“Way up in the air, you’re finally free
And you can stay up there, right next to me
All this gravity will try and pull you down,
but not this time.”
-Owl City
Sometimes the things that mean the most to you, are also the hardest to put into words. I edited this video together several weeks ago, and I’ve watched it each day since, but it isn’t until now that I finally decided to share it on the site. I didn’t know what I could write to do such a memorable moment in our road trip justice. I didn’t want to screw up the memory somehow by trying to go too deep to describe it. The truth is–I don’t think I’ve quite yet processed the trip–or this specific experience–even though today marks four months since the day we had officially hit the road and started our 50 day adventure.
What I can tell you is that when you’re floating so high in the air and you can see so far in the distance, and you’re surrounded by three people who are full of nothing but love for life in the same way that you are, it doesn’t feel like anything can knock you down–it feels like you can float on top of the world, forever.
It’s 2005. I’m staring at myself in the dressing room mirror of a major retail store in disgust. I’ve been inside this room for twenty minutes trying and untrying summer wear. I am turning sideways, crouching down, bending backwards. “Nothing fits right!” I yell. “You’re fat.” The words spill out of my mouth as I taunt my reflection. I smack the hangers on the door, and I imagine smashing the mirror so I don’t have to look at myself any longer. But there’s my reflection staring back at me with disappointment.
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Eight years later I’m hosting a blog about refusing the word no, getting out of our shell, and overcoming our biggest fears.
In the past year, I have tried everything from pole dancing to sky diving, from beatboxing to plane piloting, and from archery to shark diving. I’ve looked fear in the face on several occasions and I’ve laughed, loudly. I’ve told fear that I am bigger than it. I’ve started saying, “Yes!” instead of, “No way.” This past year I’ve given myself a chance to live—freely and happily. But just because I’ve laughed fear in the face on occasion, doesn’t mean I’m completely immune to feelings of anxiety and uneasiness.
Throughout this blog, I’ve discussed my fear of the ocean, and I’ve mentioned how downhill ski mountains kind of sort of give me the heebie jeebies.
But the truth is my biggest fear doesn’t involve heights or falling. It doesn’t involve dying in a fire nor does it involve being eaten by a shark (though, my second biggest fear IS ocean water). “Why?” you ask. Well because none of these things asks me to stand in front of another human being and be vulnerable to their thoughts, their judgments, and their feelings. My biggest fear is much deeper—much darker. And while the panic I feel towards this specific fear seems silly to write about, it is this fear that tears at my self-esteem and that makes me feel more human than any of the others — the one that I even feel vulnerable writing about now.
My biggest fear involves an itsy bitsy teenie weenie yellow polka-dot—oh wait no, I mean it involves ANY itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikini.
That’s right, the girl who has gone swimming with sharks, who has jumped out of an airplane, and who has let the Great Throwdini throw knives all around her is scared of nothing more than donning a bikini.
This isn’t a new fear. It’s always been my fear. When I was younger, I’d go into the dressing room—two or three one pieces in hand, and a dreadful aching feeling in my heart.
“Does it really have to be swim suit season again?” I’d painfully ask my mother.
As I got older, those dreadful aching feelings remained, though one summer—the summer of 2005, I decided to be daring, and bring a bikini into the fitting room. I removed my t-shirt, and went to clasp the top piece of the bikini. That’s when World War 3 broke out within the confines of a small fitting room: the disgust, the self-emotional abuse, the smacking of the hangers, and the yelling at the mirror.
I screamed, “Nothing fits right! You’re fat.” I continued the conversation with myself and added: “Really, Libby? Really? You thought you would suddenly have all the confidence in the world?”
I relentlessly continued the abuse. I felt sick to my stomach. “I can’t do this,” I told myself, and before even attempting to pull on the bottom piece, I had already unclasped the top and started throwing my baggy hoody back on.
Saddened, tears swelled and fell from my eyes. I was falling apart in the dressing room of a major retail store. There was no one there to confide in—just my disappointed reflection.
I was sixteen going on seventeen at the time—and I was terrified of my own reflection. Each time I took a look, I’d pick out all my problems—my flaws. So instead of looking—I just stopped. I stopped seeing myself.
