That feeling—when the world is beneath me and my feet tingle with joy anticipating the water—is what I live for.
My younger brother and I were on our way to Paradise Falls. An hour or so outside of Asheville, Paradise Falls is one of my favorite adventure spots. The beauty of the waterfall excites most people when they arrive, but I am a teenage thrill-seeker who also wants to actively participate in the stunning scenery. To the left of the falls was a giant 40-foot granite cliff and a deep pool. It was the perfect spot for a cliff jump.
We parked the car along the side of the road and began hiking for about a mile along a steep trail down to Wolf Creek. We fumbled our way across streams and up steep passages. The deeper we pushed into the woods, the calmer it became. The sound of the highway faded, replaced by wind in the trees and birdsong.
Soon Paradise Falls appeared through the trees. We had to butt-slide down a steep, muddy slope to reach the creek. At the bottom, we got our first full view of Paradise Falls and the monstrous cliff beside it. Finn, my 10-year-old brother, locked up, frozen in fear.
I knew that feeling. The first time I jumped off the cliff beside Paradise Falls was the scariest. I followed a winding trail up the side of the cliff until I came to a rock wall. A frayed rope dangled off the slab. I took a breath and gripped the rope. I balanced my feet on the wall, leaned back, entrusting all my weight to the worn rope, and began to climb. Step by step, I walked up the granite wall. My face was towards the sky, and with every step I felt closer to the clouds.
The climb may have been more dangerous than the actual jump. At the top of the climb was a smooth, sloping granite dome that drops near vertically to the deep water 40 feet below. When I reached the top, I could feel the knot in my stomach tighten, knowing the drop I was about to feel. I had never been more excited. Compared to this, other outdoor activities seemed boring. Hiking got old and the views all became the same. This cliff was just what I was waiting for.
I shuffled my feet closer to the edge. Just as I prepared myself to take a step off the rock, I looked down at the water. Then I jumped and screamed at the same time. I floated for a full second, the water below rushed toward me. I heard the wind in my ears as I fell. My feet felt the water first, and then I was deep underwater. Even in summer, the deep pool of the mountain river was shockingly cold. I popped to the surface. I had never felt more alive.
Now I was taking my little brother to Paradise. But as soon as we arrived at the falls, something felt off with him. So I became a brother mindreader and picked up on the cues. Finally, it struck me: he wanted to be brave, but he was also deathly afraid.
“You ready, Finn?” I said, trying to test my mind reading powers.
“Yeah,” he replied flatly.
“Let’s go, then.”
Finn’s pace was unusually slow as we ascended the side trail up the cliff.
”How are you doing?” I asked.
“Okay,” he said softly. I could barely hear his response over the rumble of the waterfall.
He wasn’t ready—I could tell. When we got to the top, he peeked over the edge and finally spoke his mind.
“I’m scared,” he said.
“That’s normal. Just try to relax.”
I could feel his suffering. I could also sense his desire to jump. Something was still holding him back.
What could I say to motivate him? Maybe tapping into memories and experiences we had together would inspire him to push past his limits.
I remembered the day he was born. He had arrived five weeks early, shriveled and tiny. We joked later that he was over-eager to get out and explore the world. For a couple of weeks, Finn stayed in the NICU on airway support, needles in his arms and feet. He was tough from the moment he arrived.
I thought about emphasizing that bravery had been in his blood from the beginning. But I couldn’t find the words.
I looked Finn in the eyes. I had to say something. Time was running out before Finn lost the little motivation he had.
So I said the first thing that popped into my mind, the most ungraceful and unhelpful thing a 16-year-old could say to his little brother: “Don’t be a wimp.”
I instantly regretted it. I had always been rough on my little brother—that was my form of love. What I really wanted him to know was that I would always have his back.
He looked at me and nodded his head. At that moment, I could feel Finn understanding, looking past my poor words of encouragement, and deeper into my heart.
Turning back towards the jump, he took another deep breath. He was ready now. His feet left the sun-warmed rock. Then, for a moment, he was weightless. He seemed to float in the air for eternity. Finally, he splashed into the water below. As soon as he popped up, he unleashed a shout of joy and relief that echoed off the cliff walls and overpowered even the tumbling water of the falls beside him.
I had never felt someone else’s experience so intensely. I had felt everything he went through on the rock. When he walked out to the edge, I felt the warmth of the granite beneath my feet. I felt his fear, his weightlessness, and his joy. Finn had taken a big leap, and so had I.
Cover photo: Photo taken in Canaan, Connecticut. Courtesy of Getty Images
