I wrote the beginning for an in-class assignment, then realized that I wanted to see where it went.
So, here goes, for as much as I can remember.
As I dangled what seemed to me 100 miles above the ocean, I thought to myself, “This is a huge mistake.” I’m terrified of heights, but over the past couple of days, I’d also made it a point to try to face my fears, to embrace the adventure. Part of this was due to the locale, or maybe this was due to some self-driven, propulsive madness, but none of this mattered because when I looked down, all I saw was a myriad of blues, all of them calling to me to fall, fall, fall.
I had originally thought that it was just my parents’ whim that had brought us to Islamorada, one of the towns located on the string of land masses named the Florida Keys, but apparently, the winter before, some family friends had made the trip south and suggested that we go there too. So, we did, and that was how I ended up parasailing with my sister somewhere in the warm waters of the mid-Atlantic near-Equatorial belt.
Parasailing?, one might think, Why, but that isn’t frightening at all. You’re connected to a harness which is connected to a giant sail which is all connected to a giant rope which is connected to a winch on a boat, which is generally manned by savvy parasailing operators. And those were indeed the physically tangible components of my parasailing experience, but all the touchable, solid stuff that connected me to the ground meant nothing when my heartbeat stopped stammering and my stomach stopped lurching and my breath stopped escaping in short distressed puffs from my mouth and I finally turned my eyes toward the great “below” that lay around, no, underneath me, in stunning detail and terrifying vastness.
I might pick this up in the future and expand on it. Who knows. What matters to me more is that I’m writing at all, because I’d hate to lose the germ of a story, because there’s something so sad in forgetting something that should be unforgettable.
(Image: Untitled by Jen Korff)