The jump

The Doorstep Mile

The jump

It is a hot summer’s day. The sparkling river below is enticing. You’d love to take the plunge. It would feel glorious in there – so much better than being stuck here, hot and bothered like everyone else. But rather than leaping in, you remain on the riverbank feeling nervous. Vulnerable.

You think to yourself, ‘What if it’s cold?’

You mop your brow and fret, ‘Oh, respectable people like me shouldn’t be doing stuff like this.’

You clutch tightly at the towel around your body, unwilling to let go and unleash your lily-white buttocks upon the world.

‘What will people think?’

They might laugh at you.

You summon up the will to dip your toe in the water.

‘There have to be easier things to do than this…’

Sure enough, the first step into the water is shockingly cold. (That never changes, by the way.)

‘I knew this was a terrible idea!’

You curse at yourself. The fun you imagined has been suffocated by the immediate discomfort and the worries in your mind. How much easier it would be to stay here where everybody else is.

You almost retreat. Your mind whirls with thoughts of the cold and embarrassment, not to mention the monsters surely lurking beneath the surface, ready to drag you down to your doom.

‘They were right all along!’ you cry, feeling very sorry for yourself.

You shiver with cold and fear and your buttocks wobble. The pebbles in front of you look sharp. The sun beats down and the water sparkles.

What happens next? Do you stay where you are – or will you jump?

You take one more little step. And somehow, somehow, you persuade yourself to persevere. Little by little, step by tiny step, tiptoeing and yelping, you inch deeper into the water. Eventually, you lose patience, probably about when the cold water reaches your crotch.

So you think ‘to hell with it’, and you launch forwards. That’s it: you’ve done it. One moment of committing, one small lunge across the point of no return. You’re in!

Gasp!

Shock!

Holy £*€%, it’s cold!

You emerge from under the water wide-eyed and shocked. You draw breath then whoop. And suddenly now you are splashing, grinning and hollering at all those timid souls on the riverbank. Look at them all, their towels clutched around their vulnerable bits. Dreaming of taking the plunge. Stewing and unhappy, unable to muster that one small step, that giant leap of faith. And look a little closer: they are not laughing at you. They are jealous!

‘Come on in,’ you yell. ‘It’s great once you’re in. Stop being such a wimp. All you gotta do is jump. Once you start, you won’t regret it… God, it feels wonderful in here.’

OVER TO YOU:
The idea of living adventurously reminds me of skinny dipping. What’s a comparative metaphor in your own life? What is your version of flinging off the towel of respectability and leaping in?

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