Placing a time stamp on the important stuff

I grew up swimming in a lake. Every summer, every day. Now years and miles removed, I appreciate the lake as never before. When I return, what I’ve learned is reinforced and what I hope is brought forward. In this my annual leap is a rite that bonds present, past, future. And it never gets old.

The image above was taken prior to this year’s leap, which took place in June. The dock had been positioned just hours prior and was bare of boats. The sky was bright but not blue and the water crystal clear. In retrospect I could have set up a tripod and shot a video instead of grabbing a still shot. Next year.

I had no idea if the water would numb or simply chill. Conditions are not a factor. Far more important are the speed, trajectory, and style of the leap. Height or distance, twist or straight, cannonball or quasi-flip ...these are the big decisions. Which is what makes the leap so special. This is no time to think about email, voice mail, txts, posts, bills, meetings, or flight schedules. No time for anything other than what’s at the end of the dock. Aside from my swim trunks, everything must go.

Each year’s leap is unique. I try not to mentally overinvest in the leap and block out all else when I run for the water, but it’s true. Some years have been more about the journey than the destination, others have been more creatively or personally or professionally fulfilling; some have featured addition and others subtraction. The nuances are many and no two years are quite the same. The lake is the same.

I walk to the launch area and rest my backpack on the gray, weathered wood. It has a towel inside and I sense I’ll want that when I lift myself out. I tuck my shirt, hat, and sunglasses away, and remove my shoes. My watch stays on. My watch always stays on. Not entirely sure why, it just does. I return to the shore, taking note of the rise and fall of the dock. My run will be approximately twenty yards.

Like a long jumper about to give it his best effort, I lean back and forth, then dash for the goal. It’s not a graceful dash, rather a hop along the narrow runway, arms to the side for balance. The view from here is the same as it has always been, the same as when I learned to swim in this lake. The hills and trees on the opposite bank, the ripples in the water, the boats. It takes about six seconds to cover the distance. And then, in three steps, the final approach: up, out, and in. It’s a dive this year. In an instant — and by instant I mean the slightest fraction of a fraction of a second — I know precisely where I am.

The next five minutes are spent swimming around, diving and surfacing, absorbing the scene. Mission accomplished.

Having a tradition is important. An activity that marks time and centers gravity. Something both reminiscent and hopeful — a way to take stock of what is past and look forward with energy and nerve. For me, the leap is one of those activities. Maybe the polar bear club, with their signature New Year’s Day dip into icy waters, has had the right idea all along. (Not sure I’m ready to go that route, but never know.)

Time is passing much faster than my sprint across the dock. Day to day, week to week, opportunities to soak it in are few. But as long as I have summer, and leaps into the lake, all will be well. Next year I’ll attempt a flip.