car crash that forever
robbed him of the ability to walk. The money went a long way in the
depressed town of Redwood, and he and our family thought buying twenty miles
from Fort Drum was a great investment, that the town would grow as the military
base got bigger, and eventually, it would be worth a fortune. They were
wrong. But my parents, as well as my Uncle Bill and a number of their
friends, had spent one heady summer expanding the house, and were eager to
share the fruit of their long ago labor with the next generation.
As we drove towards Redwood during the summer of '95, dad told stories of those
months. Dad always looked to me like a big kid, the guy who never grew
up, and had children of his own as an excuse to keep playing. In his
forties, he had fading red hair, a gap toothed smile (a trait I inherited), and
when he got excited, his skin turned crimson, and his freckles disappeared into
the flush. They were barely visible for most of the trip, as he regaled the
children in the family with tales of flips and cannonballs off the edge of the
Millsite Lake cliffs, located a few miles from the farm. While I have
always had acrophobia, I was fascinated by the stories revolving around the
lake and the mighty cliffs that stood like Valhalla above them.
When we got to the farm, Steve assured us Dad's stories were true, and
encouraged us to explore for ourselves, promising the trespassing signs were
hogwash, and that if anyone stirred the pot, to send them down the road to his
place and he'd smooth things over. The others in my generation, of
course, immediately set to begging to see the cliffs up close. I joined
with feigned enthusiasm, wondering how high the precipice actually was. I
had such a fear of heights that I forbid my parents from driving on the outer
edge of medium height bridges (the idea of accidentally careening through the
guardrail and falling so severe, it impacted my traveling options). The
terror induced by the thought of a looming rock face, and no protective railing,
was only outweighed by my desire to not be seen as an infantile scaredy cat by my
family.
Steve was left behind at the house, along with my mom. Her interest in
cliff jumping had waned significantly under the stress of raising two children
and the twenty-something years that had passed since she spent her first summer
of marriage helping to make the farm handicap accessible.
"Leaves of three, let it be," she had repeated, speaking in time to
her chopping as we sauntered out of the kitchen and away from the domesticity
of slicing potatoes for dinner. "And don't forget the Off! You
need to be care-" her voice cut abruptly behind us as the front door
slammed and we scurried to the car. The slamming was necessary, as the
mosquitoes were the size of small horses, and had been known to carry off
misbehaving children in the night. That, and we'd heard the speech on ticks
enough to know it by heart.
Dad and Bill led the expedition. As we drove, dilapidated barns, long
abandoned, gazed at us with longing, while the car did battle with horseflies
and gnats, fighting for a share of the asphalt. Dusty fields with bales
of hay piled like forgotten toys lined the road as we wound through the
country.
We cruised to the cement patch Steve had talked about, and parked just off the
road, the weeds immediately tangling around the tires, threatening to pull the
car into a machine and flora love affair. For a moment, I imagined that
was what had happened to some of the rusted out vehicles we passed on the drive
in. They had simply been so enamored with the long grasses that they'd
decided to embrace them for eternity.
Leaving the vehicle, we were careful to avoid the shiny three leaved plants my
mother kept warning us about, and tiptoed over the flattened carcasses of
frogs, which lay like pre-cooked colorforms on the asphalt. We paused at
the rusty iron gate, bending down to roll our white socks up to our knees, a
barrier against the merciless ticks. We looked like an oddly uniformed
basketball team.
We hiked east, past the tin "trespassers will be shot" signs, and
through the fields tracked with the tire marks of the local kids' ATVs.
As we walked deeper into the woods, the trees bent above our heads, bowing to
the heat, and our socks began to sag. Dry grass clung to our newly
exposed sweating calves, affixing itself with surprising persistence, while
Nate, Bill's son and my cousin, whined "Are we there yet?"
Dad and Bill walked ahead, their sneakers chomping down on last autumn's fallen
leaves. Dad used a branch to swipe away spiderwebs and hanging twigs,
while the foliage threatened to bounce back in defiance of man.
"Be careful where you step, girls. There's a lot of poison ivy out
here."
Luke giggled and rolled his eyes.
"Dad, mom warned us about a million times. We're not little kids- we
know what to look for," I chastised as I struggled to keep pace with the
group.
A quiet fell over us and our steps quickened as our bodies sensed we were
close. I could hear my breathing become heavier in the heat, the only
sound besides the occasional chirp of a bird and the crunch crunch of our feet.
The trees became scarcer, as splashes and tribal sounding whoops caught our
ears, the voices of those who had beaten us to the promised land.
We rounded towards the left before walking out and gasping at the site.
Stepping out between the branches, the woods opened to reveal the edge of the
world. I'd heard the stories, I knew the lake was giant, and had
seen it from the road when we drove by.
