... continued from yesterday

So I jump.

And I don't make it all the way. Of course. My hands grab hold of the rock, but my body is wriggling in the air, pulling me downward. I grapple with the rock -- I am not letting go of that sucker -- but pieces keep crumbling in my hand. The guide lunges forward and pushes hard on my ass. I scramble to pull myself up to the bottom of the waterfall.

This is the first in a handful of near-misses. I almost fall from the top of the waterfall, and then I almost fall climbing across some cliff when my fingernails start sliding down the spongy moss. And I don't remember being scared or even aware of almost falling. I just remember these little Ecuadorian hands reaching out from nowhere, pulling and pushing me somewhere else.

I have spent most of my life being unathletic. And the thing about being unathletic is that it is not a difficult thing to be. You can live your life just withdrawing from things. Life becomes a narrow passage, a procession of comfortable things like books and movies and bars and hovering under blankets. You like them fine, and so you say no to team sports and group vacations and trips to the beach. You say no because you don't want to look stupid. Because someone might think you look fat or foolish -- and that is embarrassing.

It is.

But South America won't let you say no. It's rugged. It pushes you, and you have to push back. Now, I could never be someone who scales mountains with an ice pick, who runs marathons or gets their jollies jumping from tall buildings. Because sometimes, I like lying in a hammock on the edge of a lake, reading a book in solitude.

I have also found that sometimes, I like to slap my hand in all the mud and squish.