My failure to accept my size and myself resulted in me turning down many shopping trips with friends. And during the times when I did tag along, I’d avoid trying on any of the clothes. I didn’t want have to pick up the size 12 from the jean shelf while my friends were pulling off the 4s, 6s, and 8s. I didn’t want to have to try and squeeze into an Abercrombie & Fitch t-shirt that was never made to fit me anyway. Put simply, I didn’t want to be publicly embarrassed in front of my best friends—who probably would have never judged me either way. At this point, the only person truly judging me–was me.
Years later, when I was a junior in college, I lost a significant amount of weight. I was thin as a board. But still, I could never find comfort in sporting a two-piece that bared my stomach. A Tankini—yes, but a bikini? No way. Even though I wasn’t as big as I once was—or felt I was—I knew I was still bigger than someone. And that was enough to trigger all those irrational self-conscious feelings from the past.
To this day, I have never publically worn a bikini. Part of my goal on this blog—and in this life—is to inspire others to experiment without fear; to push past the judgmental thoughts of others and ourselves; and to live life freely—without chains holding us back. I want to show people that we are capable of overcoming even our deepest darkest fears—ones that don’t always appear on the surface. So often, we are fearful of telling people our age, our weight, our height, or our innermost beliefs, but we never admit it as our “fear.” The scariest part of it all? Is that these things—our age, our weight, our height, our beliefs, our ability to stand in front of people—all these things that make us vulnerable—are a huge piece of what make us as beautiful as who we are.
I can’t say that I came to the decision to admit my fear on my own. Recently, author Torre DeRoche launched her memoir, Love with a Chance of Drowning, which chronicles her willingness to overcome her biggest fear (sailing the ocean) to salvage love. She refers to it as a “fearful adventure.” With the launch of her book, DeRoche invited her followers and fellow bloggers to take a challenge and share their own fearful adventure. She said the entries could be as ridiculous or as simple and sweet as the writer wanted. And she made the requirements clear that each story should focus on that one “special” fear “that keeps getting in the way of what you want to be doing.”
So I decided to accept DeRoche’s challenge and invitation and describe my own fearful adventure. At first, I was ready to get comical—and outline something “absolutely ridiculous.” I jotted down a few ideas like riding a dolphin around the world—or throwing on a cape and being a real life superhero! But then I realized, I was getting ready to use comedy to cover up what I really wanted to talk about: My Real Fear—the one of wearing a bikini—the one of being vulnerable.
So this summer, I am setting out on a fearful adventure to leave my insecurities behind, squash my low self-esteem and to glide seamlessly along the sands of even the most crowded shores. When the sun finally heats up this summer, I am setting out on a fearful adventure to don an itsy bitsy teenie weenie bikini – or at least get back into that dressing room and try.
This weekend, Memorial Day kicked off the unofficial start to summer. You know what that means! It’s time to grab the boogie board, throw on the board shorts, and host some barbecues! But it also means it’s time to get out and take advantage of all the activities the summer sun allows! Whether you’ve done them before or are looking for a thrill, here’s your top 10 guide to summer hobbies and activities:
Tears form behind my eyes as we climb into the tiny aircraft on the last day of our fifty-day adventure. I make sure that my sunglasses are covering my eyes so that my friends can’t see. “It’s not over yet,” I remind myself. “Don’t cry just yet.”
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On this blog, I’ve written a lot about excitement, about fear, about risk, about joy, about happiness.
But I haven’t written about sadness.
I guess it seems strange that I’d put down a post about “sadness” when writing about something as rewarding as a fifty-day cross country trip, but I promise, it will all make sense.
However, let me first point out that it’s extremely difficult to put into words everything that I felt as we returned to New York City, two weeks ago today. So let me try and do this in a simple, concise manner:
Returning to New York City, from fifty days of continuous stimulating adventure was hard. Going from a fifty-day trip with rarely any sleep, back to the city that never sleeps suddenly felt like going on an exotic trip to a foreign country. As Kim drove me to my apartment, after dropping David off in mid-town Manhattan, I suddenly felt lost in my own home.
