Wrangler Dani

We’re all standing in a line, sopping wet and smelling like chlorine and sunshine. It’s my turn. I feel the rough, sandpaper-y non-slip steps beneath my brown midsummer-colored toes, the smooth, hot metal railing in the palms of my hands. I’m climbing, buoyed upward by the eyes of my teammates and coaches.

It takes forever. My stomach is lurching.

I’m standing at the top of the high-dive, 12 feet up. I can feel every detail of myself, the mark on my forehead from the recent removal of a latex swimcap, the rings around my eyes from tight goggles. My navy blue TYR swimsuit looks professional, Olympic even; that’s what we’re being trained for, even though we’re young. We spend hours each day swimming laps, performing drills, competing with nothing but ourselves and a stopwatch for an elusive speed. I felt invincible, down there in the 77-degree water, in between safely-spaced red and blue plastic lane-lines. I was fast and confident. Now I’m cold and starting to shake. I wonder if my swimsuit is climbing up my hips. I feel my thick blonde braid snaking down my back and the late afternoon sun, just barely warming my shoulders, but still strong enough to make me squint.

It’s getting late. I’ve been up here too long, I realize, noticing the small, wet bodies below me beginning to move impatiently, discontentedly. They’re wondering if I’m ever going to jump.

I am too.

I see my mom in the bleachers, looking young and beachy and tan like she always does, the prettiest mom I know. I’m too old to need her at a time like this, but just young enough to think I do. I wish I’d never climbed up here. This was a terrible idea.

I can see the bottom of the pool. 12 feet looks like 24 because of the clarity of the water and my stomach lurches again. My toes curl around the edge of the diving board, trying to find security in the rough texture beneath my feet.

My coach, finally exasperated, hollers (not unkindly) from beneath his big straw hat, “Just JUMP!”

I stop thinking. I take a deep breath, wrap my arms around myself, and leap off the board. It feels like forever that I’m falling, and I hit the water with a “SMACK!”. I come up for air a few seconds later, smiling. Mom gives an excited wave from the bleachers and I see the next brave diver lined up, ready to jump, probably thinking the same thing I was a few minutes ago.

“Just jump,” I want to tell him, from my safe place in the pool, after the fear has been overcome and my stomach has settled again. But I know he has to work it out for himself.

I’m sure I’ll always fear jumping, even if I know the place I’m jumping into. Leaps of faith are not my strong suit.

Years later, I’m still learning how to overcome my fears and jump in with abandon. I’m remembering how to leap off the diving board, barefooted and arms pulled in close, how to rein in my brain and stop thinking long enough to take the leap. Because the feeling afterward, telling Dad the story at the dinner table, or remembering this later, when the next Big Fat Scary Problem needs to be overcome, makes it all worth it.