A Troll Jumping into Lake Superior

 It all started with a YouTube video called Cliff Diving. On the screen, kids jumped into Lake Superior, the coldest of the Great Lakes, from a place called Black Rocks in Marquette, Michigan. It looked, surprisingly, fun. Something I had not done before; something out of character for me.

           This was when I decided I should do this.

           Even though one obstacle stood in the way: my fear of heights. A paralyzing fear that I thought I’d dismiss as silly later in life that had only intensified.

Two years ago. The beach. A five-minute drive from my house. Fifteen on bike. My best friend, Bennett, and I. Our hometown of Muskegon, Michigan

           The channel.

           The water black as I stood ready to dive in. Only seven feet below. Easy.

           "Count to three," Bennett said.

           One.

           Two.

           "I can’t do it," I said.

           He jumped; I didn’t.

           "It’s not that bad," Bennett said, standing beside me. "Go on two this time."

           One.

           Two.

           "I can’t do it," I said, standing, watching as Bennett jumped again, wishing I had the courage to take the leap, knowing it was less than ten feet down but it was as if some invisible force held me back.

Two years without seeing Bennett—he moved an hour away. Got a nice job at an insurance company with health benefits. Maintained a serious relationship with a woman that progressed to the next step: marriage.

The Mackinac Bridge. What Michiganders refer to as the UP (Upper Peninsula)—a land that was connected by the five-mile bridge, 200 feet in the air over Lake Michigan. Only one person died on the bridge (suspected suicide).

           The Lake Michigan water blue and placid underneath. Since I’m from the lower peninsula—below the bridge—I’m called a “troll” by my fellow UPPers.

           The lower peninsula got smaller in my rearview mirror.

           I passed semi-trucks and drove over the bridge as fast as I could.

           All the moments in my life I should have been enjoying I rushed through.

           The one-floor hotel was smaller than anticipated. A blue moose statue stood out in front of the building. I noticed the absence of a northern accent when the girl at the front desk talked.

           "Why don't you have a UPPer accent?" I asked.

           Her hair was light blonde. Her lipstick red, eyes green.

           "I'm from the lower peninsula."

           A troll like me.

           Disappointment.

           "Where do I have to go to hear an accent?"

           "About an hour or so north."

The location of the wedding, a hidden gem—barely over the bridge with a clear view of Lake Michigan in St. Ignace. The wedding invitation read, Pre-Wedding Invitation. Everybody's invited.            

           I pulled up and saw Bennett's family, his brother throwing a football to Bennett's fiance's brother. It felt like a family get-together, the pre-wedding meal, the practice run—not something I should be a part of.

           I drove away, wishing I had stayed.

My job at the distillery. Climbing ladders makes me uneasy, looking down, my legs shake. Maybe it wasn't really acrophobia. Maybe it was more ptophobia.

           Grab five boxes of bourbon for the order, I told myself, standing on the ladder.

           "You can hand them to me," my co-worker, Derek, said. "I heard you were afraid of heights."

           "Thank you."

           I handed the boxes, one-by-one, building an order of handcrafted Michigan-bottled bourbon.

           "I need you to go up top and grab boxes," my boss walked by, teasing—everybody knew.

           Last time I climbed up there it took me ten minutes to work up the courage to get down. One little step at a time, fearing the ladder would give out, my feet would slip, I'd wind up a tangle of broken bones.

           My boss showed no fear, lifted by a forklift thirty feet in the air without a safety harness. I wished I had that same kind of bravery, but I've never been brave. Never conquered my fear. Not that doing one thing defeats a fear, but it's a victory, a small one.

           A step.

The drive to Marquette, Michigan the day after Bennett’s wedding. Solo. My head pounded like a drum, my body dehydrated.

           The three-hour drive north. The farthest I'd been away from home—the farthest I'd driven on my own. The roads were 55-mile per hour roads, but everybody went at least 75. I didn’t see a cop the entire drive up.

           My destination: Presque Isle Park.

           Black Rocks. Cliff Diving into Lake Superior, the coldest of The Great Lakes. The highest I've ever jumped. Me facing my greatest fear.

           The park confused me, driving around. Even though I looked at the map. Directionally challenged would be an understatement. Slightly stupid, would be more accurate.

           I found it; I walked from my car. I wore shorts and didn't bother bringing a swimsuit. Made sure to leave my cell phone in the car. Despite how cool a video it'd make, I had no one to film it. Solo. Alone. Not even sure I could do this.

           And, I was a stubborn elder millennial unfamiliar with such technology.

           It was a warm September. Lake Superior takes the longest out of the great lakes to warm up and doesn't get reasonable until August or September.

           An older guy with a mint stout from Black Rocks Brewery sat by the edge of the highest part.    

           “There’s room to sit here,” he said.

           I ventured as close as I dared.

           “You have to come right up here, and you can dangle your legs over,” he said.

           “I’m good."

           “Are you afraid of heights?” he asked, looking puzzled.

           “Some might say that."

            College kids everywhere. A group of guys yelling. One did a backflip from the highest point.

           The sun glistened, making the rocks in the water visible.

           “Last year it was scary,” a college kid said, announcing to a group. “You could see the rocks.”

           “They’re far enough down,” another added.

           Finally, I sat a few feet from the edge.

           A group of four college kids came up. A petite girl with brown hair and sparkling brown eyes.

           “Mel, are you going to jump?” One of the boys asked the girl.

           “No, I’m not doing it this year,” Mel said.

           She looked at me, our eyes locked.

           “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to do it,” I said.

           “It took me over an hour last year,” Mel said.

           "It's been at least an hour."     

           Finally, I stood over the edge looking into the water. I immediately backed up.

           But I knew what I had to do. One ... Two ... I walked up to the edge and didn’t stop, didn’t even think about it, let go, and fell through the air and as I fell I thought, This is a lot farther down than I thought it was, but there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it because of gravity.

           The hang time: eternity.

           The water hit, not as cold as anticipated. I dove further into the water than I thought, all of it around me, for a few seconds, I held my breath.

           I surfaced.