And as I arrived back at my place, I felt even more lost. For a few days, I couldn’t eat, I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t function. It wasn’t dissimilar to the feelings I had or the culture shock I went through when I returned to America from studying abroad in Italy back in 2008. That semester abroad had been my first real shot at exploring the world, and when I returned to the states–I was devastatingly depressed. I spoke in Italian to strangers, I imagined sprinting through Piazza Navona while I ran in the gym on a treadmill, and I day dreamed of going back and galavanting down the cobbled alley ways. It took me months to readjust. I didn’t want it to take that long back in New York.
But as I continued to mope in my apartment, my mind began to race with questions:
“How will I acclimate back to the city life?”
“When did New York City get so many people?”
“Why is it so loud?”
“Will I make back the money I spent?”
“What will sleeping in my own bed feel like?”
“What will cooking my own food feel like?”
“When did I get so concerned about alone time–I spent a year focusing on me?”
“What happens if my friends in the city have forgotten about me?”
Suddenly I was more fearful of being in a place I recognized, or now seemingly didn’t, than I had been in the new novel nooks of the country that I had gotten to experience, and that was an overwhelmingly strange feeling. Now, the the routine of the train which I’ve written about enjoying in the past, suddenly felt like a nuisance. And don’t get me started on the feelings I had about interviewing for jobs and returning to work.
I actually considered packing up a suitcase–renting a car–and driving off again.
For a few days, I couldn’t snap out of it. Everything I saw reminded me of the trip–of the beautiful world that Kim, David and I had the opportunity to explore full-on. Everything made me think about that freeing feeling of hanging out of the car in the Badlands:
Of laying out on The Wave in northern Arizona:
Of waking up early to catch sunrises:
Of seeing old friends:
Of quiet.
I asked someone if they often felt sadness when they returned “home” from traveling. Their response was that they had wondered how long it would take the sadness to kick in for me.
Then I let myself cry-a lot. And then I kept crying. –and then I cried some more, texting a friend here or there asking, “How do you cope with sadness?”
I’d felt a large amount of sadness in my life before–but this sadness was different. It wasn’t a depressive sadness. It was it’s own breed of sadness–one that stems from all those other feelings I felt throughout the year: excitement, fear, joy, happinss.
As I wiped away my tears, I wrote another text to another friend: I am okay with this sadness.
I continued, “I respect this sadness.”
It reminded me of one of my favorite Winnie the Pooh quotes:
“How lucky I am to have something, that makes saying goodbye so hard.”
Pooh’s right. It’s easy to forget how lucky we are sometimes, when sadness is all we feel.
I looked at the quote one more time and then decided to paraphrase it to match my exact feelings:
“How lucky I am to have had the chance to experience something so wonderful. How lucky I am that the sadness I feel now is because of an overwhelming feeling of joy that I was privileged to feel, that we can all be privileged to feel, if we just let it happen. How lucky I am that the sadness I feel now is because of the world I let myself see, the chances I let myself take. the obstacles I let myself face, the fears I let myself overcome, the challenges I let myself defeat. the life I let myself live. How lucky I am to look back on the moments I lived–with tear drops in my eyes and joy in my heart.” –-Again–I learned to respect the sadness.
Over the days that the sadness had escalated, I told myself that I had to think of returning from the trip–not as an ending–but rather–a transition–but more so as a landing.
So often, we get caught up on the words “ending” and “finale.” But there was nothing final about this trip–this hobby year. Both adventures opened up incredible opportunities for me to learn about myself, to challenge myself. Both adventures allowed me a chance to grow. Both opportunities allowed me to experience meet new people from all walks of life and to build long lasting friendships. Most of all both adventures allowed me to live a life I’ve always wanted to live: one that’s filled with genuine happiness.
The flying lesson that I posted a video of on this piece may have been the final day of the travels, but to use that word “final,” just seems wrong. That last day gave me a chance to look back on not only the trip with two of my best friends, but also on the year that I said “yes” to–the year that allowed me to overcome my fears, to tackle things I never thought I could–the year that allowed me to live life in an abundantly, exciting way. The year that went from a project–to a lifestyle. The year that was my navigation to true happiness.
That my friends is not an ending. That my friends is much bigger than an ending–and much more rewarding. That my friends, is what I call a landing.
