Pretty Much My Most Daring Feat of Unexplained Idiocy

This is a story of how phobias immobilize us, but impulsive behavior is a strong motivator.

Forever, I have had severe acrophobia—extreme or irrational fear of heights characterized by rapid heartbeat when thinking of or looking at any place not on the ground, plus dizzy lightheadedness, shaking like a leaf, feeling queasy, and gasping for breath. I am very familiar with these feelings.

I swear to goddess, I won't even consider standing on a chair or step stool ever. I have to clutch a nearby firm anchor before I step up to fetch something off a shelf. (Honey, I need the can of peas from the third shelf. Will you get it?)

Having said that, I confess that once in a great while, something comes over me that compels me to do something that feels like I'm risking my life.

Intellectually, I know I'm not risking my life, but just try to convince my stomach of that. The feeling is very real. In those moments, I become possessed and feel almost out of body. Like once, I went up in Chicago's Willis Tower. For sure, I knew I was surrounded by thick glass, but still, I stayed four feet from any window.

I scuttled back into the elevator in five minutes flat, keeping my eyes squeezed shut until the doors reopened and I was on the ground floor. So now you have the picture of my irrational fear. I can't control or overcome it. And then came the day I had no power to stop myself.

A gorgeous day with hot, sunny beach weather, and I was with my parents at Phil's Beach. It was idyllic—stretches of hot sand, not many people around, calm water with a soothing presence. About 50 yards out in the lake was a raft, a colossal plastic floating duck, and a high dive that looked to me like it could rival any Dubai skyscraper. I saw it as being 50 stories tall.

For a while, I watched people climb that flimsy, ancient metal ladder, walk the platform, and hurl themselves tumbling into space. Yeah, I'll be right there, my mind said, dripping sarcasm.

It should be noted that I was seven months pregnant and entirely disinclined to do anything my obstetrician would disapprove of.

As I watched, an idiot guy run pell-mell into the water, kicking up sand and spray. He dashed to the high dive and propelled himself at full speed up that ladder, sprinted across the platform, and launched his body 20 feet out before he plunged headfirst. Water mushroomed like an atomic bomb.

I turned to my dad and sneered, "Look at that fool! Ya gotta be nuts to do that." I would never consider it.

A moment later, for no discernible reason, I got up from my safe, comfy, beach blanket and walked across the sand and into the water. I swam to the diving platform. Like an automaton, I climbed the ladder, step by step, to the high dive. I walked the plank. I swear, I have no memory of doing it.

And I stepped off.

It was exhilarating. It felt like flying.

When I got back to the blanket, my dad was apoplectic. I was laughing like a maniac. He just stared at me as if a spacecraft had deposited me on the sand in front of him.

Today, the child I carried that summer is 45 years old. My family still talks about my jump like it was the day aliens abducted me. It seems like it happened a week ago. Understand this: I never even considered a high dive again, nor do I expect to.

Sometimes, ya just gotta follow your impulses.