Cliff Jumping

Swimming lessons are among the worst memories I have of growing up. I’ll never know if this was due to the asshole “teachers” I had, the fact that I always had to be in class with kids way younger than me or that being underwater tends to make me panic. Whatever; it doesn’t matter anymore. I don’t enjoy swimming at all, but I’m fine with that.

During swimming lessons, there was always the day when they would force you to jump off the high dive. I hated that day. Belly-flopping into water from 15 feet above it hurts. I preferred the 3 foot board where I could do front flips and cannonballs and stuff.

Unsurprisingly, cliff jumping is something that I’ve never had on my “to-do” list. So when a group of friends went to do just that, I intended on watching. But after about six of my friends leapt off a 20-25 foot cliff and seem to enjoy themselves doing it, I decided to prove my high school principal’s irrelevant chide as inept. I put on a life jacket and followed.

In that moment, I was reminded how much I enjoy the sensation of falling. When I was a kid, I used to jump out of trees all the time from as high as I could do it without hitting a branch underneath. As much as I hated the coldness of it, I liked being able to jump into fresh snow off of roofs. Of course there were haylofts and garage beams above dirt piles. I even launched myself off the roof of a shed once onto dry ground to impress a girl, although that time my dad saw and I got into trouble. While working third shift at a gas station in college, I learned that you could stack up the empty cardboard boxes after stocking their contents and belly-flop into them off the roof of the store with no pain whatsoever.

Anyway, in all the reminiscing I forgot to close my mouth and swallowed a mouthful of river. But the landing didn’t hurt and the life jacket popped me back to the surface where eventually I was able to breathe.

Another group in the area showed Carl and Jeremy where the forty and seventy foot jumping cliffs were. Then one of them jumped off the seventy footer and lived, although I didn’t personally see it. We all went over and peeked over the edges of both, and they looked pretty damn high. Jake and I played the “I’ll do it if you do it” game with the forty foot jump, and after Jeremy survived, Jake went over, and so then I was stuck standing at the edge looking over the lip and thinking I don’t think I want to do this. I lifted one foot tentatively over the edge and my other foot followed somehow and I said, “oh shit” as I fell. But then I immediately relaxed, cupped my crotch with my hands and closed my mouth. I didn’t so much land as slow to a stop. That was a fun freaking jump.

We were late for our rafting trip, but we planned on coming back the next day. We rafted over a six foot waterfall then went to bed (to paraphrase drastically). The next morning, Jeremy wanted to show us a swimming hole before going back to the cliffs. When we got there, it was littered with officious vehicles and personnel. It turned out they were fishing out two bodies of people who had drowned trying to swim in a whirlpool beneath a waterfall about a quarter mile from where we intended to swim. That downer proved enough to prevent us from jumping over any other cliffs that weekend.

I was disappointed that I hadn’t done the seventy foot jump, even though the mere thought of it made my chest burn. So I organized a return trip last weekend.

In the interim, I realized that the best method for cliff jumping was not to stare over the edge but to instead get a running start so that there would be no time to think about the stupidity of it or change your mind. I also decided not to re-do any of the other jumps to avoid any potential disasters before the big one. Unfortunately Jake couldn’t make the trip, so it was down to Jeremy (whom I watched re-jump the other two cliffs), several witness, for whom I located a great spot to watch about a half hour before the leap, during which I had also pinpointed the well-worn runway off the 70 foot ledge, and I. As Jeremy and I walked up the cliff face, some rafters floating past in a bright yellow raft yelled up to ask if we were going to jump. We affirmed.

I intentionally didn’t bother to look over the edge. I walked to the back of the path off the cliff and ran. I didn’t actually jump; I just kept running until I wasn’t stepping on anything. For a moment the sensation was not unlike stepping down another step after you thought you were at the bottom. Next I thought, I actually did it. Check that; I’m actually doing it. I looked to see my watching friends but the yellow raft caught my eye instead. They had docked at the opposite shore just downstream. I seemed to stop mid-air to ponder them like a cartoon coyote. Then I thought, Oh yeah, I’m falling and looked down.

My advice for anybody interested in jumping off a seventy foot cliff is to never look down. The rest of me slipped effortlessly into the water, but my face smashed right into it. I gave myself a minor whip-lash and a bruised lower lip, but if I had jumped from higher I would have broken my neck.

Jeremy waited just long enough for me to float to the surface and yell “Don’t do it!” to jump after me. He hit the water LOUD, and I thought, Jeez, did I smack it that hard? I hadn’t; he had some pretty bad-ass welts on his arms.

So yeah, Mr. Jelly-belly or whatever your name was, if my friends jumped off a cliff I would do it. Hell, I’d do it again.