And what’s the best part about landing?
Getting to reflect–Getting to refuel. And getting to take off again soon.
That’s more dogs than there have ever been in a Disney movie.
When we signed up for dog sledding, I had no idea what to expect–and a dog farm with 123 dogs never even crossed my mind. Sled with 12 dogs attached and a musher–maybe, but 123 dogs? No way. What an amazing surprise.
As we drove up a small road to Dog Sled Adventures Montana–just a few miles west of Glacier National Park, I saw a dog peek it’s heads out from behind some trees “There’s a dog!” I yelled.
“There’s a circle of them I continued.” And then I realized we were surrounded my dozens of man’s best friends. In my head I began singing, “Here a dog–there a dog, everywhere a dog, dog, dog.”
I turned to David–and I could just see his eyes light up, his heart bubbling with excitement. If the doors would have been unlocked, I am positive that he would have jumped out before the car had pulled all the way in.
We were entering dog paradise.
While making our final turn up the snowy driveway, Jeff, the owner, greeted us with a giant smile. I knew he must take the dogs out a lot –and that his business must be booming–by his wind burnt face which made his smile glow even more.
Before we even got on the sled, Jeff took us around the dog farm and introduced us to ALL of the dogs. Again–David’s face lit up–and even my soul danced a bit too. As we met more and more dogs, I began to get more and more excited–“These guys really want to do this!” I thought to myself as another dog snuggled up to my leg.
Not before long David, Kim and I were cozying up to one another in a three person sled. While we got ourselves in order, we could hear all the dogs howling.
It felt like we were getting ready to take our marks and race–the dogs were lined up like fans at a sporting event.
I imagined the huskie to my left yelling in a deep authoritative voice: “Stay safe out there young ones.”
And the young hound dog barking: “Have fun!”
We watched as the rest of the dogs jumped up and down with as much as excitement as we felt in our now bundled bodies.
And then…WE WERE OFF!
“Woooo,” we all screeched out a bit, before hitting a few bumps on the first couple of turns.
Moments later, after hitting the first few solid bumps– “By the way–it’s a little bumpy at the start,” our young musher told us as I felt my brain hit the top of my head. “But it won’t be like that for long.”
And he was right–sooner rather than later–we were smooth sailing around turns–up hills–down hills–and through the forest, stopping occasionally for a pee or poop break (for the dogs of course–even if sometimes they didn’t want to stop!). Once in a while we’d endure another bump–but more often than not we were giggling gratefully.
“This is amazing,” I thought to myself.
As we rode right along, I took in the views of the forest, the green that was still poking out from some of these Montana trees. I shielded my eyes from the sun as it ricocheted off the fluffy fresh flakes on the ground. And I took in the fresh smells of winter (even if they were intermingled with wiffs of dog soot). I felt Kims hands on my shoulders–and though I couldn’t see hers or David’s face for most of the ride, I could feel the energy of their smiles bouncing off the barks of the branches. After watching the videos back–I knew my feelings were right on. Each of us had smiles on that could have spread from one side of national forest we were riding through, to the other.
The ride lasted approximately an hour–and as we approached the dog farm on our return, a chorus of dogs cheering us on, again, could be heard.
It was as if they were all yelling “Go team–go team–go team.” “Get out and play, get out and play.”
While we climbed out of the sled, the dogs continued to call to us.
We exchanged high fives with our musher and then took another tour of the dog farm–making sure to give all the pups a friendly farewell.
After saying our goodbyes, Jeff treated us to hot chocolate, cookies and conversation. I watched his eyes as he told stories about the dogs; as he relived his early sleigh rides; and as he spoke about the dogs as his family–and not just his company. I could see the passion growing as he continued to tell us truthful tales of the past. His eyes twinkled with each detail. He’s the kind of guy that you know wakes up before his alarm each day–and gets excited about it–the king of guy that you know–is genuinely happy. The kind of guy you are grateful to have met. The kind of guy that I know I am grateful to have met.
“Do one thing every day that scares you,” I whisper this as I slip slide UP a mountain side at Arches National Park on a beautiful afternoon. “Then do one thing every day that terrifies you,” adds my travel mate David.
