The spate of graduations in and around the neighborhood over the last few weeks has given me cause to revisit mine. It has always been a bit fuzzy for the usual reasons: we drank a lot and stayed up late. Those were the two things I shared with my graduating class of 1980, but that’s where the similarities end. Instead of attending that hallowed ceremony and the many parties that followed, my roommate and I thought we’d celebrate our academic achievement with something different. We decided that on graduation night, we’d drive to Canyon Lake, swim across the lake to the cliffs on the other side, climb those same cliffs, and jump off.
I graduated from ASU on Saturday night, May 16th. While the rest of the class was walking the stage in cap and gown, I was working my final shift at a local bar called Timothy O’Toole’s. I was doing more drinking than serving, but that was SOP. I had just gone outside for a cigarette break when Keith, my roommate, pulled up in his 1953 DeSoto.
“Argh!” He yelled out the driver’s window as he navigated the classic car into the small backlot and docked it outside the service entrance. He sounded like Bluebeard.
Keith was from Wisconsin and a helluva basketball player. We met on the ASU soccer team. One day, he just showed up to practice. His soccer skills were limited, but he was quick, could jump like a red kangaroo, was built like a tight end, and was a beast in the box on corner kicks; we nicknamed him “The Hulk.” More than any of that, though, he was a good guy. After my roommate dropped out for the semester, Keith moved into my apartment in Sin City. The semester-and-a-half we lived together was legendary. When he drank, the pirate came out in him. It was his thing. It reminded me of a foghorn and had the same warning effect.
As I climbed in the front seat, I saw Becca and Jill were in the back. They lived in our complex and knew us well enough to be undaunted by our shenanigans; the term courageous didn’t do them justice. With the pirate call and the two girls in the back, the night suddenly became more interesting, if not more dangerous. As I climbed into the front seat, Keith congratulated me on graduating and then told me we were going to the lake to celebrate. He said he’d stocked the trunk with fluid for the car and filled a cooler for us. He tossed me a Coors, and we were off.
The DeSoto was a beast of an automobile, even though the maroon paint had faded to pink, and the massive chrome bumpers were speckled with rust. The car was absolutely indestructible and so old it was beyond cool. It was the perfect college car. And despite being forty years old, it ran pretty well, except it drank oil, brake, and transmission fluid like college kids chugged beer. It usually got us from point A to point B.
The drive from Tempe to Canyon Lake took a little over an hour in a normal car; in the DeSoto, it took thirty minutes longer. As you get closer to the lake, the straight, flat, and well-lit desert road starts to climb and twist, and it gets really, fucking dark. So, in a car with failing headlights, bad brakes, and a sketchy transmission, you go easy. We also drank about six cans of Coors for each can of additive the DeSoto consumed, so the potential for operator or mechanical error was high.
For the Love of the Leap
The purpose of this little journey wasn’t to go swimming; we were going to jump off a cliff. Back then, I was big into jumping off of stuff, things like balconies, rooftops, pool fences, lifeguard stands, bridges, moving boats, and cliffs. I’d jump off anything as long as there was water below. And I loved the cliffs. My jumping got so out of hand that even the ASU rugby team that frequented the lake on the weekends thought I was a little off. Given that the rugby guys back then were just football players with a few loose screws who ate dog food for breakfast and didn’t mind huddling up with the other team, I took that as solid praise. Crazy knows crazy.
Before we could jump, we had to find the boat launch, which was no picnic. The road to the lake had two narrow bridges barely wide enough for the DeSoto. The road wiggles between the peaks and valleys of the Superstition Mountains, and the bridges are cantilevered between some of the steeper inclines and over the deeper tributaries. At the first bridge, Keith and I side-eyed each other because we realized how hard it was to see anything. When we reached the second bridge, we both said in unison, “Fuck me.” As we rolled slowly onto the second expanse, he stopped; we each took a pull from our beers and said, “This is nuts.” The college degree was working. I even recall Becca asking if she could hold onto the keys when we went off on our little adventure, “Just in case.” Genius was contagious.
Plan B
Up to that point, we had been so committed to making the jump that we were oblivious to the obstacles we had to overcome. So we pushed through the ink-black night down the steep, dark, curvy road, committed to our plan — until we drove onto the third bridge. It’s hard to know how common sense worked past our solid plan and through all that beer, but it did. As we sat idling on the apron of the third bridge, we suddenly realized that our plan to jump a hundred feet off a canyon wall into the water below was ridiculous. Then, just as suddenly, despite four years of college education, our common sense evaporated like cold spit on a hot iron, and things got stupid-crazy.
“We could jump from here,” I said.
Keith looked past the bridge, but it was too dark to see anything. He smiled anyway and started walking back to the car. We were gonna jump off the bridge.
It’s an impressive expanse, two hundred feet long, held together with giant steel girders, foot-long bolts, and nuts the size of lemons. Stretched between two rock outcroppings, the bridge hung about fifty feet above the inlet. Without a word, Keith put the car in reverse. The De Soto squeaked its discomfort in the unfamiliar gear, and we rode back to the head of the bridge. He parked, and we both got out again and stood at the side of the car. Even with the DeSoto’s headlights, you couldn’t see the middle of the bridge, let alone the other end. But we could hear the water slosh and feel the cool air rise from below.
