I didn’t jump. Back and forth, I walked up to the ledge of the cliff, building up my courage, talking to myself, reminding myself I’d done this jump before a few years ago and that it’s not like the water hurt; that it was just a simple mental block. “Just one more step” I’d say after my legs and feet locked. For about 2 hours I stood on top of that cliff while other people jumped off into the water below. They’d climb back up the rocks over to the side and then they’d be behind me again, trying to give me words of encouragement. “It doesn’t hurt”. “Just don’t think about it”. “You’ve already done it before, so you shouldn’t be scared of it now, it’s the same thing”. And I would be inspired for the next few seconds, or maybe even few minutes; right up until my feet got to the ledge again. I tried standing on the ledge and leaning. I tried power walking up to it. I tried looking out over the water rather than directly below me. I tried distracting myself. I tried both shaming myself and positively motivating myself. I tried reasoning, rationing, bargaining, and pleading with myself. I even prayed, standing up there on that rock quarry cliff. But no matter what, I couldn’t- no- I didn’t jump. Even when the guard came by and politely told us that we were on private property and needed to leave, I still couldn’t defiantly jump. Tears came to my eyes as I put my t-shirt back on in defeat. I quickly put my sunglasses on as well.
Embarrassed. Ashamed. I felt like a phony. I felt like an old man, playing it safe. Out there on the rock, I’d screamed inside my head, “It’s better to regret something you did than something you didn’t. Don’t live like this- safely! Don’t settle, don’t give in, don’t lay up!” And now, walking back down the path, my friends way on ahead allowing me to be in my own thoughts, I realized that in not stepping off the cliff, I had in fact stepped towards old age. “Don’t worry homie, you’ve already done it before so that box is checked” I was told. But life isn’t like that, is it? You don’t just clean your room once, or eat your vegetables once, or test yourself once. You need to do those things every day. Just because I had made that jump before doesn’t allow me to happily walk away from that test today. It means somethings changed. It means my self-preservation instinct has become stronger, I guess. And to me, that is the equivalent of dying. Or at least, embodying a life not worth living. It’s disgraceful, the 98 year-old man that can’t hear a damn thing, has snot dripping down his nose, can’t take himself to the bathroom, and would surely perish in a matter of hours if left to his own devices. Yet we keep him alive for some reason. Why? At that point, why not let him walk off into the woods, or paddle down the river in a canoe. Let nature take it’s course naturally, for he’s done living. I was reminded of a Hemingway short story about a couple that travels to Africa to go on a lion hunt. In the face of danger, the husband proves to be a coward, and embarrassed for both of them, the wife shoots him. Hemingway despises the man that can’t boldly look fear in it’s face and take a step forward.
And I can rationalize: “I drive a motorcycle. That’s pretty fucking badass!-and I was petrified to start riding it, so it’s not like I always run away from scary things. Hell, I ran with the bulls!” Ahh, but all that doesn’t really matter; it’s in the past. Today is what matters, and today I failed. I feel like a coward. I’m not sure I’ve felt this way before. Sure I’ve embarrassed myself, acted dishonorably, fallen on my face, and been rejected many times. But all of them have been a misstep of my own; an action that was not the right one for whatever reason. Today was different. Today I didn’t act. I didn’t jump. I shied away. I cowered in fear.
