High Dive

From a distance, belly down on a faded beach towel warmed by the July sun, I eyed them—the big kids. As aromas of chlorine and Coppertone mingled with the hum of voices and the occasional lifeguard whistle, I glanced over every few minutes to admire jack-knifes, swan dives, and double flips. A few boys competed (again) for the most impressive cannonball splash. 

Back then my hometown public pool had a high dive. Day after day, I’d watch others climb up and walk effortlessly to the end, take two or three bounces and then spring up, out, and down, disappearing into sparkling deep-end water. I dreamt of doing what they did. I admired their bravery. I too, wanted to be a big kid. 

Sometime later, it arrived—the day I would attempt this rite of passage. The lifeguard agreed to let my older sister tread water down below—so she could “catch” me. I didn’t give it a thought then, but now I wonder if she feared I might land on her. If she was afraid, she sure never showed it.

Hopping from one foot to the other, I waited in line behind kids who were a head or more taller than me. When my turn came, I grabbed hold of the ladder. Little toes and fingers gripped each slippery rung as I ascended. Reaching the top, I stepped onto the damp board. It felt sturdy and strong. Its sand-papery texture felt safe and secure. I paused to take it all in. I felt… bigger!

With both hands holding the railing, I moved with vigor toward the edge. After a few steps I stopped. The railing ended but the board stretched on—for miles, it seemed. 

I can’t do this.I can’t.I can’t walk all the way out there. Alone, without…without anything to hold on to. 

Suddenly the board didn’t feel strong and sturdy. My toes curled as if clinging to the gritty surface. I took a couple more steps—each one slow and unsure. My confidence sank. I fought the urge to lie down and wrap my arms around the only thing between me and the ground.

By now a lengthy line had formed below. I heard muffled chatter. 

I know what they’re saying. They’re saying summer will be over before I make this jump. Saying they’ll all have to wait until next July to climb this ladder again. Saying I’m not big enough or brave enough to be up here.

Panic began to set in as I made the last step to the edge. My sister, still treading water, tossed up a “You can do it!”  In that moment, frozen with fear, I forgot all about wanting to be a big kid. Now I just wanted to be rescued from this dreadful predicament. I wanted to return to land—to what was familiar. A few minutes must have passed but for me time stood still and so did I. 

I’m not doing it. I turned and lunged for the safety of the railing.

Meanwhile, my sister had hopped out of the pool. Next thing I knew she was up there with me.

And that was the game changer.

The words she offered brought comfort, I’m sure. I don’t really remember what she said. But what I’ll never forget, is her presence— her willingness to come up there and be with me. A few minutes later, I was at the end of the board peering back down at her. Without hesitation, I jumped. 

And then, I did it again. And again.

***

This is one of my earliest and most vivid memories of my sister. Back then, I was too young to understand the things she faced–rough waters she sailed with the same courage that she lent to me that day.

Decades later when I drove by the pool, the high dive was gone—replaced by some sort of slide. I chuckled. Safer perhaps…but less exhilarating. I’ll always picture it as it was that summer. And I’ll recall the time she climbed up to be with me on the board. 

Written in loving memory of Teri A. Bultemeier.