Learning to Fly
As a teenager growing up in a perpetual dust/snow bowl, the changing of the season was always received with enthusiasm and anticipation in regards to the activities that could now be undertaken. The spring meant skateboarding outside again, although the mud and puddles wrecked havoc on trucks and bearings and the leftover sand used on the icy roads usually meant sudden stops and flying face first into said roads perpetually, leaving hands that looked as if they had been combed with a thresher.
The fall meant more skating, although with toques and four times too large sweaters to coordinate with our three times too large jeans, as always, image is EVERYTHING. Speaking of image, I must take this opportunity to prove my street cred and dissuade any thought or notion you may have regarding me being a poseur...SKATEBOARDING IS NOT A CRIME. And just to make sure...I skated the only way I knew how and that way was to SKATE OR DIE.
Winter always brought along a simple yet terribly helpful way to monitor time...eight months from now we would be skating again....
Which left the summer. And summer revolved around one thing and one thing only...throwing one's perfectly good and healthy self off an abandoned train bridge in an attempt to achieve perfect 10's in the Chicken Dive Open Water Category before very biased and hard to impress judges that were under the assumption that only they could achieve the perfect score.
For brevity's sake as well as the locals' vernacular, the bridge was never referred to as a bridge. A title of great importance and immense social significance had been bestowed upon the bridge by the locals; THE TRESTLE. Now the TRESTLE was located in a rather interesting place just down the road from Regina Beach, mainly because Regina Beach isn't all that interesting to begin with and because the land which the TRESTLE was situated on was in fact First Nations land. It was actually situated on the exact spot where the township's boundary ended and the First Nations reserve began. The cove beneath the TRESTLE was in fact No Man's Land, a recreational purgatory...a demilitarized zone...a DMZ of aquatic fun.
So, being teenagers with lofty goals that generally revolved around how to illegally obtain cases of beer and how to unhook a bra with one hand at night, off to the side, away from the bonfire and prying eyes, we had the perfect mentality required to settle the issue of whose structure it actually was.
It was ours. We laid claim to it and taking advantage of squatters' rights, we commenced with the occupation of the TRESTLE, an occupation that lasted seven years. We were militant, we were defiant and we were proud. We were never going to give up our stronghold without a fight. DAMN THE TORPEDOES, FULL SPEED AHEAD! It was ours and there wasn't a thing either the local politicians, law enforcement officers or First Nations band members could do to remove us from the TRESTLE or the TRESTLE from us. And so being teenagers, we did the only natural thing one would do with such an architectural marvel. We threw wild parties on it, some lasting days at a time and throughout the summer long debauchery, whether day or night, we threw ourselves off it with reckless abandon and glee.
Now, one couldn't just JUMP off the TRESTLE. Well, you could but that was usually was reserved for the bikin-clad members of the militia, and so being representatives of the other fair sex, we had to go one step further, thus...the CHICKEN. The CHICKEN involved throwing yourself as high up and as far as out as humanly possible; straining every muscle, fibre and sinew to achieve just that bit more height and distance, for the further up and away you were, the chance for perfect execution increased significantly. Well actually, it didn't...it just looked cool to the babes...or so we thought. As it turned out, we silly boys were the only ones that were suitably impressed by gargantuan effort, which makes sense since we were the ones that invented the sport, so we would bid the fair maidens a sincere "the hell with you" and proceed with the plummeting.
Now the Chicken is a difficult maneuver to learn, let alone execute with any sense of grace, balance and/or style. Upon perfect execution it becomes the CHICKEN...equal parts Greg Louganis, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Nadia Comenci and Rodney Dangerfield. A visual delight combining Cirque du Soleil and Jackass: The Movie with teenage angst-ridden punk rock replacing sweeping orchestral arrangements, Rock-A-Berry Cooler in conjunction with Pilsner and Bohemian beer providing corporate sponsorship instead of Caesar's Palace or the Bellagio.
The basic Chicken is a three-step maneuver involving the following; the HURL, the PLUMMET and the TUCK. The HURL has already been explained in vivid roostercolour so I don't see the need for any review whatsoever. And if you do, well then scroll up, you lazy bastard.
