Written by Jim Pfiffer and illustrated by Filomena Jack
This is part two of a tale about spending my adolescent summers showing off, taking dares and doing ill-advised and daring feats at the Rock Stream swimming hole at the bottom of a deep glen.
When I got into trouble, as a kid, my initial defense was to blame someone else.
When Dad or Mom scolded me with “What possessed you to do such a stupid stunt?” my knee-jerk response was “Cuz my friends told me to.”
It rarely worked and cost me a lot of friendships, because my parents would counter with, “If your friends told you to jump off a cliff, would you?”
Well, my friends told me to jump off a cliff the summer of my freshman year in school, and I did.
It happened at Rock Stream, a beautiful, secluded, private swimming area pinched between steep shale cliffs offering plenty of high-dive ledges. My buddies and I spent many summer days there.
It was a popular and unofficial swimming spot where hippies, jocks, farm folks and regular people went to swim, enjoy the scenery and snicker at the nude old dude who frequented the place.
He had to be at least 110-120 years old and was a fixture there. I believe he owned the land that held the glen. I never met him or talked to him, as I had childhood reservations about talking to nude old men.
He enthusiastically enjoyed checking out the bikini-clad bathing beauties and gals that went topless.
So did it, but at least I hid my enthusiasm beneath clothing.
(illustrated by Filomena Jack)
When we were not watching girls, we watched the cliff divers execute beautiful dives and flips from stratospheric heights into the pool of water below.
My friends urged me - no, they dared me - to dive from the cliffs, not because I was a good diver, but because I was a sap for a dare.
I wasn’t much of a diver, but I loved jumping and leaping from high altitudes. I enjoyed the weightlessness of free fall, the tsunami-like splashes at the end and the heart-palpating thrills (think scary movies, roller coasters and dealing with the IRS).
Gravity and I went head-to-head many times. I won most of the faceoffs. I suffered plenty of painful belly-whackers and back-smackers on the ones I lost. Most of my life lessons involved pain, be it physical, emotional or penal.
The cliffs had great leap-off spots, so named because you had to be off your rocker to do so.
There were 30-foot, 60-foot and 90-foot and higher leap-offs.
I did the 30-foot. I jumped feetfirst.
It was fun, thrilling and unlikely to maim me if I landed incorrectly. After several jumps my friends urged me to do the 60-footer. I resisted.
“Why don’t YOU do it?” I asked them.
“Cuz we’re not as good at it as you,” they lied, hoping to appeal to my arrogant ego. It didn’t work, until they dared me -- double-dog dared me.
My purported friends knew I would do most anything on a dare.
So, did I.
The 60-foot leap-off required a hazardous climb up a zig-zag crumbling rock path, in my swim trunks and Red Ball Jets sneakers.
Footwear was a necessity. I had witnessed other jumpers suffer broken blood vessels when the soles of their bare feet smacked the water’s surface.
When I reached the top and looked down, I needed binoculars to see the pool far below the cumulus clouds, sailplanes and turkey vultures between me and it.
As I teetered on the ledge of the notebook-size leap-off spot, I could hear my suspected friends shouting to me from below, but I couldn’t make out their words.
I’m sure they were encouraging and supportive remarks like “Don’t be such a wuss, “Jump you f—kin’ chicken. Cluck-cluck-cluck.”
I had second, third and even fourth thoughts about the jump, but I had to do it. I was dare committed. I had a reputation to uphold.
So, I jumped.
I did so full of fear and with my hands cupped over my groin. Previous jumps taught me the importance of protecting my boys from the impact with the water.
During my fall, time didn’t slow down, nor did my life pass in front of my eyes. If it had I would have seen what an idiot, I’d been and would have ceased all my alleged friends-induced dumb-ass stunts.
Because my hands were protecting my cojones, I couldn’t use them and my arms as rotors to flail about to maintain my balance for a feet-first landing.
I landed butt first.
I was amazed at how fast the descent went and more amazed at how far up the crack of my arse my swim trunks jammed themselves when they hit the water at twice the speed of sound. I feared I would have to pull them out through my mouth.
I was stunned and gasping for breath as I swam to shore. My butt and back of my legs were red and stinging, but I was otherwise unharmed.
My friends applauded, congratulated me and showed their concern for my well-being by urging me to jump from the 90-foot ledge.
I didn’t. I explained to them that my 60-foot leap gave me 24-hour dare protection, so it wouldn’t do any good to dare me.
They didn’t.
It’s been years since I’ve been to Rock Stream. I’d like to go back with my buddies to relive our daring youth, to see if the place has changed and if people still go there to swim and dive.
I’m sure that the nude old man won’t be there.
I just hope my friends don’t dare me to be him.
Jim Pfiffer’s humor columns and Filomena Jack’s, of Filomena Jack Studio’s, funny illustrations can be found on their Facebook pages, nextdoor.com, southerntierlife.com, “Full of Wit” blog https://fullofwitblog.wordpress.com/ and “Outlook By the Bay,” magazine, outlookbythebay.com. These columns are posted weekly unless Pfiffer gets lazy and then who knows when they will be posted. He’s very irresponsible. Stay tuned.