Arches National Park wasn’t an original stop on our list–in fact, I hadn’t even known it existed. But as David and I reach the top of the mountain side which reveals one of the most beautiful natural arches of the world–I smile. I’m happy to be here. Hiking has always been therapeutic for me–even if I don’t always appear to be the most graceful one scaling the mountain. Something about the way the sun shines off the landscape–and the way the wind blows the dirt–or the leaves on the trees has always had a calming effect on me. Hiking often gives me time to reflect.
As we take pictures under the arch, that we’ve just masterfully climbed to, I feel like I finally have some time to think about the moments I’ve spent on the trip so far–the moments that were unplanned–and the moments that were planned.
Snowmobiling had always been planned–but like climbing up a slippery side of a mountain, it also instilled a bit of fear in me. The last time I tried to tackle a ski mountain–it was on a down hill mountain bike–and I had crashed the bike. And the last time I had ridden on anything similar to a snowmobile was in the summer of 2006, when I went jet skiing for the first time. Despite having the opportunity to try and drive the jet ski, I declined and enjoyed the ride as a passenger the entire time.
This time was different. This time I would be taking the driver’s seat first. This time, for the most part, I would be in control and in charge for safely getting us up an 11,000 foot mountain in Colorado–and back down. As I turn the key, I take a deep breath. I look at David, who is going to start out driving the other mobile, and he grins. He’s ready for a thrill. I ask Kim, who’s on my mobile, if she’s ready–and she is. Our tour guide takes off–I press the throttle with my thumb–and we are off.
Not before long, the sun is brightly shining off the snow, we’re soaring past trees, taking tight turns, and zooming up a valley of hills. The terrain changes from turn to turn going from a two lane snow-way to a narrow steep section bordered by giant trees whose arms seem to reach out to attempt and grab us at times. And as we reach a clearing–it feels as if we could be flying–without wings attached. My nerves are gone–This is freaking awesome.
After a brief moment of making sure the tour group is all together, I ask Kim if she’d like to take the driver’s seat. We swap positions. But before we even make it around our first curve, we manage to drive the mobile through a three-foot wall of snow sending the snowmobile just feet away from toppling on top of us. Kim and I fall off the mobile and land in a pool of powder. Kim and I look at each other, David rushes over to us, and I begin to giggle. “You okay, Libs?” Kim asks.
I giggle again. “I’m good–but how do we get this snow mobile out of here?”
After a five minute dose of a 7 person effort to dig out a path for the snow mobile–we are back on track. And instead of being scared-I am excited to get back on. This mountain–this trek to the Continental Divide is meant to be conquered–much like the icey trek to the top of Arches National Park just a couple days later.
It’s now been just a few weeks since both the snowmobiling adventure and the Arches National Park Hike–and again I am having time to reflect as I snow shoe around the side of one of earth’s greatest natural wonders: Crater Lake Park. As I ungracefully hike–falling down once in a while, my friend Adam reminds me that “Fear is a habit.” And he’s right. Fear is only what we let it be and only how controlling we let it get. Fear is unintentionally-intentional-it becomes a choice. If we let every fall scare us–if we choose to let fear over-ride our courage–then our ability to find out what we are truly capable of will always be fogged. And the earth and life is a lot more beautiful when we can see clearly. And I can safely say that I’m happy to be seeing life so clearly (even if it’s through my yellow sunglasses many of the times 😉 ).
“The world as we know it is a remarkable place.” – Jason Mraz
Keeping up with the blog has proved to be much more difficult than I had anticipated on this trip. Each day is filled with a wealth of novel beauty that I never know where to begin when I sit down to write. It’s all a bit overwhelming and I find myself struggling to be able to put into words the awe that I experience each and each every day that I am waking up on this trip. I mean, how do I fit the White Sands into a blog piece—when the next day I’m soaring over Albuquerque in a hot air balloon. How do I cut a video of snowmobiling when I am taking the time to witness a brilliant sunset? Or how do I give the Arches National Park a fair share of blog space—when the next day we are off to the next adventure?