The PLUMMET involves spreading all four limbs, unless you're parents drank the water here for a while before conception occured or some genetic quirk in your DNA sequence took place due to being exposed to a huge bunch of Gamma Rays or receiving a bite from an insect that had been exposed to a huge bunch of Gamma Rays. In either event, my condolences...unless the latter happened, then I have a mint condition #1 that could use your autograph, and oh yeah... cool outfit. Once achieving the full spread of limbs, it is VITAL to the execution of the move that your body remains completely level and parallel to the water below. The judges will be looking for any bend in the back or elbows or legs and will detract points with extreme prejudice for the slightest error. Now keeping this position all the way down to the water is crucial.
Lastly, there is the TUCK and depending on your timing this step can and will be referred to as either the FUCKERED, the PANCAKE, the TOO LATE or the most commonly used term, the BOUGHT IT. Ensuring your dive is called a TUCK and not one of the other terms is vital not only in regards with how well you score with the judges, but with whatever possibility still remaining in you scoring later in the evening with one of the fair maidens previously mentioned. And bear in mind that you told them off along with the other athletes, so aside from not-so-stiff competition (hopefully...) and uncompromising judges, you also have a group of resentful and uncompromising girls to impress. Which may be incredibly difficult to do since you may have just in fact rendered yourself sterile forever or at least incapable of walking properly for at least the remainder of the day and quite possibly the rest of the evening.
The TUCK simply consists of bringing everything that is outstretched and eternally reaching into a neat and compact little package that slightly resembles a fetus within the womb during the final month, which is where you are going to be wishing you were if you fail to do so at the appropriate time which is immediately one nanosecond before impact. If you TUCK too early, you will score poorly with the judges and upon rising to the surface, you will be greeted with boos, and denigrating comments concerning your mother and what she does on Tuesday evenings at the Legion Hall with all of the members of the Legion. Tuesday night, of course being Men's Night... If you TUCK too late, well then...ummm...well...you shouldn't have.
And for years, the annual pilgrimage to the TRESTLE would take place. Old acquaintances being reintroduced for yet another season of competition, old arguments being rehashed for entertainment purposes and old loves beginning anew, although these would end upon the completion of the competitive season. Or never even started depending on how they ended the season previous. And that was the extent of the summer every year...flings and flinging. And it's interesting to note how, upon reflection, those summers were prepatory semesters in the course schedule of Life.
For now some of us have retired. No longer seeking heights to jump off of, or upon reaching the top of whatever structure we have chosen to scale, for whatever reason we are hesitant to throw ourselves into thin air, unwilliing to leave solid ground behind. Or upon choosing to abandon the comfort of solid underfooting, we fear the inevitable impact that awaits us and that we will be unable to prepare for the impact in time. But one thing jumps into my grey matter as I ponder this...back then, we were just having fun. So now things have changed and this simple memory now serves as a metaphor for how to live today. And at least I can fall back on the fact that I haven't forgotten how nor have I lost the ability to execute the CHICKEN. In fact, I remember scoring perfect 10's quite a few times over the years. And when I remember correctly and honestly, it seems to me that I was one of the best there was at pulling off the CHICKEN.
Actually, I can recall, two years ago in Calgary, a night where a group of us were in the mood to hop the fence at the public pool and enjoy a midnight swim. And I remember climbing the Lifeguard Tower and ripping off, at least a 9, maybe 9.5, a Chicken for old times sake. And when I had risen to the surface, I was greeted with looks of amazement, bewilderment and the odd "What the HELL was that?" And a friend of mine from Regina spoke up with a smile and a shake of the head, saying "THAT would be a CHICKEN. NOT a chicken nor a Chicken...but a CHICKEN..." And when I asked him how he knew, for I could not remember seeing him at the beach ever, he said "We would go and watch from the ground. We all thought you guys were nuts. Seems like you still are, only the tower is 15 feet high as opposed to the 40 foot bridge, sorry, TRESTLE you guys would launch off."
So, I guess that's heartening to know, that I haven't lost the ability to hurl myself into something, enjoy the ride along the way and be able to take the necessary precaution to prepare for the landing. I might be too late and have to endure the impact and consequences that result from my error in judgement. But at least I haven't lost the urge to climb up and try again. And most important, I haven't forgotten how satisfying it can be to hurl myself off into the unknown and plummet, regardless if I nail the tuck or not.
