A Leap Forward

Many of us experience a singular moment in our lives that defines who we are, or who we are destined to be. Those moments often don't elucidate themselves to us in a blatant way at the moment they happen; it's only after time has passed that we come to realize how pivotal the moment was. And only after we reflect on that moment through the twin lenses of history and life experience can we truly appreciate its gravity in shaping our lives.

I think I might have witnessed that moment for one or both of my daughters yesterday.

Sophia and Ella, campers extraordinaire

I took the girls camping again. (This is quickly becoming one of our favorite summer activities: Ella, Sophia and I all have so much fun it should be illegal.) At our favorite campsite, a 10-foot rock looms over the fast-moving Poudre River as it bends around a spot called the Lower Narrows. If one were to, say, jump off that rock, the landing spot is safe for two reasons. First, it's deep enough that one can't even see the bottom. Second, it sits far enough toward the shore and away from the foaming current that makes the Poudre one of Colorado's prime whitewater rafting spots. After the jump, all that's left is a quick 15-foot swim to the left bank, where plenty of rocks await for support. If, that is, you can handle the ice-cold shock of entering the 60-degree (on a good day) water temperature.

The last time we camped at the Lower Narrows (scroll down to my post from June 25), we met a guy named Drew and his 5-year-old son, Kieran, who fearlessly, at least to an observer, jumped off that very same rock. I had deferred because, I'll be perfectly honest, I was scared. For myself, yes, but also for my kids in case anything happened to me.

Sure enough, this time around we met another affable and absurdly friendly camper named Kris, who appeared to be, as fate would have it, also a bit of an experience-seeker. He jumped—flipped, actually—and convinced me to do the same. So I did. (Not the flip.) Four times. With my kids watching in what appeared to be awe. I was the coolest dad ever, but more importantly, I showed courage. Hitting the icy water from that height felt great, no doubt. But the real rush came from simply conquering my fear.

The next afternoon after Kris, his wife Brie, and their adorable baby daughter Ariella had headed back to Fort Collins, I took another dip in the Poudre. And then, the big surprise.

"Dad, I want to jump," said Ella. I was shocked. This is, after all, my cautious, pensive, highly rational, 10-year-old eldest child. She simply doesn't do things like this.

"Okay," I replied. I gave her some tips about where to aim, what to do when she surfaced, and told her that I'd be right there in case anything went wrong. I also made extra sure to pile on the ambivalence. If she was to do this, she needed to decide for herself, and do it for herself only. "Whatever you decide, I'm behind you."

She did it. I was in shock. And drowning in a rushing current of pride, considerably more intense than the class II-III rapids that backdropped our campsite.

Those of you with multiple children surely know what came next.

"I want to do it too," Sophia said. Sophia is seven.

Each girl on her first time spent a bit of time atop the rock surely steeping in some mixture of fear, contemplation, deliberation, and consciousness-bending existentialism that only they could fully grasp. But most importantly, and for whatever internal reasons drove them forward, they eventually took the plunge. Ella jumped four times, Sophia three.

As a parent, the only thing I could do was shake my head and wonder how making this decision would shape these kids for the rest of their lives. After watching their faces and hearing their school-aged versions of bravado and newfound confidence once they got feeling back in their lips, I was certain of only one thing: this was only the beginning of a life of taking chances.

Ella and Sophia...after the plunge