Taking a Leap

I don’t know what compelled me to want to do it. Without thinking, I’m climbing across several other rafts to get to the base of a 20-foot cliff which I’m about to scale in order to jump into the river below. I’m gripping at roots and skinny trees, twisting my way up the side of a wet, slippery slope, while members of the rafting crew offer helping hands. I’m in my fifties, and in reasonably good shape, and as I reach to grasp a clump of muddy grass, I understand the necessity for getting out of the boat. I’m tired of being a spectator, content too often to stay in my comfort zone. I want to participate.

I’m at a family reunion on a whitewater rafting excursion, and on this day trip, my family numbers twenty-one, including five of my six siblings. The bus to the river is crowded and on the forty-five-minute drive, the crew members, using red megaphones, entertain us with funny stories and loud music. There is a buzz of excitement, high energy as we pass through scenic mountains in western North Carolina into eastern Tennessee. The windows are down, the air is blustery and the hair on our heads spins like pinwheels.

Once there, our family is divided—ten in my raft and eleven in another, along with a guide in each. Our boats are school-bus yellow with big buoyancy tubes around the perimeter for us to perch on. Smaller groups of rafters in blue boats make up our little armada. We all wear vivid orange life vests, and with our swim suits, we are a rainbow of colors against the silvery waters of the Watauga. The river has a Class 1 classification of difficulty, “family friendly,” chosen because we have children with us, one as young as five years old. It’s such an easy trip, our guide tells us in advance we won’t have to help him paddle. 

The water is freezing, and as we settle into our boat, members of the crew fill twenty-gallon buckets with river water and heave it at us, hoping to add excitement and set the tone for a fun adventure. This wasn’t part of the description. I want to be a good sport but it seems cruel. As a young girl, I remember a time when my uncle sprayed me with cold water from a hose and I had a total meltdown. That wouldn’t be pretty. I’m wearing a new broad-brimmed sun hat, and with what I hope is quick thinking on my part, I warn them not to get it wet.

Remarkably, they don’t. A female guide with a full bucket stops mid- throw, and I’m spared for the moment it takes to push off into the river. Later, though, my hat will make me a target. 

To make the trip interesting, we are provided giant water guns, and the water wars begin almost immediately. My older brother, John, also in our raft, is like an excitable kid with the water gun, not only targeting the other half of our family, but all the other rafters in our group. I can still see the dimple-cheeked mischievous boy in him. No one is spared.

The guide in our other boat stands out because he has hair like a Norse Viking, long, blond and flowing, and John takes great joy in targeting him, his mission to mess up those perfect locks. Everyone retaliates, and those of us in the boat with John suffer in the cross-fire. We girls—me, two of my sisters and four of my nieces—huddle and squeal in the center of the raft. The two youngest nieces shiver and turn blue. My new hat is a sodden mess, and hangs flaccid around my face like dog ears.

Exhausted and freezing, there is a natural break in the action as everyone regroups, and we float peacefully along. Two of my nephews sit on the leading edge of our raft, and during the lull, our 20-something-year-old guide gets it in his mind to sneak up and push them over. As he moves to the head of the raft, John can’t resist the action and attempts to push the guide in. They wrestle for what seems like ten minutes. Other rafters stop to watch and cheer them on, their money on the young guide, I’m certain, until both the guide and my brother end up in the water. My brother, with his ready laughter and joking, has the ability to bring fun wherever we go.  

We meander down the Watauga though we’ve yet to come upon anything that resembles a rapid. I see the cliff ahead, a tall rocky outcrop on the right bank of the river. Jumping off the cliff is another way of adding interest to the trip, to challenge those who want more than just a gentle float. We pull over to the upstream edge as people make their way across other boats to reach the base. I remove my sunglasses and hat, leaving them in the raft, and scramble across to join in.

At the top, I find myself in a line of people waiting to jump. I suddenly notice how badly my legs are shaking. My heart wallops as I realize what I’ve gotten myself into. From below, it didn’t look so high.  

I’ve always had a fear of falling, hating that moment of gravity defiance when your insides rise up as your body falls. Though it looks exhilarating, I doubt I will ever sky-dive. I detest roller-coasters, zip-lines, and high-dives, something I’m only recalling in this moment. As a kid I remember climbing back down the ladder of the high-dive at the public swimming pool to the irritation and name-calling of the others on the ladder—the teasing was preferable to jumping. It occurs to me to do that now, but I think I’m well past the point of no return and besides, I’m pretty sure the crew won’t allow it. There is only one way down.

I look around for a sympathetic face and realize, hopelessly, none of my siblings have decided to make the jump. The small armada is parked downstream of the cliff now, and they’re all below watching. Why aren’t they here? What do they know that I don’t? I’m never the brave one. Their absence only reinforces my fear.

Two of my nieces are in line before me, and the seven-year-old, Caera, turns to me, crying and terrified. She’s come to the top of the cliff and doesn’t want to jump either. Since I’m as terrified as she is, I don’t know how to comfort her. I feel helpless to protect her. Her older sister, Rebecca, says, “Watch me,” and leaps, doing a fearless spread-eagle off the side, making it look easy. There are some people like Rebecca who take every physical risk that’s presented. She does trapeze and rock climbing, she once went to Cirque du Soleil school, and one of her moonlighting jobs is to teach aerial silks to students brave enough to put their faith in a strip of fabric. I wish I had her aplomb.

Caera is still terrified after Rebecca jumps, crying now. I try to convince her how much fun it will be, as much for her sake as mine, but before I can comprehend what is happening, the guide, standing on the ledge, picks her up and tosses her off the cliff, not giving her a choice. Holy crap! I could do nothing to stop him. I want to be angry but at the moment I’m even more terrified, fearing he will do the same to me if I don’t hurry up.

With Caera safely on the raft, wrapped in her mother’s arms, it’s my turn but I’m frozen. I feel the irritation of those in line beating on my back; I feel the annoyance of those in the boats who are ready to move on. My family down below starts to chant. “Jump, jump, jump!”

Stepping down to a lower ledge where the guide waits, I take his hand hoping he’ll be kind enough to allow me to overcome my fear on my own and not toss me in. My hand is sweaty in his, my breath is shallow, and in my head, I’m cussing like a sailor. I look back. I look down. I make the decision. The world goes quiet for a minute, and I leap.  

In seconds I’m enveloped by the silvery cold of the Watauga. Underwater, my first thought is, I did it! That wasn’t so bad. I surface and swim to the raft where I’m immediately grabbed under the armpits and hoisted aboard by the crew. As I catch my breath, my family high-fives me; my brother-in-law, Roger, tells me I was brave. Bravery, I know, is relative, but as we continue to float down the river where we eventually hit some rapids, I can’t help smiling, and reflecting on the day.   

One step, that’s all it took. And, isn’t that often the case? Sometimes we just need to dare to jump.