The fall meant more skating, although with toques and four times too large sweaters to coordinate with our three times too large jeans, as always, image is EVERYTHING. Speaking of image, I must take this opportunity to prove my street cred and dissuade any thought or notion you may have regarding me being a poseur...SKATEBOARDING IS NOT A CRIME. And just to make sure...I skated the only way I knew how and that way was to SKATE OR DIE.
Winter always brought along a simple yet terribly helpful way to monitor time...eight months from now we would be skating again....
Which left the summer. And summer revolved around one thing and one thing only...throwing one's perfectly good and healthy self off an abandoned train bridge in an attempt to achieve perfect 10's in the Chicken Dive Open Water Category before very biased and hard to impress judges that were under the assumption that only they could achieve the perfect score.
For brevity's sake as well as the locals' vernacular, the bridge was never referred to as a bridge. A title of great importance and immense social significance had been bestowed upon the bridge by the locals; THE TRESTLE. Now the TRESTLE was located in a rather interesting place just down the road from Regina Beach, mainly because Regina Beach isn't all that interesting to begin with and because the land which the TRESTLE was situated on was in fact First Nations land. It was actually situated on the exact spot where the township's boundary ended and the First Nations reserve began. The cove beneath the TRESTLE was in fact No Man's Land, a recreational purgatory...a demilitarized zone...a DMZ of aquatic fun.
So, being teenagers with lofty goals that generally revolved around how to illegally obtain cases of beer and how to unhook a bra with one hand at night, off to the side, away from the bonfire and prying eyes, we had the perfect mentality required to settle the issue of whose structure it actually was.
It was ours. We laid claim to it and taking advantage of squatters' rights, we commenced with the occupation of the TRESTLE, an occupation that lasted seven years. We were militant, we were defiant and we were proud. We were never going to give up our stronghold without a fight. DAMN THE TORPEDOES, FULL SPEED AHEAD! It was ours and there wasn't a thing either the local politicians, law enforcement officers or First Nations band members could do to remove us from the TRESTLE or the TRESTLE from us. And so being teenagers, we did the only natural thing one would do with such an architectural marvel. We threw wild parties on it, some lasting days at a time and throughout the summer long debauchery, whether day or night, we threw ourselves off it with reckless abandon and glee.
Now, one couldn't just JUMP off the TRESTLE. Well, you could but that was usually was reserved for the bikin-clad members of the militia, and so being representatives of the other fair sex, we had to go one step further, thus...the CHICKEN. The CHICKEN involved throwing yourself as high up and as far as out as humanly possible; straining every muscle, fibre and sinew to achieve just that bit more height and distance, for the further up and away you were, the chance for perfect execution increased significantly. Well actually, it didn't...it just looked cool to the babes...or so we thought. As it turned out, we silly boys were the only ones that were suitably impressed by gargantuan effort, which makes sense since we were the ones that invented the sport, so we would bid the fair maidens a sincere "the hell with you" and proceed with the plummeting.
Now the Chicken is a difficult maneuver to learn, let alone execute with any sense of grace, balance and/or style. Upon perfect execution it becomes the CHICKEN...equal parts Greg Louganis, Mikhail Baryshnikov, Nadia Comenci and Rodney Dangerfield. A visual delight combining Cirque du Soleil and Jackass: The Movie with teenage angst-ridden punk rock replacing sweeping orchestral arrangements, Rock-A-Berry Cooler in conjunction with Pilsner and Bohemian beer providing corporate sponsorship instead of Caesar's Palace or the Bellagio.
The basic Chicken is a three-step maneuver involving the following; the HURL, the PLUMMET and the TUCK. The HURL has already been explained in vivid roostercolour so I don't see the need for any review whatsoever. And if you do, well then scroll up, you lazy bastard.
