Why I Now Dislike the Clouds/The Worst Day of My Life (Maybe.)

This Sunday, I eagerly awoke at 9:00am, rushed through my morning routine, and hopped in my car, off to Jackson, Michigan for what I was sure to be the family adventure of a lifetime. Hell, probably just a flat-out adventure of a lifetime. For my brother’s twenty-first birthday, we were taking him skydiving—and it felt more like a birthday present to myself more than anything else. For weeks I dreamt of jumping out of airplanes and plummeting through clouds. My two hour drive across the state felt like an eternity, and I was so excited I spent that entire eternity talking about how excited I was with my brother. 

We arrived in a field of green grass and pinecones and watched for another three hours what we hoped would be our fate: excited people donning specialized equipment, climbing in to the side of a small, noisy plane, and then, eventually, diving back down to the earth. Everything was spectacular! 

Our names were finally called as the next jumpers, and my father, brother and I practically ran to the station to gear up. The instructors walked us through the different positions we would need to contort our body into in order to do a flip out of the airplane, and twirl around as we fell and so on. We were then told it would be a few minutes before takeoff, so we could go ahead and sit down by the pine trees if we’d like. 

So we sat… and we sat… and we sat…

Eventually, in the most anti-climatic fashion, a whiney voice announced over a small megaphone “Sorry folks, the clouds have rolled in too thick for jumping conditions and they’re not expected to clear up anytime soon. Feel free to talk to the clerk at the desk to reschedule your jump in the Spring.”

Nature has never disappointed me so much in my entire life. 

Adding injury to insult in another act of the natural world stabbing me in the back, I had the pleasure of discovering that I was (am) allergic to pinecones. During the world’s most somber, depressing, and altogether-awful car ride back across the state, my hands, arms, and legs decided they would make my life a little nicer by breaking out in itchy and painful red hives. 

I didn’t even get to see the blood moon. What a terrible day. 

The Great Lakes and Me.

I absolutely, positively, adore the Great Lakes. I mentioned that I often went camping as a child in a previous post, but what I didn’t mention was that those camping trips involved the Great Lakes four out of five times. At least once every summer my family would pack up the van and head out for the coasts. It’s odd to think about a body of water as having any impact on my perceptions of myself (unless I’m thinking about how fragile the human body is and how easily that water could drown me,) but I do think that the Great Lakes—Michigan and Superior, in particular—had a somewhat profound affect on my relationship with the natural world. 

There are very few places in the world that are simultaneously calming and frightening, but large bodies of water are one of them. While my memories of Lake Michigan conjure memories of gentle waves, a sunny day paired with a light breeze, and the smell of sunscreen, Lake Superior conjures images of white-caps, blustering air, and the embarrassing moment in which my father and brother called me into the water with them—I was nine years old and maybe fifty or sixty pounds; the coldness of the water made me collapse halfway through the shallows and my mom had to drag me to rescue. Alas, I did learn the beauty of Lake Superior from afar; a few years later I had the pleasure of boating through the Pictured Rocks!

I don’t know that any other lake, ocean, or river will ever have such an impact on my life as the Great Lakes, but I’m willing to try out any challengers. Perhaps this summer, during my stay in the Netherlands, I will discover that one of their coasts moves me so deeply it by-far surpasses years of fond memories—but, I doubt it.