But there was something about standing above the
water, perched on the ledge like a bird, watching the expanse of blue reaching
out to play tag with the sky. There was no shore, just the sheer drop,
thirty feet down. The rocks clung to the face of it, while dried soil was
kicked over the cliff carelessly as kids ran to the edge and lunged, or scaled
the rock wall back up to the top. The water was so clear, I could see the fish
circling the ankles of the teens as they treaded water. A motley crew of
proud evergreens, leaf filled oaks, and leafless skeletons that had been
ravaged by pests or weather or both stood back from the edge, and I felt they
were perhaps sharing my vertigo high above the water. Red ants formed a
zigzagging conga line through the dust, and spider nests ornamented the trees like
grey puffs of cotton candy. Several small islands, the nearest over a
mile away, dotted the horizon, with one in the middle housing a solitary white
structure. Squinting, I could make out falling boards and a hole in the
roof with a large branch peeking out, its leaves playing peek-a-boo with the
summer breeze. I thought of Bob Ross, the oil painter, and how many
"happy little trees" he would have to paint to do the green foliage
justice.
I looked around, trying to take a mental photograph. The spell was broken
by Nate, who yelled "Sweet!" as his 6' 9" frame jostled me
as he jiggled by, abandoning his towel, and taking hold of the rope at the top
of the cliff.
"Nate, be sure to swing all the way ou--" Bill started to warn his
son, but by this time, Nate was already mid-swing. He let go just above
the water, his body twisting so that he slammed down into the lake butt
first. The smack sent waves crashing into the rocks, and Nate emerged
from the depths with a groan. "...Out so you land with your feet
down. It stings whichever part of you hits first," Bill finished, while
Nate attempted to climb out of the water and rub his ass at the same
time.
I giggled. The local teens were snickering as Luke, Nate's younger brother
(and smaller at only 6 feet even), walked out to the rope and asked shyly if he
could have a try.
One of the boys, a skinny kid with a deep tan (whose name I later found out was
Hunter) answered, "Sure."
"If you want to get a feel for it, swing out and swing back," Bill
advised, noticing his son's trepidation.
"I just don't want to end up like Nate."
"There's no way you could end up like Nate," Bill replied
dryly.
"Just try to go in feet first," Dad chimed in. "It's a timing
issue. That's all there is. You have to wait until you're at the
highest point, so you're still going out."
"Just make sure you're out over the water. Otherwise, you'll end up
smashed onto the rocks" Nate mocked, climbing the side of the cliff with
the aid of a rope ladder.
"Nate!" Bill grumbled.
I squatted on the edge, like a small toad with its legs tucked tight, and,
questioning the merit of tumbling into the water, asked my dad, "How
high do you think it is?"
"It’s 45 feet from the tree," Hunter interrupted.
"From that tree there?" I turned towards where Luke was standing with
the rope.
"Yea- if you let go from the rope, then it's 45," he said, pointing.
"Yea?" Luke asked, twisting the cord around his hand, then
untwisting, over and over in time with his breathing. His blond hair was
just long enough to create a veil over his blue eyes, but I could still make
out that they were squinting towards the water, as if willing it to be a little
bit closer than 45 feet.
"Just don't think about it," Hunter offered, making his way towards
the evergreen just behind the rope tree.
"Here- I'll show you." Bill placed his towel down and took the
rope from Luke's hand, explaining the physics of leverage and force. He
looked at the water, and hesitated.
As he was talking, I watched Hunter begin his ascent up the pine tree. He
proceeded up like he was climbing a ladder to go paint, or hang Christmas
lights, or some other mundane task. One foot, then the next, hand over
hand, like it was no big deal. He was small, maybe a hundred and thirty pounds,
a weight the tree could easily support, yet the rock-a-bye baby song about
boughs breaking kept warbling in my head.
I nudged my dad, my mouth going dry thinking about the distance between the
ground and the rapidly rising youth. I had a tree house back home dad had
built for me in middle school, one I was never comfortable in because looking
down would remind me that all that stood between me and the earth was gravity
and a tree limb. In this moment, all I could think of was gravity and
Hunter, and how poorly the two would get along if he slipped.
Dad followed my gaze, and we watched in terrified awe as the boy mounted branch
after branch. The sap and the pine needles didn't seem to phase him, and
when he reached the intersection of the evergreen and oak, he crept gingerly
onto the larger branch, crouching down in to a sitting position. He looked
around, and called out "Anyone going?"
His friends' heads turned on a swivel, and my family and I watched as he
grasped the tree for leverage, and lifted himself to a standing position.
He hesitated for a second, looking out at the clouds and the islands, maybe
praying, maybe questioning God. Or maybe making his mind go blank in
order to summon the courage (or stupidity) to take the plunge. He had to
spring out- if he went straight down, he would hit the edge of the cliff.
