Jumping off a Ledge, Twice

When I was in college, and in some of my post-collegiate years, I did some stupid things. They enriched my life, but also threatened my safety, on several occasions, to a varying degree. Many of the things I did because I wanted to, some I did because everyone else was doing them. Luckily, I'm not much of a follower and the fact is, I'm not a very adventurous person. These two things probably went a long way to keep me safe. But some of my friends were less measured, and they always looked like they were having so much fun!

It's probably not surprising that one of the riskiest periods in my life happened just after I graduated college and moved (two weeks later) to New York City. It was a time of testing boundaries, experimentation, cutting corners and piercings. But perhaps more surprising is that one of the other riskiest periods in my life was the summer between sophomore and junior year of college when I lived in idyllic State College, PA with one of my best friends. We took risks at night (I recall one tequila fueled experiment that could have, but thankfully did not, go array) and we took risks during the day. Caving in unregulated caves was one of our favorite daylight pastimes. Jumping off cliffs was another.


The Bellefonte Quarry is a dangerous place. It's an old limestone quarry that was abandoned when the company stripping it hit water and flooded the section that they were working on. It is rumored that the heavy machinery that was being used on the dig was abandoned under the water. Train cars and automobiles and refrigerators were contributed to the mess (and the danger) later. The day after we first went to the quarry I told one of the cooks at work where we had been. He told me a horrifying story of a guy who was cliff jumping, went down too far, hit some rusty equipment and came up paralyzed from the waist down. But I didn't know that on the day we first went.

It was also an attractive place. To get to the quarry swimming hole you park in a nondescript location and hike in on level grassy ground, past several "no trespassing" and "private property" signs. Unexpectedly it opens up to a limestone moonscape with cliffs on one side and a sharp drop on the other side. If you peer over the side you can see a shimmering blue-green pool and beyond it there are smaller rock formations, rich with green vegetation. On a hot summer day in Central PA - it was a terribly hot summer the year I was there - that pool looks mighty inviting, but the only way in is to jump off a cliff.

And not just any cliff.

A 40' (at least) cliff.

And not just any 40' cliff, a 40' cliff that slopes INTO the water which means you have to jump OUT pretty far in order to not hit the limestone face on the way down.

This is not something I would seek out to do on my own. But there we were, in bathing suits and cut-offs and it was a long way down.

You have to run and jump if you going to have a chance at making it safely into the water. I was petrified. I thought I would run and slip. Or run and chicken out, but not stop in time, but also not jump far enough. All I could think of was what a horrible idea it was. But everyone else was doing it. And they were having so much fun. So I did it, too. I ran, I jumped, I hit the water, I came up just fine. It wasn't even that cold, as long as you stayed near the surface. And something possessed me to climb back up the trail to the ledge and attempt a second jump. But then I froze. I couldn't do it a second time.

The first time was scary, but I somehow convinced myself it wouldn't be so bad. At least long enough to make the jump. The second time was a whole other ball of wax. I knew what it would feel like in my gut to leap off the ledge. To feel the confusion of gravity as my insides traveled up and my body plummeted down. I could not bring myself to do it, know what "it" was. In many ways jumping the first time, into the unknown was easier.

I started this post by saying that the risks I took enriched my life and they did. Today, thinking about what it means to have Kid #2 inside me, thinking about what it means to become a parent for the second time, I was reminded of my second jump at the quarry, which I eventually did, thanks to some major (and not very politically correct) harassment from my friends. While I don't have a lot of time these days to dwell on how scared I am, in many ways I am more scared of becoming a parent the second time.

When I was pregnant with Nora I knew my life was about to change but I didn't even have a language to think about those fears. You can't understand sleep deprivation until you've been there. What I went through in labor is not something I could have put into words before it happened. What it feels like to look at a screaming child who is so much a part of you but who you have no idea how to help -- this is not something you can be prepared for. I didn't bond with Nora right away and I certainly didn't count on that. But now - looking over the edge of the cliff the second time - I know all of those things, and more, could happen. And somehow, just like on the ledge above the quarry, knowing I survived the first time is a very small comfort.

After I talked to the cook at work that next day I vowed never to go back to the quarry. There were plenty of other ways to fill our summer days and my friends were only too happy to go to the quarry on days I had to work. But what the cook said wasn't the only thing that kept me away. A few days later I was talking with my friend about how scared I was and it was only then that she told me on my first jump I hadn't really jumped out far enough and she was worried I was too close to the wall on impact. Luckily for all of us the second jump worked out ok.

Those of you who know me well, and practically anyone who came into contact with me during Nora's first few months of life, know that there were moments I was "too close to the wall." Here's hoping a solid running start, made up of knowledge and appropriate support, will carry me to safe shores this time around.