The leap

A story about fear and doing the damn thing.

(Lulu living a fear-free life that I dream of)

I stood at the very edge, my toes just peeking over the stern. Shane and Lulu were in the water, and Lacey was sitting on the deck nearby, legs dangling over the side of the boat into the ocean.

“Jump in! You can do it, mum!” the girls called.

My head was telling me to jump, my body (and the fear that engulfed it) held me back. The battle between the two was paralysing-ly strong. I couldn’t jump.

I spent two glorious weeks this past summer in Fiji. We sailed on a mid-size ship, a vessel that could host 100 guests but at the time only had 15. We roamed freely and we tailored our own agendas, and one of those was jumping off the back of the 6-level ship.

Only I couldn’t. 

As others jumped in, without worry or concern, I was held back by crippling fear. My feet became lead weights, and I didn’t have a single jump in me. Instead I meekly climbed down the ladder into the ocean, and bobbed around, ashamed that I couldn’t just jump. I watched the joy on the faces of my girls, and other kids and adults as they jumped, splashed, and resurfaced. I wanted in.

(I’m in the pink swimsuit, holding hands with my daughter - not getting eaten by sharks)

To be clear, they weren’t jumping from any great height. It was the back of the boat, on the bottom platform which was almost level with the ocean - whatever boat people call that. The water below was deep, many metres of deep, dark ocean.

As I swam around in the ocean with my girls, and our newly made friends, I spent time momentarily worrying that sharks would bite my legs off (doesn’t everyone?), and a little time wondering what it was about the jump that scared me.

You see, I don’t like giving into fear. I actually hate it.

I mean, I don’t want to jump out of planes or bungee jump. That fear exists for a reason, and I’m content with that. But seemingly small fears that I should be able to overcome? My brain instantly says, ‘challenge accepted’.

I spent the rest of that summer enjoying daily swims in the salt water, a little ritual that Shane and I made. We didn’t miss a day, and it was joyful and heart-filling. We alternated between beach swims, and river dips, and on the days we swam in the river, I looked at the nearby jetty, and wondered, ‘could I jump off that one day?’

These thoughts didn’t only exist in my head, like most thoughts that pass by my overactive brain, I voiced them. Shane knew of my past anti-jumping disappointment, and he (like always) quickly became my support crew for the self challenge I had accepted. He showed me how easy it was to jump off the jetty, but I quickly decided it was too public (the local swimming spot was always populated by teen school kids).

Summer ended with my much feared and anticipated jump without a single attempt, and I promised myself that it would happen eventually. Next summer.

Then I found myself standing on the deck of a boat off K’gari Island, without another soul around. There wasn’t a boat, or person to be seen.

“I think I want to jump today,” I whispered to Shane in the morning.

We’d anchored the boat about 200 metres off shore, and the water was still. There felt like no better time.

I donned my swimwear, and made my way to the back deck.

My family’s cheerful support started off hopeful and enthusiastic. As I teetered on jumping, and then resisting, it faded.

“Come on mum! Please jump!”

My body was a lead balloon, it wouldn’t go. I stood on the edge of the boat, and I frustratingly couldn’t get it to jump. Fear is powerful.

I looked at their supportive faces. What was I afraid of?

I was afraid of never resurfacing, despite being one of the most buoyant beings I know. I was worried about sharks, despite my two loved ones bobbing around as live bait in front of me. I was worried about looking like a fool.

I was more afraid/worried about not doing the damn thing.

And then I jumped. I forced my feet to leave the deck, and I leapt. I giant leap out and into the ocean. I held my nose, and I hit the water, and plunged down into the depths, wondering if I’d touch the sand on the floor of the ocean below me.

There was joy, driven by adrenaline, and there was fear. As I swam back up to the surface, panic almost took over. Could I make it back up? How long had I been under (it felt like a while)? I kicked, and paddled, propelling my body to the surface.

I gasped for air.

The silence of the middle of the ocean was broken by the prideful cheers from my family. The girls’ faces were so joyful. Shane’s face, a man who grew up on Bondi Beach and has swum his whole life, was showing a tiny part of pride, and a smirk. 

“How long was I down there for? That felt like a while!?” I asked, while still trying to catch my breath.

They laughed. “It was like 3 seconds!”

“But the jump, that was big, wasn’t it?”

Shane looked at me, quick to take the piss out of me, and always a truth-teller, “That wasn’t a jump! You walked off the boat! There was no jumping!”

I laughed. It felt big in my head, probably because it was. Not the details - it didn’t really matter how long I was down there, or how elegant or exuberant the jump was. The act itself was monumental. I faced the fear, and did the damn thing. I didn’t let fear win.

“Do it again!” Lulu begged as I clambered back up the ladder.

I laughed. Once was enough.

Until next summer.