When I was younger, my Dad would take us to the jetty at Wallaroo (all country towns in Australia have double-double-letter names), and we would go fishing, eat pizza from the (unusually amazing) wood-oven place at the start of the jetty, and we would jetty jump.
For those of you not privy to an Australian beach-life upbringing, jetty jumping is when you jump off the jetty.
Said jetty is usually 6-10 feet above water level, but always feels like 20 feet.
I was not a truly adventurous kid. Despite what my male cousins put me through in many adventures in our Grandfather’s backyard, I was a wuss.
I am still a bit of a wuss.
That day, on the jetty, I kept running up to the edge, and not jumping off. I couldn’t. It was scary as hell! Persistently getting to the edge, and being unable to voluntarily launch myself off.
And then I did.
It was so fun! Amazing! Best feeling ever! Let’s do it again!
You seriously couldn’t get me to stop. My favourite memories of that summer were definitely jumping off the Wallaroo jetty. Even when my bikini top went MIA, sometimes the bottoms too – it was the most fun thing to do, ever.
Last week, I jumped off the jetty again.
I gave up solid, monthly income, to pursue my dream of having nothing to do, except teach yoga.
This is the adult version of the jetty jump.
How many times I went to the edge, almost ready, really thinking I was going to do it this time, but something physically not letting go. Not jumping.
And then the jump. Did I lose my bikini top? I’m sure I will, maybe the bottoms too. But is that going to stop me from diving deep, finding them again, putting them back on without anyone noticing, and climbing back up that jetty, only to feel the invigorating energy of jumping all over again? Nope.
I hope to jetty jump through the rest of my life. Finding the pure joy in letting go and trusting (without knowing) that the forces of nature will catch me.
So welcome to the ocean. If you find my top, please return it to me.