The High Dive
Landing on a new definition of “Happy Hour.”
Since going sober in March 2015, I’ve dreaded Friday nights and the party mindset that comes with every weekend. But last Friday, I decided to change my perspective. I took my son David to the public pool, and we spent the early evening redefining “Happy Hour.” I joined him on the long twisty-turny slide, and I followed him up for a turn on the high dive.
With my toes over the edge, I looked out over the turquoise water and families of all colors who’d come to swim in it. Looking down, though, my brain went haywire:
This is really high. I don’t think I can do it. But I can’t turn around and go back down. How humiliating. I’m 50 years old. I’ve seen far scarier things. I saw Greg Louganis hit his head on the high dive in Seoul. He was okay. I watched my father die a slow miserable death from Alzheimer’s. Not okay. I’ve faced the murder of a friend, even faced the murderer. Then, the suicide of a sibling.
I faced my own drinking problem head on. This board is nothing yet somehow everything. David is waiting for me by the ladder. He just jumped. A big smile on his face. What does my face look like? I hope I don’t look scared, or pathetic. What’s the worst that could happen? My ears burst from the impact? That would be good because I have two little pools of water stuck in my inner ear. They drive me crazy. Sloshing about. Probably just one drop in each canal. An ENT said there was nothing in there, when I asked. He’s wrong. I spent my whole youth in a swimming pool. Those drops are the residual of that life. Maybe I don’t want them to be gone yet. Proof of my champion swimmer history lives in these ear drums. Man I used to do double back flips off the high dive at my club pool back in the ‘70s. Fearless then. Okay, I’ve got to jump now. Screw my eardrums. It’s sort of dizzying up here, jutting out over the Earth. I wish I could hold onto something. Why does the railing end about five feet before the end of the board? We need more things to hold onto when stuff is falling away. Even my brain cells should have little guard rails. My head feels more confused than it should be right now. Wobbly, just like this board. I hope it’s not the initial signs of Alzheimer’s. One of the first things my dad lost was his sense of place in space. Proprioception. When I drop, I fear my head will feel like it’s flying off into the wild blue yonder. Is there such a thing as diving board sickness? Like car sickness? Maybe that’s what I have. I never had it at David’s age. Twelve. Is everyone looking at me? The poor frumpy lady who probably had a better body in her reckless youth? I should just go, let my jiggly skin jiggle all the way down until the splash hides me. I can feel the kids waiting in behind me getting antsy. There’s only one way out. Down.
I popped up, from the deep end. David is beaming, and screaming, “Great job, Mom!” The rush of adrenaline feels incredible. A small feat, but a huge hurdle.
Jumping into liquids is far more exhilarating than drinking down copious amounts. Sixteen months ago, I was drowning from the inside out. The Friday-night high dive catapulted me forward. Into the present. A fulcrum between what was and what will be.