If there’s one thing I’ve learned over the last two week, it’s that beauty is everywhere we look—and that it doesn’t take very much to go and find it. Letting ourselves sit and enjoy it? Embrace it? Now that’s the hard part. But once we let ourselves do that? Whew. What a feeling. I’m glad I am letting myself do that–letting myself experience the world–our home as it exists–beneath, above, and beyond what we can ordinarily see–or let ourselves see
One morning in New Mexico, we discovered the underworld as we explored the Carlsbad Caverns. It’s extremely easy to forget that so much more exists when each day we wake up and go through the same routines. It’s easy to forget that years of development came before our city offices—and our streetlights. It’s easy to forget that a world often exists outside our focused lives—but it does.
Over the course of two weeks, I’ve been reminded of this on a number of occasions—even if it wasn’t always underground. In fact—many of the experiences occurred above—and even beyond as we sledded down the slopes of the great White Sands:
Danced ourselves silly in Danceyville, Tennessee on the side of the street:
Floated in a hot air balloon above Albuquerque
Conquered the Continental Divide by snow mobile.
Shimmied our way up and down an icy path to a National Arch, laid under the stars at a remote location in New Mexico, hiked our way to The Wave in Coyote Buttes:
And took a gander at the Grand Canyon:
The road trip was meant to serve as a finale to the first Hobby Hoarder year—a celebration of sticking to a plan—and going through with it—and additionally a celebration of finding something to be passionate about, and scheduling time for it. It’s a celebration of making a choice–a choice to go on adventures– a choice to try something new– a choice to live life to it’s fullest–even when people or obstacles are challenging us not to. What I’ve found is that the Road Trip, while it includes hobbies—has almost grown into it’s own project—but one that continues to fulfill a similar purpose as the The Hobby Hoarder year.
Both have been steady reminders that waking up each morning is worth it; that saying you are going to do something—and going through with it can be the most rewarding experience; and that each hobby—or activity you choose to do or place you choose to visit—has something to offer—something worth looking more closely at—something to share–Something that we can then go on to smile about–and share with others.
The exciting part is that this trip is not even half over yet—and the more I see—the more in awe I become. This world…it is a magical—beautiful place—filled with just an abundance of opportunities–and again, even before our apartments or our cities—it is our home. And it feels good to be getting to know home—beneath, above and beyond.
“Close your tired eyes-Relax and then-Count from one to ten-and open them-All the heavy thoughts will try to weigh you down-But not this time-Way up in the air-You’re finally free”-Owl City
If I had told you that jumping out of a plane was on my original “52 hobbies in 52 weeks” list, I’d be lying. But after piloting a plane–and realizing how free I felt way up in the air, I knew I had to take the dive–the sky dive that is–and see what it really felt like to spread my wings and “fly.”
And it felt amazing.
David and I first booked our skydiving adventure to happen a couple weeks ago, but after Hurricane Sandy came through, we had to reschedule twice. And it’s a good thing we did. We were fortunate enough to jump on a day in Mid-November with well above average temps: 70 degrees.
As we arrived at Endless Mountain Skydivers, I could feel my smile brighten. “This is it. We are going to jump out of a plane today…and that’s pretty effin spectacular,” I thought to myself.
Not before long, we were watching a safety video, suiting up and heading into our plane. There was no turning back now–not even just to pee (the harnesses had us strapped in for good).
As the plane began to climb to it’s peak altitude, I felt my heart begin to beat with excitement. I watched the world get smaller below–the houses now just little boxes, the airport just a set of white crosses in a field. I took a breath. This is the part where I should probably be writing an in depth acknowledgement of the jitters that one feels right before they take a dive through the sky; or the part where I should be explaining that I was becoming fearful of the worst–but the truth is, I wasn’t. I’ve learned this year that the more you let yourself “just do” the less you try to stop yourself–the more you go with your heart’s desires–the more your fears subside–and the more fun you have. And life is supposed to be about having fun.
