I froze at the edge of the high dive
About the fear that stops us
and what happens when we finally jump.
Despite growing up on an island surrounded by water, we didn't have a community pool in our small town. No place to learn to swim outside of the Puget Sound, which was so cold that just dipping a toe in felt like a thousand little needles pricking your skin.
We would do it anyway. First our toes, waiting until they adjusted. Then our feet, our lower legs, wading out waist-high…each time pausing before going deeper. Eventually we'd get brave enough to "ride" a wave back to shore, surrendering our bodies up to our shoulders to the frigid water. We'd do this over and over until our teeth chattered and we couldn't feel our feet.
For a few years when I was really young, my dad convinced the owners of the local Queen Ann Motel to let us swim in their pool for a small fee. In that small pool, he gave us his version of swim lessons—a kind of sink-or-swim teaching philosophy. He would toss pennies in the water and my sister and I would dive down to fetch them like little dolphins.
I loved being underwater. The muffled hush. The way the warm water held my body and my hair swirled around me. My own secret world…if only for a few seconds.
Around the time I was in second grade, Anacortes, a town on a neighboring island, opened a community pool complete with a ribbon-cutting ceremony. After that, it felt like everyone was headed to the Anacortes pool on weekends and bragging about it at school during the week. They’d share how they'd not only swum in the huge Olympic-sized pool but jumped off the "high dive" as well.
It wouldn't be until the following summer that my parents loaded us up in our army green Ford station wagon for the 45-minute drive north to the Anacortes pool.
Our family always loved watching the Olympics together and that summer was no different. We watched as 14-year-old Romanian gymnast Nadia Comăneci pulled in a perfect 10 on the uneven bars and won the all-around gold medal.
Enrolled in gymnastics at the time, I had aspirations of winning gold myself. Much to my mother's dismay, I spent hours cartwheeling and back-bending down our long hallway over and over. I ended each round with a handstand—my feet smacking the wall to keep me from tipping over.
We also watched 16-year-old American Greg Louganis win silver for his 10-meter platform diving. His diving seemed to my eight-year-old self like a kind of mashup between gymnastics flips and swimming underwater. Something I was sure I’d be able to easily do.
When we finally entered that sparkly new community pool, I spied the high dive in the far corner and joined the long line of kids waiting for their turn.
No doubt I'd be able to flip off it. Or at least jump.
To say I'm afraid of heights isn't exactly correct. More like…I'm afraid of edges. That very defined line between here, in this spot, I am safe and on solid ground and one more step and I'm not.
When Bobby Parker used to threaten to "beat me up" on the walk home from the bus stop, I had no problem scampering up a tall Douglas Fir tree with its net of branches—something he was afraid to do—and waiting him out.
But have me walk a trail that follows the edge of a cliff? No. I'd hug the far side as much as I could.
Ride a ski lift to the top? Fine. Look over the edge of the Eiffel Tower viewing platform? No.
When I was only a few people out, I gazed up the full length of the ladder. Definitely much taller than it had appeared from the other side of the pool.
A few more steps forward and the lifeguard said, "It's your turn. Go on up."
I grabbed the sides of the ladder and started climbing. Unlike my beloved Douglas Fir with its canopy of branches to catch me if I fell, there was nothing behind me should my hands slip.
Once at the top, I slowly stepped down the length of the board, my hands never actually leaving the rails on each side but sliding down them until they ended and it was just me, the narrow board, and air.
I took one step past the handrails and froze.
I could hear my dad calling from the pool deck, "Keep going, Carrie. You can do it."
I inched a few shuffle steps forward and froze. I couldn't look down over the edge. Looking forward only showed me how far I still had to go. I was afraid to turn around.
I could hear the kids in line yelling, Jump! Just jump! Come on!!!
My heart was racing. Little bursts of electricity pulsed through my body.
Jump! Jump! Do it! the kids shouted.
In one motion, I took a huge step backward, grabbed the handrails, and made the "climb of shame" back down to the pool deck.
Scaredy-cat! What are you? A chicken?! the kids in line hollered at me as I walked past them.
