Dive into life – but be sure to check the depth first

When I was 12, I took swimming classes at the YMCA. I didn’t mind the laps or the races,… When I was 12, I took swimming classes at the YMCA. I didn’t mind the laps or the races, but there was one part of class that chilled me, even in the lukewarm water.

The diving board.

It wasn’t very high and I knew leaping off it was perfectly safe. There were instructors everywhere, flotation devices, people who knew CPR and I was a competent swimmer. There was no way I’d drown in that 12 feet of water that lurked beneath the board.

Yet, somehow, I couldn’t do it. I just couldn’t jump. I just couldn’t have faith in gravity and water and my own body to bring me safely to the surface again.

I’ve never been a risk-taker. I was the kid who dashed across the street at warp speed, even if no cars were in sight, for fear of being hit. I was the 16-year-old who never drove more than a few miles over the speed limit and more often drove so slowly, that even old people in Cadillacs passed her by. I never climbed trees higher than I could easily reach because it always seemed like such a long way to the ground.

It translated to my adult life too. That little voice that says things like, “Choose Algebra I instead of Calculus because you know you can do Algebra. Flirt with an attractive guy across a crowded coffee shop, but wait for him to speak first. Buy the basic black dress instead of the vibrant pink one you know you don’t have the guts to wear.”

I think I can blame my parents for all this. When I was a little girl, my father was really overprotective, so I didn’t climb trees or ride my bike at breakneck speed or play football with the boys in the neighborhood. My dad thought it would keep me from getting hurt. Yet, somehow, I ended up in the emergency room with sprains and falls more often than my more active friends. I was a clumsy kid, able to hurt myself quite competently with no assistance from trees or bicycles.

I realize now that my dad, no matter how well-intentioned, did me no favors by sheltering me from the dangers of the world. Perhaps if I had climbed trees, I would have learned not to fall. By exercising my physical skills, I might not have turned out so clumsy. Had I learned to take risks then, perhaps I wouldn’t be so tentative now. But how is a parent supposed to weigh possible broken bones with possible psychological growth?

I don’t climb trees and I don’t play sports. I can deal with that. But the worst part about my hesitancy is that I don’t take risks in other things. I don’t initiate conversations with strangers. I don’t take classes that might be a little too challenging. I don’t tell people I love them.

Last weekend, I took a risk. Spoke my mind, bared my soul, all those trite phrases that are somehow inadequate to describe the intense nakedness I’m feeling now.

It was like I was 12 years old again, preparing to dive off the high diving board, the one whose edge I’d inch closer to, but could never quite jump off. It’s terrifying. You look down into the glistening water, so, so far below you, and you will yourself to leap, but nothing happens. You’re frozen. You climb back down the ladder to music of the shouts and jeers of the other kids at the pool.

I usually like to give a bit of sage advice at this point in my columns. Physical contact is a good thing. Know the facts before you speak on something. Believe in miracles. Go to the theater.

Yet today, I’m not sure I have any. Perhaps that’s just life – sometimes it can’t be summed up in neat catch phrases. Because this is my last article, I wanted to leave you all with a neat ending. Resolution. The moral of the day.

So here’s the logical place where I’d say, “Take the dive! It’s worth the risk! Go for it!” It’s the appropriate summing up. But somehow, those words won’t come.

Probably because this weekend, I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and jumped.

Halfway down, I had an awful realization. What if there’s no water in the pool?

Beth Hommel prays there’s water in the pool. E-mail her at bhommel@pittnews.com if you’re the one responsible for filling it, or if you think she took this diving metaphor too far.