On our last trip to Mexico, my husband and I went to Xel-Ha, an eco-park built around a lagoon carved out of the porous rock that makes up the Yucatan Peninsula by the relentless chiseling of centuries of waves. The lagoon shelters schools of blue, yellow and silver fish, some no bigger than my pinky, others large enough to snap off a couple of my fingers if they wanted to. Floating in the buoyant, warm water with those beautiful creatures flitting teasingly in front of my mask exhilarated and calmed me. I could have floated face down in that lagoon all day, hovering between those conflicting emotions.
But we had another adventure planned for that day. On the landward edge of the lagoon, surrounded by lush forest, a cliff stretched out over the water. At only 12 feet up, the cliff made the perfect jumping platform – high enough to give visitors a thrill but not too high to put anyone in danger. We swam across the lagoon to the wet rock where other thrill-seekers already had pulled themselves out of the water, ditched their fins and masks and headed up the narrow path to the top of the cliff. We took our place in line behind parents and their pre-teen kids, laughing with excitement, and young men bragging about how big the splash from their cannon ball would be. My husband is scared of heights, and I teased him pretty mercilessly about making the jump before we got there. But he looked unconcerned as we got closer to the edge. I was not feeling so sanguine.
From where we stood, we could look across the lagoon at the sheer rock face on the other side. Tropical greenery spilled over the top and sprouted out of cracks in the side. The water at the bottom was a ridiculously bright aqua, still and clear. I suddenly had a hard time swallowing. James looked at me, and I smiled to hide the panic rising from my uncertain stomach. He decided to go first. I felt a little surge of relief. I thought there was a good chance he would back out and we could climb back down the path without me having to prove myself. But just as I was getting ready to tell him we could turn around if he wanted to, he disappeared over the edge. A victorious “woo-hoo!” punctuated the ensuing splash. I peered down to see him grinning back at me.
“Your turn,” he yelled.
I scrunched my toes on the hard rock and stepped back. A quick glance over my shoulder confirmed what I already knew. About 10 people waited behind me, impatient for their turn. I looked down again and wondered what it would feel like to hit the water. I began to feel a sense of déjà vu. A flash of memory reminded me why.
I was about 7 years old, spending another boring afternoon with my grandparents at their swim/tennis club. After watching dozens of older kids plummet off the top of the high dive board, I had nervously climbed up the cool metal ladder myself. From the top, I could see over the flat roof of the club’s dining room. In the distance, glass-fronted office towers peeked over the tree line. I began to wonder what possessed me to turn myself into a spectacle as I clung to the rails at the top of the ladder. Despite starting to feel a little nauseous, I slowly walked toward the edge of the board. It bent slightly under my weight, as if preparing to throw me into the deep end. My mind instantly refused to jump, and no amount of coaxing from the lifeguard or my grandmother, who even got in the pool to encourage me, could convince me to step off into nothing. That humiliating incident ended with me climbing back down the ladder, tears of shame making it hard for me to see as I pushed my way through the crowd of other kids who had gathered at the bottom.
Oh, why hadn’t that childhood memory come back to me before I decided to climb to the top of this stupid cliff, I thought as I listened to the screech of a wild parrot perched in one of the trees behind me. My hesitation was causing quite a traffic jam at the top of the cliff. An impatient redhead with a profusion of curls surrounding her sunburned face asked me if I was going to jump, or what. I stepped to the side and let her and the other people waiting to go past me. James had by this time climbed out of the water and was back at my side, dripping with satisfaction. He was going to jump again, giving his fear of heights a big one-finger salute. He offered to hold my hand if I jumped with him, as a few other couples had done. I just glared at him and crossed my arms.
He launched himself off the cliff again while I stood toward the back of the platform and watched. I had given up the pretense of pending action at this point and a string of jumpers only gave me a few sideways glances as they filed past me. I tried to ignore their obvious derision. The redhead came back to the top of the cliff, but she was holding her shoes, headed toward the path that lead through the trees to the restaurant and locker rooms. She stood watching me for a few minutes, obviously wanting to see if I’d finally get up the courage to do it. Her boyfriend eventually asked her if she was ready, in a tone that clearly said he was.
“Yeah, she’s not going to do it,” the redhead said with contempt as she turned and walked away.
I’m sure she meant for me to hear her. More humiliation. Maybe she thought her jab would push me over the edge. It didn’t. It only made the walk back to the lockers more painful.
I took a personality assessment last night that said pioneering was one of my primary motivations. The desire to adventure comes with a few drawbacks, like self-centeredness and a tendency to ignore others’ feelings, my assessment warned me. It didn’t say anything about being inhibited by fear. That’s a significant hindrance for an adventurer. It seems like a huge and obvious omission on the assessment writer’s part, now that I think about it. What good is an adventurer rooted to the top of a cliff by fear?
I realize, looking back, how many opportunities I missed because I listened to fear instead of my deepest longing. I can’t do anything about the past, but I’m determined not to let that be the story of my future. I’m an adventurer, a pioneer. And while I’m sure the fear will always be there, I’m not going to let it stop me from doing the things my heart longs to do. I don’t know why I was born with this longing for adventure, but I believe I’ll never discover or fulfill my purpose, or live the life I dream of, unless I give it free reign.