The PLUMMET involves spreading all four limbs, unless you're parents drank the water here for a while before conception occured or some genetic quirk in your DNA sequence took place due to being exposed to a huge bunch of Gamma Rays or receiving a bite from an insect that had been exposed to a huge bunch of Gamma Rays. In either event, my condolences...unless the latter happened, then I have a mint condition #1 that could use your autograph, and oh yeah... cool outfit. Once achieving the full spread of limbs, it is VITAL to the execution of the move that your body remains completely level and parallel to the water below. The judges will be looking for any bend in the back or elbows or legs and will detract points with extreme prejudice for the slightest error. Now keeping this position all the way down to the water is crucial.
Lastly, there is the TUCK and depending on your timing this step can and will be referred to as either the FUCKERED, the PANCAKE, the TOO LATE or the most commonly used term, the BOUGHT IT. Ensuring your dive is called a TUCK and not one of the other terms is vital not only in regards with how well you score with the judges, but with whatever possibility still remaining in you scoring later in the evening with one of the fair maidens previously mentioned. And bear in mind that you told them off along with the other athletes, so aside from not-so-stiff competition (hopefully...) and uncompromising judges, you also have a group of resentful and uncompromising girls to impress. Which may be incredibly difficult to do since you may have just in fact rendered yourself sterile forever or at least incapable of walking properly for at least the remainder of the day and quite possibly the rest of the evening.
The TUCK simply consists of bringing everything that is outstretched and eternally reaching into a neat and compact little package that slightly resembles a fetus within the womb during the final month, which is where you are going to be wishing you were if you fail to do so at the appropriate time which is immediately one nanosecond before impact. If you TUCK too early, you will score poorly with the judges and upon rising to the surface, you will be greeted with boos, and denigrating comments concerning your mother and what she does on Tuesday evenings at the Legion Hall with all of the members of the Legion. Tuesday night, of course being Men's Night... If you TUCK too late, well then...ummm...well...you shouldn't have.
And for years, the annual pilgrimage to the TRESTLE would take place. Old acquaintances being reintroduced for yet another season of competition, old arguments being rehashed for entertainment purposes and old loves beginning anew, although these would end upon the completion of the competitive season. Or never even started depending on how they ended the season previous. And that was the extent of the summer every year...flings and flinging. And it's interesting to note how, upon reflection, those summers were prepatory semesters in the course schedule of Life.
For now some of us have retired. No longer seeking heights to jump off of, or upon reaching the top of whatever structure we have chosen to scale, for whatever reason we are hesitant to throw ourselves into thin air, unwilliing to leave solid ground behind. Or upon choosing to abandon the comfort of solid underfooting, we fear the inevitable impact that awaits us and that we will be unable to prepare for the impact in time. But one thing jumps into my grey matter as I ponder this...back then, we were just having fun. So now things have changed and this simple memory now serves as a metaphor for how to live today. And at least I can fall back on the fact that I haven't forgotten how nor have I lost the ability to execute the CHICKEN. In fact, I remember scoring perfect 10's quite a few times over the years. And when I remember correctly and honestly, it seems to me that I was one of the best there was at pulling off the CHICKEN.
Actually, I can recall, two years ago in Calgary, a night where a group of us were in the mood to hop the fence at the public pool and enjoy a midnight swim. And I remember climbing the Lifeguard Tower and ripping off, at least a 9, maybe 9.5, a Chicken for old times sake. And when I had risen to the surface, I was greeted with looks of amazement, bewilderment and the odd "What the HELL was that?" And a friend of mine from Regina spoke up with a smile and a shake of the head, saying "THAT would be a CHICKEN. NOT a chicken nor a Chicken...but a CHICKEN..." And when I asked him how he knew, for I could not remember seeing him at the beach ever, he said "We would go and watch from the ground. We all thought you guys were nuts. Seems like you still are, only the tower is 15 feet high as opposed to the 40 foot bridge, sorry, TRESTLE you guys would launch off."
So, I guess that's heartening to know, that I haven't lost the ability to hurl myself into something, enjoy the ride along the way and be able to take the necessary precaution to prepare for the landing. I might be too late and have to endure the impact and consequences that result from my error in judgement. But at least I haven't lost the urge to climb up and try again. And most important, I haven't forgotten how satisfying it can be to hurl myself off into the unknown and plummet, regardless if I nail the tuck or not.
1 comment:
but you forgot the only way to achieve a perfect 10 is to miss the tuck good story my friend your loudest judge and competitor
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