As the plane began to climb higher and higher, the more I wanted to do this. And the more times that my camera guy asked me if I was nervous, the less-nervous, I became. This was just another stopping point on my journey–that could only propel me ahead. What happened next is as clear to me as the sky outside of the plane:
I take a look out the window–I slide on my goggles, I wiggle my jaw, the door opens to the plane, I flash a smile at the camera–and then suddenly–we are free-falling. As we drop quickly, I can feel my adrenaline beginning to pump wildly. I grin as the cold air rushes past us. “I’m flying…I’m really flying,” I think to myself. “I’m free, I”m free.” The fall is only 40 seconds long, but it’s the biggest rush I’ve ever had. As the world below, begins to get a little bigger down below, so does my smile. I feel like I am holding the whole world in my arms.
As our free-fall reaches it’s climatic end, my instructor pulls our parachute sending us briefly back up into the sky, before floating down to the ground. I begin to feel a little motion sick as the adrenaline continues to rush through my body. My adrenaline is screaming at me, “You’re nuts–you’re nuts, you’ve gotten me all riled up. Even I can’t handle this.” I don’t let my illness ruin the experience. This is truly one of the greatest days of my life.
And the truth is that this has been the greatest year of my life. And the adventure itself has been like one big skydiving trip. With each new hobby that I’ve tried, I’ve experienced a sensation of free-fall: including all the fears, all the anxiety, all the excitement, all the happiness, and all the utter joy. Every week–I feel like I have the whole world in my arms–and that’s a pretty amazing feeling.
I can’t wait to see where the rest of the year takes me.
I wasn’t supposed to be there–at the Far Rockaways. I wasn’t supposed to be doing a hobby at all that day. If this were still just a “project” –and not what I now deem a lifestyle–I would have fulfilled my quote with shark diving at the beginning of the week. But that’s not the case. I had booked two hobbies for the week–and I couldn’t have been more excited. However, I wasn’t supposed to be double hobbying with surfing–I was supposed to be in Pennsylvania–jumping out of a plane.
Less than 24 hours before my scheduled skydive, I received a call that my trip was postponed due to low clouds. It only took me several moments to visit a surf school website in New York, text the owner, and sign up for a class. I didn’t need to replace skydiving–but I felt compelled to.
Sometimes when one cloud covers–another wave of opportunity will present itself–quite literally–and metaphorically here, of course.
I admit—while putting my wetsuit on (initially backwards), I questioned if this was a bad idea–if just signing up for a surf lesson without thinking was really something I should have done. For a couple minutes–I decided it wasn’t. And then for a couple more minutes–I still believed it wasn’t. I wasn’t sure I would even have the courage to walk into the water–but I didn’t have a choice. After a brief sand lesson, our instructor had us stepping into the frigid waters of the Atlantic with the boards in hand.
And not before long I was getting pummeled by waves.
I should preface this by saying that I am terrified of ocean water–I see going into it as an unfair heavyweight battle where the little guy is well below the size of the big guy–and the knockout comes quickly–almost instantly. When I was little, a life guard saved me from the under-toe on some family vacation which paralyzed any positive thoughts I could have about ocean water and what could happen if I went in. During a trip to Bermuda, my mind was changed briefly as the water’s beauty and delicacy seduced me. But upon returning to the East Coast waters, my fears began to loom again.
After the first wave knocked me down on Saturday, I regained my composure, briefly, and I declared the ocean the champion. And instead of raising an arm in victory–it knocked me out again.
I cleared the hair from my face, and said a myriad of things to myself, “Well this was not my best idea.” “I should probably leave the water now.” “I should be jumping out of a plane today–not getting my ass kicked by some personified piece of nature.” Yet, I continued walking out to my instructor who was positive that after a few minutes of learning to stand on the board–on the sand–I’d be able to make progress on the water.
“Hop on that board.”
“Now?!”
He laughed at me.
Silly me–he meant just get on and lay down–not HOP. And of course he meant now. I struggled to get on the board, but after a second try I was up.
“Okay, now sit.”
So like a trained pup, I sat.
“Good. Now lay on that board. Move back a few inches. What’s going to happen is I am going to tell you to paddle…then I’ll push the board forward, and yell “Up.” When I yell up, You stand.”
“Easy,” I said, thinking to myself that I was more likely bound to go face first into the sand at the ocean bottom.
“Paddle, Paddle, Paddle…..” commanded Joel.
I rushed to paddle. But I didn’t know how fast or how slow I should be paddling. What if I didn’t get enough speed? But before I had time to readjust any of this, Joel yelled, “Up,” and I attempted to push myself to my feet.
