“What’s the worst thing that could happen?”, Hannah asks as I peer down at the crystal clear water below, which now seems so much further down as I stand on the other side of the handrail, holding on tightly.
“My bikini might fall off”, I reply, “I could get water up my nose”, I was really running out of excuses. I wished we had just gone for a swim along one of the long, quiet beaches instead. Or joined Mum for iced coffee at Bompas, an old sandstone hotel on the foreshore. We could’ve tagged along with Dad and Barry fishing and helped them reel in the snapper that we later devoured for dinner. Or sat around the caravan park listening to music, drinking Pimms, and playing cards. Anywhere but standing here facing my fear.
“It gets easier, I was scared the first time, and now look at me”, declares Toby, a new 10 year old friend we made at the caravan park earlier that day, as he pushes off again and lands in the water with ease. His dad snaps a photo. Toby makes it look so easy.
I’ve been camping at Beachport every January since before I can remember, and stepping over the handrail is the closest I’d ever come to jumping off this famous 750m long jetty.
The longer I stood there, the more I was talking myself out of it. My legs shaking, my heart racing and stomach churning. I’ve watched others do this a million times. My friend Sam always back flipping. Yet standing here, elicit a fear in me that I can’t explain.
Then I think to all the brave people in my world. The little girl is my grade last year that is without the ability to walk due to cerebral palsy; she would jump if given the chance. Or the bravery I’ve seen over the years in the oncology ward, where not one person complains as their body is pumped with poison. I think of my Nanna, who that day was facing the reality that 20 years had passed since she last woke to my Nannu’s kind face beside her on the pillow, and bravely she continues to smile everyday…
…and so, I step forward, I let go…
and I jump.
Accidentally Kelly 