As a kid growing up in southern Nevada, summers were memorable. Situated in the middle of nine siblings I learned one thing fast–money was dear. But there was something I looked forward to every week day, and that was going to the pool. My parents somehow had afforded a summer season pass to the public pool, which was within walking distance of our home. In the morning were lessons, so the pool was closed to open swimming, and also during the lunch hour. But by 1:00 we headed out, nearly every weekday, a chorus of flip flops flipping and snapping on the sidewalk as we headed west, towels draped around our necks or else dragging accidentally behind on the hot pavement. Cross the street and brave the black top, as we called the large parking lot by the high school, where we would then cut through the open campus, past the tennis courts, and then the pool was in sight. You could hear the noise before you could actually see the pool–a hundred kids splashing, yelling, laughing, and the shrill whistle of the life guard. By this time we were sweaty from our trek and we managed to step up our pace in anticipation of being enveloped in the cooling water.

There were seasons of being escorted to the pool by my older siblings, and other times when I was one of the oldest, shepherding my younger sisters. A “baby pool” was adjacent to the regular sized swimming pool, and when I had the youngers, I would get them situated in the shallow pool and then head over to the big pool. The first jump in was always shocking to the system. Although welcomed, there was a huge difference between the 100 degree desert air and the cold water of the pool. That first plunge took me underwater where the deafening noise of the excited swimmers was muted and the bright sun was shaded in the liquid turquoise blue that somehow warped yet magnified the images around me.  After the initial pause, I would shoot up to the surface, find my bearings and shake my head like a wet golden retriever. I played water games with my sisters and friends, and we showed off our skills of somersaults, handstands, and created underwater races from one edge of the pool to the other.

There were two diving boards in the deep end of the pool, one was normal and the second, a high dive.  I learned to successfully dive off the low board, and sometimes I would even copy my brothers and try a cannonball, knees to the chest and arms wrapped around my slippery wet legs as I crashed into the water. But I wanted more, and the day came when I decided to try the high dive.

Already acrophobic,  my stomach was a little queasy as I stood in line to go up the ladder. My eyes were on each jumper as I inched forward, either obsessed or else hoping to pick up some last minute skill of proper jumping. “Keep your arms to your sides” was one piece of advice I gleaned. “Don’t try a dive your first time” was another. It was my turn and I gripped the silver aluminum bars on either sided of the rungs as I slowly, very slowly ascended, being careful not to crowd out the person above me also climbing. The rule was stay off the board until it was clear from the previous jumper. When I got to the top, I watched the one in front of me go off the edge of the board, which seemed like it was kind of in slow motion. I managed to shakily let go of the ladder and grab on to the railing along side of the board. I crept out in the direction towards the end of the board but after going only a few feet I decided I could not do it. I turned and looked back; there were already three more swimmers lined up on the ladder, blocking the way and anxiously waiting their turn. I was between them and the board. No going back. Soon it was obvious that there was a big hold up in the gears of the potential jumpers–me. I heard coaching from below, “Just look at the board, don’t look down!” “Don’t think about it, just jump.” And “Hurry, we want a turn, Go!” Somebody may have even said, “Chicken!” They were right. I glanced in the direction of the life guard, hoping for a shred of mercy but she, too, was placing her whistle to her lips, about to signal me to JUMP! I felt like the whole life of the pool had stopped and everyone was focused on my performance, or lack thereof. I thought of dropping to my knees and crawling out to the end of the board, but how could I launch once I was there, just roll sideways off the edge? I very cautiously and slowly made my way down the board, fighting vertigo and panic as I discovered the end of the board was much more bouncy than the rest of it, and at that point I knew either the drama had to end immediately or I would cease to exist, so I jumped.  I sailed through the air, trying to keep my arms to my side and as I entered the water at what seemed like several hundred miles an hour, and all the noise stopped. My skinny little brown body went as an arrow nearly to the bottom of the pool and like a mad woman I frantically started flapping my arms and legs to get back up to air.  Breaking the surface of the pool and at the same time blowing water out my nose, I quickly made my way to the edge of the pool and hung on for dear life, gasping and trying to make sense of my great personal accomplishment.

Many jumps and many years later, I’m still finding myself in the same position. Wanting more, going for it, scared, nervous, accepting some coaching, and finally the moment of truth–I just go for it!