I was frozen in terror. Standing on the end of the fiberglass plank, I could feel my toes, curled in silent resistance. I snuck a glance down into the azure water at the deep end of the pool. It was only ten feet below me, but I might as well have been diving from the volcanic cliffs of a Caribbean Island. I remember the first time I jumped off the diving board at the community pool. Not the one that all the little kids were diving from. The big one – the one that towered over the deep of the pool. The one that the high school boys jackknifed from, slicing the water. That one. I was probably no more than 11 years old. But I was old enough to feel the weight of mortality, every pore of my body dripped with the fear of splashing in the water far below. I don’t know if it was bravery or the fear of being called a chicken, but somehow, I mustered a final jolt of bravery. I closed my eyes and counted out loud. Three. Two. One. Jump! Read more