But then something funny happened.
Whether it was adrenaline, an unconscious acceptance of the inevitable, or the fear of wussing out in front of the cute instructor who was waiting up there to—I’m just guessing here—toss me overboard if I couldn’t do it myself, I cowboyed up. Stepped to the edge of the platform, hooked my toes over the edge, and gripped the bar when she handed it to me. Bent my knees when she called out, “Ready,” and jumped when she barked, “Hep!”
No matter how prepared you are, that initial drop is bracing. It sucks the wind out of your lungs, lasts just long enough for you to question why you jumped in the first place, and produces so much downward momentum that when you reach the bottom of the arc you feel two-and-a-half times heavier than you really are. And coupled with the constantly shifting horizon, it makes concentrating on Flint’s instructions from below (“Legs up, knees over the bar!”) challenging. But I’d be lying if I said it isn’t exhilarating. This is what a yo-yo feels like.
I didn’t complete a catch. Didn’t even attempt one. Flint estimates that seven out of 10 first-timers pull it off (or, more accurately, get pulled off), but the motion sickness sidelined me after my fifth solo swing. But just like he promised, I overcame some stuff along the way—namely the irrational fear that comes from taking an instructor’s lighthearted, well-intentioned comments too seriously.
Published: September 2010

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