It's time the Lee-Side got a something beyond my biking, hang gliding, and car fluff. Doug forwarded me an article from the New Yorker and it provoked a few thoughts that are blog-worthy. It's about a 10 minute read, but worth the time.
I've spent my life jumping off of things. As a child when I stood on an overlook or tall structure I fantasied about what it would be like to jump off. My intentions were never morbid or fatal, I just wanted to fly. I wanted to be released from the two dimensional prison in which all earth bound creatures are trapped.
When I lived in the Bay Area, the Golden Gate Bridge was one of my favorite icons. Every morning I would awaken to its distant sharp lines breaking the foggy western horizon. I've flown, ridden, walked, hiked, driven, boated, photographed, and climbed over, under and on top of it. I have fond memories of looking down at the red beacons of the towers as they peaked out from a grey sea of marine layer clouds whose whisps lapped against the red iron like ocean waves. Or driving with my brother northbound through the tunnels below the towers with the top down in my old TR6 on a warm January day. Or giving visiting friends a terrifying, million dollar view as we did steep turns at night over the christmas tree lights of the bridge below.
The news media downplay of jumpers was in full effect by the time I moved to the Bay Area and I rarely heard official news of a jumper, although there were a few I vaguely remember. Every time I crossed the bridge, especially on foot or bike, I pondered what people must think before and just after they jump off. I wondered what it would be like to stand on the edge, looking down with fatal intentions into the cauldron of blue and black waves below. Did the grander of the majestic scenery somehow justify an ugly, selfish act in the minds of those who had lost the desire to live? If so it would be a tragic paradox. The two jump survivors quoted in the article both said they immediately regretted their decisions to jump. I would imagine the 4 seconds it takes to fall 300 feet to the Pacific are an eternity of regret for most.
Later in life I found myself looking down into a different abyss with intentions of jumping. My motives weren't fatal or suicidal, but those of living dreams and fulfilling fantasies. The cliff was three times taller than the deck of the Golden Gate and the abyss was one of red rock instead of blue Pacific Ocean. As I walked out to the edge I took a few seconds to take in the scene. The only sound was that of rocks crumbling below my feet, but the beauty of the moment was deafening. I was at peace with the world and with wing in hand I readied to take my step. One step was all that was needed, gravity would to the rest. As I fell and then flew into the abyss, there was no morbid paradox, only the joy of living a dream. As my feet reunited with the earth there was no regret, only gratitude for life and dreams. In a perfect world I would love to take potential jumpers for a "dry run" and possibly change a few minds...
