THE PROBLEM WITH HESITATION

Wednesday, January 4, 2006 12:38:11 AM

"Ante up, boy," my father once told me as we looked over the edge of a large rock, river beneath us and rope swing in hand. "You made it this far, don't quit on me now."

As much as I would like to say I took that breath, leaned back a little and jumped off the edge into watery consumption, I can't. I choked at the very tip of the rock, mind racing with the possibilities of what could happen. The rope could break, shooting me straight into the rocks below. I could mistime my step, fall off the edge, scramble for the rope and miss, and hit the rocks below. I could get halfway out there, soil myself in fear, swing back inwards, hit the rock and go crashing down to the other rocks below. A lot of that fear that I had obviously had something to do with the fact that the rock we were standing on was surrounded by a bunch of other smaller, but still sharp, stones. That fear made me hesitate, and I'll tell you, it didn't help at all to see him grab the rope from me, lean back, and hurtle into the air, taking with him all of my certainty and the five dollars I owed him because I almost pissed myself.

I hesitated, and because of that, I let the fear get the better of me. That unsure feeling rooted me right to the stone at my feet, making my insides clench in manners that usually aren't too nice to feel. All the thoughts of pain and hurting and breaking my leg into a million pieces overran my brain, because I let the common sense that told me not to go jumping off of big rocks freeze that one image of the drop. As we all know, it's not easy to forego the common sense your parents and teachers and family taught you, especially when it's them that's encouraging you to forget about it. And it also doesn't help when you know that encouragement is something that's probably gonna put you in some amount of hurting if you screw up. Right when you imagine that first thought of failing, you squeeze yourself into doubt, then out of that, hesitation. You know the rest, since I just finished describing it.

And we all know as well that sometimes, maybe not often, but sometimes, scaring the go-se out of your mind is the better choice. So when we went back a few months later, I stood on the same rock, on the same edge, with the same pointy stones beneath me, only with more trash strewn about. I started thinking about rusty cans and tetanus shots and broken open heads, and right at the pinnacle of the moment of fear, when I was absolutely positive I wouldn't make the swing, I grabbed the rope, looked down, dropped it again, and walked backwards from the edge. Then I ran, grabbed it, and without stopping to realise fully what I did, stepped back again, frustrated with the fear in me.

That's about the time I fell off the rock, swung out all the way, and landed on a rock that was just under the water's surface, one that somehow my father had missed. I broke my right leg, which was kind of ironic, since I won back the five dollars, but owed him about three hundred more.