He looked over at all of us, a gargoyle on his perch, smiled, and let go.
His shorts ballooned out as he descended, the air making the fabric appear like
a round, magenta balloon. I noticed, in that instant, that your arms flap when
you are falling. They make little circles backwards, the kind of motion
kids do in elementary school gym classes when they are stretching. You
know, logically of course, that you can't fly, but some piece of the brain, the
one that didn't pay attention in science class, still thinks "flap!"
He slapped the water, and there was a stunned silence. We were aware the
water was deep- no one had ever been able to touch the bottom- but still, it
hurts your feet when you plummet from 30 feet, and this was a good 40 feet
higher.
The bubbles and waves careened in all directions before the lake swallowed all
reminder of his invasion. For a moment I thought I'd made the whole thing
up- never saw him plummet, never saw him go under. Then, in a grand
gesture of insubordination, Hunter emerged, whipping his black hair around,
spraying the excess water in all directions. He grinned, and I exhaled as
his friends cheered.
Bill, who had been busy examining the rope, looked at my dad.
"Who was that? Where…"
"The tree," Dad explained.
"The tree?" Bill paused. "That kid went from the
tree?" Bill's eyes rounded, his mouth going slack at the thought.
"Yea."
"That's like an 84 foot drop. What an idiot." Bill looked
at the rope, reconsidering. "I can't do this. There's no
way."
"You already did it, like twenty years ago," Nate challenged him
"Yea, but that was twenty years ago," Bill pointed out, still
clutching the fraying twine in his right hand, while running his left over his
bald head.
"Come on Bill, it's time for a really stupid and pointless act," Dad
chuckled.
Bill laughed, and I thought he might actually swing out. I could picture
him flying over the water two decades ago, all ambition, recklessness, and long
brown hair tied back with a bandana. 25 years changes your
perspective. When you're twenty, you're invincible. But when you're
45, there's more to be lost, more knowledge of what a fall like that can do to
your body, and worse, what swinging back and hitting the rock face can do.
He shook his head, smiled, and handed the rope back to Luke. "I don't
think so boys." He walked gingerly down to the edge, next to my dad.
"Shall we?"
Again, time seemed to reverse for a moment. As Dad and Bill stood, about
five feet from each other, looking out at the water, I remembered the stories
they told about each other, and growing up a year apart, throwing dummies off
the widow's peak on top of the house during their staged plays, and using each
other like brothers instead of cousins.
Bill always said he went to my dad for advice when he wasn't sure what to do.
Years later, after dad died, Bill gave a speech at the memorial, and said
"Dan, if I'd have known you would die on Tuesday, I would have called you
on Monday to ask you how to handle it." He had cried as he said it,
knowing that his best friend, his confidant, was out of reach.
On this day, though, Bill was all smiles as he looked a foot away for
courage. Dad beamed back at him, winked, and jumped. His
reddish-blond hair caught the sun, and seemed to glow for a split second.
He flapped his arms, as if trying to stop gravity or time or both. He's a lot bigger than he was in the
pictures back at the house, I thought, thinking of the photo on Steve's
bookshelf of my dad in 1970, only a couple of years older than I was now, with
puff of fire-red curly hair jutting out in all directions. He was skinny
back then, ribs showing through his chest from a late growth spurt that hadn't
quite allowed his body to come into normal proportions yet. He was
crouching in the picture, wearing a pair of blue jeans, sporting a lot of dirt
around his face and upper body, and grinning like a fool having the time of his
life. Now he was a middle aged man, with a few extra pounds around the
middle, but still a childlike voice calling out, "Ah!" as he
descended, smile intact.
"He always yells like that," I said, as the sound echoed like a
cartoon. "Come on Bill, do it!" I pushed.
"I'm coming," he called down to dad, "Nobody down there?"
"No one," Dad shouted back.
"Going right onto Papa Dan. Lookout!"
Bill leapt off the rock and dad turned his head to avoid being splashed. In the
ensuing years, I would see a variety of people bound off this bluff.
Sometimes they were naked, appendages flailing in the summer sun.
Sometimes they brought booze, or rowdy girls, or both. Once, when the
plumbing was out, we came by kayak with soap and shampoo, and bubbles danced
around us after our plunges. But nothing felt quite so magical as
watching my balding uncle, and my father, hair looking more white than red in
the waning sun, relive their youth by bolting off that cliff.
When Bill surfaced, they both laughed, that kind of laugh that is part
satisfaction, part joy, and, mostly, relief at having survived. High
above, I laughed too, embracing the audacity of my companions, and feeling my
trepidation dissipate with the ripples in the water.
I closed my eyes as the ground separated from my feet.
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