Camp Damascus(2)

I’ve gotta pull back on the snake handling.

“Alright. See you at the bottom,” Martina says.

My friend promptly turns and breaks into a run, sprinting with her bare feet across the short, rocky runway. It’s as though the frozen universe has started rolling on again, the rustle of the trees and the splash of water far, far below filling my ears.

The other kids who’ve gathered around these cliffs watch in amazement, their hair wet and stringy as towels drape across them for a fleeting moment of dryness before the next brave leap. Everyone here is used to jumpers taking their time for a big show, standing at the edge of the cliff for a good while and gazing down as though considering their surrender. Of course, once they’ve gotten to the rocky ledge they rarely back down, and everyone watching knows this. It’s all part of the performance, a temporary ringmaster gathering as many eyes as possible before rushing to the edge and hurling themselves over. They tumble down into the cool water below with a mighty splash, followed by excited cheers from their temporary but adoring fans.

Martina doesn’t need any of that.

“Fuck!” she cries out as she springs from the rocks, her body rocketing forward while arms and legs continue pumping in the air. I can see the exact point that gravity catches hold of her body, gripping tight and then yanking downward in a sharp change of trajectory that would make Newton proud.

I lose sight of Martina’s long strawberry curls as she drops, but I’m too frightened to rush to the edge and witness her plummet. Seconds after disappearing from view there’s a loud splash, followed by a joyful eruption from the crowd. Their applause carries out through the forest around us, washing through the trees like audible water.

Carefully, I creep to the edge and stare down into the swimming hole that lies below, the dark water still rippling from Martina’s plunge. A few sunbathers lay out on the shore nearby in various states of undress, many of them less covered up than I’m comfortable with, and a handful of swimmers float at the outer rim of this dazzling natural pool.

It’s a hot day in Montana, so the falls are packed.

I continue gazing, waiting for Martina to resurface as my heart rate needlessly quickens. She’s done this jump hundreds of times, and it appears none of them have resulted in disaster so far. There’s no logical reason for Martina to have any trouble this time around, but as I stare down at the reflective surface below, I can’t help the tiny seed of fear that blossoms at the pit of my stomach.

For some reason I’ve found myself caring a lot about how things turn out for her. It feels, in a word, weird.

A wave of relief pulses through my body as Martina breaks the surface, taking in a big gulp of air and instinctively whipping her red hair from side to side. She begins swimming gracefully across the water, making her way to the shore.

From up here I can see her body move in a completely new light, propelling forward with majestic elegance. She looks like a frog as she kicks her legs, but that comparison sounds brash and awkward, while Martina is nothing of the sort.

“You gonna give it a shot?” a voice abruptly questions from behind, breaking my focus and causing a startled breath to catch in my throat.

I turn around to find my friend Isaiah, his shirtless body already deeply tanned in the afternoon sun. His hair is still wet from the last leap, and I have no doubt he’d love to make another running launch off this cliffside. However, Isaiah has taken a moment away from his own madcap antics to nurture my growth as a future daredevil.

“I was thinking about it,” I admit.

Isaiah cracks a smile. “It’s not as hard as it looks. I mean, we’re only thirty feet up. You’re not gonna die.”

“People died while jumping here in 1977, 1980, and 2016,” I inform him. “So … it’s possible.”

“Oh,” Isaiah replies, his enthusiasm abruptly deflating. He narrows his eyes as a confused expression crosses his face, suddenly confronted by an unexpected kernel of self-doubt.

The average speed of a dive is fifteen feet per second. Therefore, a swimming hole between ten and fifteen feet deep could paralyze you in less than a second.

I don’t mention this.

“You’re still not going to die,” I assure him. “The chances of fatal injury are phenomenally low. If you want to increase your survival odds, just make sure you jump feet first. Never dive.”

Isaiah nods along as I pull him back into mental alignment.

“Plus, God’s watching over you,” I continue.

Isaiah smiles a toothy, all-American grin. My friend reaches out and places a hand on my shoulder in a gesture of reassurance, lingering there a little longer than I might’ve expected. “Amen.”

Finally, I let out an awkward laugh and my friend removes his hand.

“Let’s see it, then,” Isaiah says, nodding toward the cliff’s edge. “What you got, Rose?”

Isaiah backs away and motions for the other kids up here to clear a path. They’re waiting and watching now, their eyes trained on me in anticipation of the leap to come.

Nine out of ten accidents occur when people are playing near the water’s edge, not when they’re focused on jumping in.

I pull off my long dress and toss it to the side, revealing the most decidedly modest black one-piece I could find online. Unlike Martina, however, I’m not yet comfortable enough to flip myself into oblivion without a good look below.