HUMOR
Every Time A Kid Doesn’t Die
He gets to try again
The summer I aged out of my parents’ health insurance was the summer my friends and I discovered cliff jumping.
On the Saco River in Buxton, Maine, there’s a section called Salmon Falls where steep banks and cliffs line the river, and the trees are dressed in so many rope swings (such pretty tassels) they look like a gathering of cowboy pimps.
We went as often as we could, using the ropes, slopes, and cliffs to fly.
One time, I lifted weights hard before going to the falls and found out I’d used up all my upper body strength and had none left over for rope swinging.
I discovered this in the middle of swinging on a rope.
I grabbed the rope, swung out, my arms immediately betrayed me, snapping straight, then my hands let go, and I had no choice but to fall.
So, I fell.
I barely cleared the cliff. My path to the river achieved a slight angle, thankfully, the exact angle of that particular cliff, making my path a path only a few inches away from the rocks all the way down, so close and tight to the cliff that if I was an outfit the cliff was wearing, I’d be leaving nothing to the imagination.
