‘Fearlessness’ is a thing only experienced by sociopaths and those who are blissfully ignorant. For the rest of us, it is not an option. Instead, we need to accept that we are afraid and……overcome it. This is truly what Courage means. Courage, that erstwhile term, is normally applied to Heros of battle and those who have struggled with the worst that the world has to throw at them. But the truth is, just living, is often heroic. And we are required to be heroic in all kinds of ways all the time. My friend Ken Yee, a short Asian man of decided intellect and total nerdiness — complete with arcane quotes always at the ready — is the most unlikely of heros. But he did step in recently to protect a woman in an altercation. He did not do this with bravado and a macho stance. He stepped in as a concerned individual of measured means and tempered manner. A truly brave act. He insisted that he was a witness to the scene, that she should be able to be given her phone back by man who was clearly pissed off. He was argued with, he was threatened, but he hung in there and stated calmly that whatever the drama was, she should be free to choose to leave.

I know he did this because he wrote a Facebook post about the whole thing. His post began with the admission that afterwards his adrenaline was high and that frankly, he was freaked out. Again, this is what courage is. It is not that he was unafraid. It was not that he thought his presence would automatically intimidate. He followed his conscience and risked because it was important. He is one of my heros.

I have also been given credit, by some, for being fearless. I am not. I have had panic attacks. I have drank too much because whatever it was that I was doing seemed too overwhelming. I have had stomach aches and shortness of breath and palpitating pressure on my chest often and sometimes just because I was going to work. Or starting a new project. Or because I was leaving the house. I struggle all the time with guilt and a regular feeling that I am all wrong.

But I do leave the house. And that can, sometimes, be the bravest thing of all.

So me, fearless? Not so much. It is true however, that there are certain things that I am not at all afraid of, or rather my fear does not stop me from doing them. I have, after long practice, learned to just get on with it. Showing up at a party by myself or talking to strangers, sure. Moving to a foreign country alone, done, done and done. Getting up on a stage and letting it rip, absolutely. It is not that fear doesn’t accompany these adventures and pursuits of mine. It is merely that the joy of engaging in them trumps my trepidation.

One example of this is that I used to be fearless about flying. I loved flying. I once flew in a small four seater private plane over the Atlantic seaboard and it was an absolute thrill. It was such a small plane that we needed to wear earphones just to be able to hear each other. We looped and turned and rolled. Awesome. On bigger planes, the roll and dip of the plane soaring through the skies offering visions of the above clouds dawn that could not be seen otherwise was tremendous. I delighted in the fact that El Paso has a mountain in it that seen from 20, 000 feet reveals that there used to be an ocean where the wide spreading city now is. A striated curve around the base shows an ancient shoreline, waves were once there.

And then I jumped off a damn.

I was 29. It was a summer evening after a gorgeous day spent at a lake. The distance from damn to water was supposed to be 35 feet. A distance I had jumped before off bridges and cliffs and high rocks. But since the last time the man I was with had jumped, the water level had lowered and what was manageable became a potentially deathly 65 feet. 30 feet of extra that was too much for my skinny, cold and just a little bit high person. I did it to be macho, to prove that I wasn’t afraid and yes, I did it for love. The confused kind.

Naked, I climbed over a railing and then….just dropped. 120 pound me fell for what seemed like an interminable time, enough time to feel myself falling, and not in a good way. I hit that lake surface like a Mack truck. It knocked the wind out of me and I swallowed more algae flaked lake water than I have ever wanted to swallow. My thighs were literally black and blue from impact and I pinched a nerve in my back.

Stupid. Seriously dumb. It was no matter that I had no serious injuries and that those bruises and minor ailments soon healed, ever since then, flying has been severely anxiety inducing. When turbulence happens, I clutch my seat arms in a tense sweat and grimace and almost cry out. I tell myself that the sleeping business man next to me doesn’t care, that the gay couple in front having a jolly time drinking vodka and talking to the flight attendant don’t care. A young mother scolds her kid, the business man starts to snore and yet, I am rigidly wan-faced and white-knuckled in a fit of abject terror. It doesn’t matter how much I imagine that the plane is in jello or how much I mutter under my breath, “I am not afraid, I am not afraid, I am not afraid”, I fucking hate turbulence.

But I still fly. I even flew in a plane for ten long hours to go to France. Our seats where in the back end of the plane and so every drop and shake was magnified. I do still go to Stinson beach, (God, those ocean road curves with no goddamn railing). I even went sailing recently on a tiny boat around San Francisco Bay. And if anyone has been on a sailboat, a small one, you know how that thing can rock and tilt and throw one about. I didn’t get sea sick, I just had that familiar discomfort and body terror of a thing moving beyond my control. Much breathing and staring at the horizon and keeping a little quite to myself while everyone else ran around the boat having a gay old time, was needed.

On that trip we also raced in a regatta, drank wine at the boat club and watched fireworks exploding in celebration of Tiburon turning 50. We sailed back through a then empty bay while the moon was high and stars shone and winked with benevolence. There was even a moment when the boat, lacking wind, hung suspended in the water under a wide night sky reminding me of:

Stilled, we floated, for awhile and then suddenly just a little bit of wind lifted up and the sails filled out. The boat began to move and slice through dark water. A breeze and small splashes and the delicious feeling of movement as cliffs sloped in the distance and city lights beckoned.

It stands as one of the sweetest nights of my life and one that was infinitely worth facing that old fear for.

Even so, I will still probably hate turbulence. I have not been healed. I just will want to walk around Paris on Christmas day more than I will want to not feel afraid. Ultimately, living and thriving is not about being fearless it is about pushing past that fear. To glide over it like a small sailboat on high waves. Because, standing with two feet on firm ground is only truly magnificent when it comes after having rolled and tossed and turned your face into the salt-sprayed wind.