When I was in fifth through eighth grade, if I was asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, I would have answered emphatically, “Stuntman.” I was fearless, and you couldn’t build a ski jump too big that I wouldn’t attempt. I would also coast down our steep driveway on my bike by standing on the seat and handlebars, steering like a skateboarder by leaning. My brother and I would swing, 20 feet off the ground, from one young tree to the next like Tarzan. I never said I was especially bright, but at this stage in my life, I was leaning into the lack of a prefrontal cortex in my skull.
Fast forward to when my first child was born: I noticed I liked risk a little less. Add another child, and rollercoasters seemed less fun. By the time our youngest was born, I was a full-blown scaredy cat. I am super happy that I never followed through on the whole stuntman idea.
In last week’s blog about chaperoning my son’s high school trip to Costa Rica, I alluded to the zipline outing. The tour guide arranged for us to visit this huge zipline outfit with 10 ziplines. They started out relatively benign, and after the third one, the rider had to decide whether to continue or climb down from the platform and, shamefully, walk back to the bus. Once you took the fourth zipline, you were so far from everything that you needed to ride ziplines back.
It should also be noted that this fourth zipline was so high up and far away that you could only see the cable running away from you into the thin air. You could not see the other side. Fog rolling down the mountains made it impossible to see the endpoint. The other thing to note about this fourth line is that, due to the distance, the rider had to ride tandem (with another rider) so the combined weight would be sufficient to get them all the way across.
Before I went on the first one, and after I was already fitted with my helmet, I had decided there was no way I was continuing after the first three. I would walk back to the bus with my head held high and the knowledge that I would not die this day from plummeting to the ground 100 feet, traveling 60 mph. I would not be embarrassed in the least.
Standing on the platform at number four, I told the man my plans as he paired our students together and kept pushing them into oblivion. He said, “Señor, you must do this.” I told him that I was fine and would walk back. “What will the children think of you, Señor?” I told him that I really didn’t care.
By this time, it was obvious to anyone who landed from number three and set out for number four what was happening. Students offered to ride with me if I was scared. By this time, my own son had left me in the dust. Other chaperones offered to go with me, and I declined every offer. Soon it was just the man and me. I could see the disappointment in his eyes. One more time, he pleaded with me as the last of our group cycled through this platform. “Señor, you must do this.”
I turned to find the ladder down to safety, just when a third young man joined us, Beppo, an employee of this terror company.
“Señor, this is Beppo.” The man said. “He will go with you. He works here.”
I turned to this skinny twenty-something and asked, “Beppo, are you Catholic?”
“Si, Señor.”
“Let’s go.” Somehow, I thought it unlikely that God would call both of us home together, so still afraid, I had reluctantly agreed.
The man on the platform hooked my line first and then Beppo. I felt like a cat digging my claws into whatever was close to avoid falling into the water. I know I was leaning away from the edge and prepared to grab anything to prevent me from accidentally going on my own.
I am sure there was some sort of countdown or warning that we were leaving, but I felt us rushing to the edge of this platform, and I felt nothing beneath my feet any longer. I am not embarrassed to say that I screamed like a middle school girl seeing Taylor Swift in person. My terror quickly subsided when I felt the warm embrace of Beppo from behind me. Never before (or since) had the embrace of another man meant so much to me. I didn’t want him to let go. I felt safe in his arms.
At this point, it should also be noted that I am happily married to my wife of 39 years. It wasn’t like that. He just made me feel safe. After what seemed like hours, I could see the other side and our destination. I calculated the distance and our relative velocity in my head and determined that, barring the line snapping, we would make it.
The line for number five was long and up three or four flights of stairs to a large tower, from which we would launch ourselves. My reputation as a chicken had spread among our students, and I was a bit of a hero (or a clown). The kids cleared a path for Beppo and me to the top of the tower. They wanted to watch (and probably hear me scream again).
Beppo took a running start, with which I ran right along with him, and we launched out into the ether. I was waiting for the familiar feel of Beppo’s body next to mine and felt nothing. Where was the warm embrace? Where was the comfortable feeling? Where in the hell is Beppo?
I looked behind me as I saw the students get smaller and smaller, and, inverted (upside down), my Beppo was waving to the children as we propelled into nothingness. I was not amused. “Beppo!” I screamed. And to my great comfort, he turned right side up and put his arms around me.
I finished the rest of the ziplines, and even once I was back on the bus with the kids, I was still trembling with fear. As I write this, I am still afraid, even though I am nowhere near a zipline and am safely at my desk. “And you wanted to be a stuntman?!” Indeed.