As a kid, I often went tubing on my grandparent's lake during the summers. Sometimes with friends, sometimes with cousins, sometimes alone. In the safety of the wake behind the boat, tubing was fun. My aunt would run us over the biggest waves and we'd be thrown fifteen feet in the air and come crashing back down, skipping like a stone over the surface of the water. We'd laugh, giggle, scream. Even when we fell off, we'd roll on top of the lake for a few seconds until our velocity slowed enough for us to sink down and bob like a buoy, waiting for the boat to make the slow arc back to pick us up. On board, we'd gush over how high the other had been thrown, how far we'd skittered before we sank.
But when my dad drove, it was a different story. He'd take a peaceful, glass lake and turn it into what felt like a death trap. With a series of tight figure 8's, within moments we were flung out of the wake and into the flatland of the open water. Often we were running parallel with the boat. Outside of the wake, the speed of the tube increased exponentially and the balance became fragile at best. We learned quickly to never have two at a time on when dad drove, because it would only take a few seconds for the person on the outside to succumb to sheer centrifugal force and be flung free like batter off an egg beater (hitting the water at those speeds was like landing on concrete). There were times we were so close to the docks that we were quite literally holding on for dear life, because if we fell off we would have slammed right into the wooden legs that held them aloft in the water.
When dad was behind the wheel, there was no laughing, giggling or screaming. There was only silence. In those moments, alone on the tube, when I was using every ounce of my concentration to keep it from toppling and my arms were so numb from holding on that I couldn't have uncurled my fingers from the handholds even if I'd wanted to, I was not having fun. I was terrified. I was wholly focused on leaving that lake alive and in once piece. Thinking back on it to this day, I'm still flabbergasted that there weren't more injuries. Broken legs, skull fractures... death, death, death! But there wasn't one incident I can remember.
And then sometime magical happened. When my bare feet hit the wood of the dock, my quivering muscles barely keeping me upright, and I thought back on what I has just survived... it did seem fun. It was fun thinking about it. Furthermore, I was proud of myself. I had been challenged, and I had prevailed. I was the fucking goddess of the lake and no one could take that away. I'd won. And better yet, I'd won over myself. I'd dominated my own fear and came through the other side intact and with bragging rights.
Right now, I am on that tube, in that lake, overwhelmed by fear and anxiety, clinging on by my fingertips. But I know that I need to intellectualize my way through it, because the moment my feet hit the ground outside of that plane in Buenos Aries, I win. And this time, not only will I win bragging rights, but I will win amazing experiences, a deeper understand of the world and my place in it, and stories I will tell for the rest of my life. Sometimes it seems like my existence is just a constant battle of me vs. my fear. But when I dig my heels in and just do it, that's when the good stuff happens. I'm ready. Scared, but ready. Bring on the life.
By the way, if your curious about the title of this blog, you can listen to the inspiration here: http://www.radiolab.org/2007/sep/10/goat-on-a-cow/
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