The moment I stepped off of the platform, I closed my eyes as tightly as possible. Only when my body reassumed its buoyancy was I able to open my eyes and hastily swim to the surface.

I did not enjoy jumping off of the high dive platform. Ascending the ladder was a lonely experience; standing alone atop the platform confirmed my isolation. The voices of the other kids below were distant murmurs; the cool air bristled against my wet skin, causing eruptions of goosebumps on my arms and legs. The rectangular pool below, brimming with dark blue, wavy water, was not particularly inviting. The instructors, shielding their eyes from the Southern Californian sun, looked up at me and waited for me to release myself to gravity.

My toes crept up to the edge of the concrete platform and I looked down at the surrounding pool complex. I wasn’t worried about physical pain from impact with the water, nor was I concerned about drowning.

I was afraid of the concrete.

If I didn’t jump far out away from the platform, I believed my head would slam against it (a la Greg Louganis) and crack open. Blood, brains, and body would splash into the water and, surely, my last experience in life would consist of unbearable pain.

If I jumped too far out from the platform, I believed that I would miss the water entirely and land on the concrete surrounding the pool. My bones would shatter and I would immediately become a heap of dust—though I would undoubtedly experience unbearable pain.

Before gingerly launching myself, I inhaled quickly and deeply—it could be last breath I would ever take—to ensure that my lungs were inflated with enough oxygen to allow me to reach the surface of the pool. In the air, my body was rigid: My arms, legs, toes, and fingers were all completely straight and pointing at the water; my shoulders were hunched up by my ears. I was a dart; my hair, flying away from my face, became the feathers that trailed behind me as I sliced through space.

Time passed—when would I hit the water? when could I open my eyes? what if I overjumped? what if my head had already hit the platform and I was actually already dead? what if—

My pointed toes carved an opening in the cool water and only when I felt my body beginning to rise did I realize that I was still alive. Quickly opening my eyes, I saw the hazy glow of sunlight overhead filtering past the bubbles that marked my entrance into the pool. The rushing sounds of the wind were replaced by the lethargic warblings of the moving water.

There was no blood, there was no pain.

I swallowed a large gasp of air upon breaking the surface—not because my body needed air, but because my mind demanded confirmation that I was still alive.

(Part of the ongoing Relationship Series.)

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