Leap of Faith


It was Thursday.  That was the most terrifying night of my life.  I was camping on the cliffs at Port Maquarrie.  There was going to be a bonfire that night.  I knew something bad was going to happen, and it did.  We were camped on the highest cliff, overlooking a series of rock pools.  Everyone was laughing, dancing and having a great time.  The tides were surprisingly low that night, I remembered. Then, out of no where, we saw the shadow of a giant wave.  Everything happened so quickly.  Everyone ran to the other side of the rock, to the safer side, so they could make a safe escape.  But I just stood there, unmoving, my feet planted so firmly on the ground I was afraid they’d been glued there.  I heard someone shout my name and drag me to the safer place.  It was my father.  He jumped, in the right place, at the right time, and landed safely on one of the lower rocks.  Still, I couldn’t find the strength to jump.  “Rose!” he called, “Just jump!  I’ll catch you!  It’ll be okay!”  I trusted him.  I calculated, and jumped.  I miscalculated.

 

Two months later, I woke up in a white bed in a white room.  “Please don’t try to get up yet.  You’ll hurt yourself.”  someone said in a firm, but gentle voice.  I tried to speak, but my voice caught in my throat.  “You won’t be able to talk for a while after that leap of faith.  You jumped, then landed on your bottom, breaking it.  You also broke an arm, and when your father finally got to you, you had scratches all over.  You’re a bit shaken up too, which would explain why you can’t talk for a while.”  I groaned.  I hated being told what was wrong with my own body.  I lay in that hospital bed for months, my wounds visually getting better.  Three months later, I was out of hospital.  My life couldn’t be better, though I never talked again.

 

 

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