BAM
Knocked out.
I covered my head so that if the board went flying it wouldn’t truly knock me out. I stayed underwater a second more, and resurfaced before another wave crashed into me, and another one–and another one. And then finally, I found my balance, and realized that throughout those continuous wipeouts–something had happened. I had lost my fear. I was still here. I was still breathing. And I had gotten back up on my own. Bonus point for overcoming fear.
Even still, the ocean was now ahead of me by a score of at least 6 Hits.
Ocean 6: Libs: 1
I had a major comeback to accomplish. I stayed resilient and walked back out to Joel. “How’d that feel?”
“Really freaking good!” I exclaimed. “Nothing to be scared of. I’m really happy I tried to stand.”
Joel smiled, and pushed me out again. And as my two feet landed on the board I slipped off backwards.
Bam.
Knocked out.
Back up.
And out to Joel again.
“I’m going to get this,” I said to him.
I was set on earning more points during this battle with the Atlantic.
And then, with a magnitude of paddling, a swift push from Joel, and a command of “up,” I felt myself make it to my feet. Suddenly, it was like the rest of the water, and the beach, and the sky had disappeared–and it was just me on this foam board, flying. What was only a few mississippi seconds–felt like a beautiful lifetime.
As I surfed closer to shallow waters, I splashed off the board and was congratulated with a nose and mouthful of salt water. When I surfaced–I fist pumped into the air, and yelled “I did it.” Joel looked at me and smiled from a distance, though I’m not sure he actually heard me with the crashing white waters. But it didn’t matter. I didn’t do this for him–or for anyone else–I did this for myself.
“How much will it hurt if someone gets bitten by one of these sharks?” I ask one of our shark experts.
“It would just feel like a lot of pressure–it wouldn’t be “painful” really. But people have to worry for infection after getting bitten by a shark.”
“How likely is it that one of us will get bitten?”
“Not likely.”
I continue quizzing our instructors for a bit, with a smile on my face. Part of me is joking around, and the other part of me is serious. I mean–I am about to jump into a tank full of sharks!
But the truth is–I am not scared at all. A lot of people ask me how I feel before I dive into the more extreme activities–and honestly–I feel fine. It’s the more intimate–1 on 1’s that get me.
To me, jumping out of a plane (as I am doing this coming weekend–pending hurricane Sandy doesn’t destroy my plans), or swimming with sharks–is much easier than sitting down–or standing with a good friend and taking a lesson. I am much more intimidated by the talent driven hobbies than I am by the thrill seeking ones. At first this may seem surprising, but because the number one fear in the world–over dying–is public speaking, I get it.
As humans, we want to be accepted, we don’t want to be judged poorly, and we want to succeed at everything we try–I know I do. But if there’s anything this project has taught me–it’s that the only person judging us most times–is oneself.
At this current moment, with sharks swimming below me–I really just can’t wait to jump in.
I pull on my wetsuit, throw on my snorkel, and wait for my cue to duck underwater and take a look. When I finally do, I am amazed. I can see sharks swimming in the distance. And then I spot one swimming our way. He looks like he’s smiling. I laugh to myself. The laughter causes a small leak in my mouth piece, so I surface momentarily–causing me to laugh at myself again. I readjust and reenter the water. A fish flashes across my face–and then another one. And then from the side I see a shark with a nose shaped like a saw swimming toward our way. He’s waving his serrated edges back and forth as if he knows food is near. Our instructors pull us back until the shark is out of harm’s way.
We go back below. A shark comes toward me, and I imagine speaking to it.
“Hello Mr. Shark.” I quote Little Red Riding Hood, “How big your teeth are, Mr. Shark”
“All the better to eat you with, my dear.”
I laugh to myself, this time keeping my mouth on my snorkel. “Good thing sharks can’t really talk–and good thing this isn’t the rising action in a fairytale.”
But it is–it’s the rising action in my project–or what we should just refer to as my life.
I sit back in the shark tank and continue to take in the view. I ask myself how I got here–in a tank full of sharks.
“Easily,” I answer. “All I had to do was say yes.”
The Hobby Hoarder 
