The air was crisp for summer; a nice day to be hiking, but a cold day to be cliff jumping. The water was rough that day, tangling and clattering against the branches and rocks farther down the river. The previous storm had made the waters dangerous, but not one person minded. It was my turn. I ran, crouched, balanced, pushed, jumped and then…slap. As I broke the surface of the water, I gasped at the sudden flash of pain that shocked through my body. The water enveloped me like a cocoon of pure, overwhelming silence penetrating my ears. As the bubbles surged around me, I clawed my way towards the sunlight.  I surfaced with a grimace on my face; I had messed up, yet again. What was my problem today? I heard the murmur of the group as I nimbly made my way back up the steep, rocky slope, trying to ignore the spasms in my sides. Forty feet later, I reached the top, out of breath, cold in the steady breeze, and raw from colliding with the water.

I had been cliff jumping for over 3 years now. There was something about the rush, the danger, and the intensity of jumping that kept me coming back. As soon as my foot leaves that rock, I know I am completely alone. My safety and even my life are based solely on the performance of leaving that rock. I learned early on not to make any mistakes.

It was my turn again. “Focus,” I whispered to myself. I could feel the blood pumping in my ears, and the wind pushing me back, telling me no, telling me I wasn’t ready. But that was all the fun, the thrill of risking everything for that glorious moment of freedom. And then I ran, crouched, balanced, pushed, jumped, vaulted…and flew.