My mom wrapped a towel around me and said, "It's okay, Carrie. You'll do it next time."
The next time, I didn't even try.
I stayed in the shallow end, practicing my underwater diving where my feet could still touch the ground. Out of the corner of my eye, I watched kid after kid jump off that high dive without hesitation.
At one point, I watched as a young boy walked to the end of the board and turned around backwards. He put his toes on the edge, bounced a few times, and then hurled himself up into a backwards flip. As he came back down, the top of his head hit the diving board and sliced it open.
Blood on the board. Blood in the pool. Blood on his face. Blood everywhere.
The lifeguards blew their whistles. Everyone had to get out.
Needless to say, that was the end of our trip to the Anacortes pool that day.
The following school year, my gymnastic skills progressed. I was flipping off the high bar, off the beam, off the vault. Flipping down the hallway instead of just cartwheeling. Surely all that flipping was easier than a simple jump off the high dive.
When summer rolled around again, we loaded up the station wagon and drove to Anacortes. I stayed in the safe shallow end doing backflips underwater until my dad tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Come on. Let's get you up on the high dive."
With images of blood everywhere and my walk of shame, I didn't want to.
To my protests, my dad simply said, "It's time. Let's go."
I stood in the long line feeling water drip off my body and pool at my feet. I watched as person after person easily jumped from that high board.
When the lifeguard motioned that it was my turn, I grabbed the bars, put one foot on a rung, and froze.
I heard my dad call out, "Come on, Carrie. You can do it."
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see he was in the pool treading water near where I would land…should I actually jump.
I slowly made the climb like a sloth up a tree. At the top, I stood with my hands gripping the rails and stared down the length of the board. I took a few steps forward and stopped.
"It's okay, Carrie. Keep going," my mom called from the pool deck.
I made my way to the end of the rails, let go, took one step forward, and froze.
I felt my heart race. The water below was fuzzy. I stared at the end of that board and couldn't move.
"Come on, Carrie. You can do it. Take another step forward," my dad called.
I shuffled forward so my feet never left the board. My head felt tingly.
"Keep going!"
I made it to the end of the board and froze. I couldn't look down. I felt completely abandoned by anything solid. Anything certain. It was just me and the air in front of me.
The kids in line were yelling, "Jump! Come on jump! Scaredy-cat! Just jump!"
Then I heard my dad's voice above all others, "Jump, Carrie, jump! You can do it. I'm right here."
And with that, I stepped out into the thin air and felt myself falling until the surface of the water abruptly spanked my body and I fell into the quiet hush of my underwater hideaway with my hair swirling all around.
I popped out of the water to my dad smiling and saying, "Good job, Carrie. I knew you could do it."
After that, I was able to regularly jump off the high dive. I never loved the jump, and still don't to this day, but I loved the feeling of being underwater afterwards.
And every time, I felt a little bit of pride in myself for doing something that continued to be so hard for me. So scary.
Every time I write a story, the act of pressing "publish" is like being back up on that high dive.
I don't know what will happen after I send it out. How it will be received. Did I communicate my lesson learned? Did it resonate? Or do people feel…slightly embarrassed for me?
My heart always races a little before I hit send. But afterwards—the feeling of putting my words out into the world, with the hope that they might at least entertain and at best inspire—makes it worth it.
Perhaps you have your own high dive moment. Something you've been wanting to accomplish. A first step you've been wanting to take. Or something you left behind that you want to restart.
But you're standing at the edge, frozen.
Here's what I know: Only you can take that step forward.
But also that you don't have to do it alone.
This week, I'm thinking about my next high dive moment…the thing that scares me but that I know I need to do. And I'm reminding myself that I have people in the water waiting for me. Cheering me on.
And maybe you also have people waiting for you in the water. And maybe you don’t.
Either way, know that I’m here. I’m cheering you on.
As well as everyone who's reading this. And everyone who's ever stood frozen at their own edge. We’re all in the water and cheering each other on.
What’s your jump into the unknown? You don't have to answer me. Just think about it.
And maybe—just maybe—take one shuffle step closer to making the leap.
Cheers,
Carrie