The oak dock creaked as I shifted my weight from my left foot to my right. All around me other eleven-year-old girls in patterned swimsuits and polyester life jackets leapt into the murky water with effervescent smiles. As they exhaled crisp bubbles into the lake water, their laughter intermingled with the sound of my swirling stomach. It was supposed to be an exciting day at camp; instead of having our usual swim off the dock we were swimming across the lake for a “special” activity. I couldn’t find any signs of civilization--no cars, buildings, or other signs of camp--on the other side of the lake. It was an unexplored ocean of forest green with a horizon that sat smoothly against the sky, save for the single taupe cliff that jutted just out of reach from the grabbing arms of ten thousand pine trees. We have to jump off that thing?! No, no, no! As I stood on the oscillating dock watching branches sway, the cliff stood firm and unmoving in the Connecticut breeze, taunting me and my acrophobia.
And yet, something compelled me to jump off the dock and swim towards the looming cliff with the other girls. Was I scared of being left behind? Being called chicken? Or did a part of me want to take on the beast? As I swam across the lake, my sinking stomach was kept afloat by the fluorescent orange life vest hanging off my neck. Only one girl at a time could climb the cliff, and I had the privilege of being the last girl in line to scale the gargantuan creature. As the other girls jumped off with big smiles and even bigger screams, I examined the cliff as if I were Nancy Drew. I loved climbing rocks at home, but this one was different. It wasn’t at all like the hot lava that once flowed over Central Park and eventually hardened into smooth, shallow rocks that were perfect for tiny feet to traverse and explore with ease. Instead it loomed fifteen feet over me with a set of sinister, snarling stone teeth and the warts and wrinkles of a wicked witch that formed an impromptu ladder up to a plateau suspended in the sky. An eighteen-year-old lifeguard nonchalantly looked over the edge as she stood atop the cliff with an effortless, almost apathetic, dominance. How could she stand so close to the edge yet still appear so calm? She yelled that I was next, even though I could’ve sworn we had only reached the cliff a few seconds earlier. Apparently not.
I climbed the side of the cliff with ease, using cracks, crevices, and even chunky tree roots to propel myself to the top. The lake was beneath the protruding plateau of rock I now stood on. The lifeguard who so easily and coolly stood her ground up here led me to the apex of the cliff, where my toes dangled off the edge. I could see camp across the lake; it was a tableau of homely buildings interspersed in scenic New England woodlands. A group of boys was swimming off the dock. Two lifeguards sat in boats beneath the cliff, soaked with splashes. The other girls, floating in orange, were off to the side. A multicolored sailboat meandered in the distance. Some counselors stood on the balcony of the waterfront shack. The lake water rippled in the breeze. The idyllic summer scene below the cliff sharply contrasted my shortened breath and racing heart. The world spun at an unimaginable speed and worst-case-scenarios raced around in my head. How on earth would the flimsy foam vest protect me from the dangers that lurked beneath the clouded water? How did I convince myself to do this? How did the other girls find this fun? But somewhere, deep inside me, was that part of me that wanted to take on the cliff. Determination bubbled to my surface, and every inhalation replaced my anxiety with confidence. In one fluid motion I bent my knees, lifted my heels up in the air, and plunged into the lake below, screaming and smiling the whole way down.