Off the High Dive at Forty

Every summer when I was a kid, I stood on the high dive at the town pool and climbed back down. Every single summer. This August, at forty, I finally jumped.

My nine-year-old had done it a dozen times that week. She kept saying, "Mom, it's so easy." She stood at the bottom of the ladder, waiting. A line of kids gathered behind me as I climbed.

At the top, I looked down at the blue water and my legs turned to jelly. The lifeguard, a teenager in red, said calmly from her chair, "Just step off. Don't think." The kids behind me started chanting my name, which my daughter had told them.

So I stepped off.

It was about two seconds of falling and absolute terror and then a huge, cold splash. I came up gasping. The whole pool was cheering. My daughter was jumping up and down on the deck. The lifeguard gave me a thumbs-up.

I did it three more times before the pool closed. I'm still a little shaky about it. I'm also very proud.