“So, how you wanna do this?” Keith asked as he rubbed his hands together.
“Do this?” I asked, “We stand on the bridge and just jump off.”
“But from where?” Keith asked.
“From the middle,” I said, “so we don’t get squished.”
Becca stuck her head out of the window and yelled to us, “What are you idiots up to now?” I waved and sent her a dopey smile. It didn’t answer her question, but she ducked back inside. The air in the canyon had gotten chilly.
“And where is the middle?” Keith asked. It was a legit question, given the fact we couldn’t see five feet in front of our damn faces.
The Poorly Calculated Risk
I thought for a minute; the DeSoto’s big engine idled behind us, its lights casting our silhouettes across the pavement. Bugs and moths flitted and danced in that same light; crickets chirped loud enough to be heard over the grumble of Keith’s car. I looked up and saw a sky filled with stars, the moon already descending across the Valley. Killing time as I worked on the puzzle, I saw a large rock off to the side of the road. I walked over, picked it up, and held it out for Keith to see. I talked as I walked back towards him with the rock in my hand.
“You stand here, at this edge of the bridge,” I pointed to the expansion joint a few feet in front of us,” I’ll take this rock and walk to the other end of the bridge. I’ll know it when I get there. Then I’ll whistle, and you start walking towards me when you hear that whistle.”
I walked in a deliberate, evenly spaced stride to show him the length of his stride and how fast he should walk.
“We’ll meet in the middle.” He eyed me skeptically, but I kept going. “That’ll be the middle. I’ll drop this rock into the water, and we’ll wait to hear it splash. Then we’ll hop up on the side thing there…”
“The truss,” Keith interjected; he had some construction experience.
“…yeah, the truss,” I continued, “and we’ll jump off.”
And that’s what we did.
Cartoon by ChatGPT Coloring Book Hero — so odd I had to use it.
The Postmortem
When I was twenty years old, I didn’t think I’d make it to thirty. When I was thirty, I never thought I’d see forty. Some of the shit we were doing back then wasn’t conducive to a long life, cliff-diving being one, but there were others.
We subscribed to Willard Mottley’s oft-mangled line, “Live fast, die young, and have a young-looking corpse.” We were kids, and we were idiots. We sported t-shirts with the chorus from the Trooper song, “I’m here for a good time, not a long time.” It was only by sheer luck those words didn’t come true that night.
We drove home in silence. The clock in the car read two-thirty, but it always said that. It was late, we were sober, and we were in one piece through no fault of our own. Becca and Liz stopped talking to us the moment they saw us come up from the river, soaking wet. When they realized the stupidity of what we’d done; that driven by the insane idea that we were invincible, we almost killed ourselves. I think the girls were considering what they would have had to live with had we not climbed back out of the water. So were we. It was as terrifying as it was elucidating.
A Different World
Twenty-somethings aren’t known for their wisdom. When I graduated from college, I was more concerned about next weekend than next year. The goal for most of us back then was to grab a degree and see where it would take us. We felt no urgency to turn that diploma into a revenue generator; we rode it toward a job. We weren’t under the pressure to earn after graduation that kids are today. Out-of-state tuition back then was $1,700 a year. If you lived on hot dogs, Ruffles, Coors, Whoppers, and cigarettes and shared an apartment with a couple of roommates, you’d spend another three grand — a year. So, if you could earn enough credits in four years to graduate, you’re in and out with a Bachelor’s degree for less than $20K. I made enough for working summers back home each year, so college debt wasn’t an issue. Who needed a career plan?
Metaphor Alert
Had I heard what my subconscious was trying to tell me that night at the bridge, my career would have had a different arc. What happened at the bridge that night, jumping into an unseen river hoping to survive, was a metaphor for my professional life. I loved the thrill of jumping off stuff. And I’ve been doing it ever since, although the risks haven’t been quite as high.
But here’s the funny thing: I’ve thoroughly and completely enjoyed almost every minute of my life. Because what my actions were telling me that night, but I wasn’t able to understand then, was that I was:
– Fearless to the point of crazy — Not fighter pilot, military, astronaut, or first-responder fearlessness, more of a WTF attitude.
– Inspired by a Challenge — Enjoyed working on puzzles of any kind. The harder, the better.
– Non-traditional — Not interested in doing what others did.
– Companionable — I enjoyed the company of a few good friends that got me and I could trust.
- Casually Calculating — I was pretty good at “back-of-the-napkin” calculations.
Seven-Come-Eleven
We made that jump forty-three years ago, and I’ve been doing the same thing ever since. It would take another four years before I’d discover that alcohol and I were incompatible in any amount (See my next post). A few years later, I found I was allergic to money. Both revelations have shaped my personal and professional life in profound ways, both good and bad.
Since jumping off the bridge, I’ve lived in five different states and nine different cities. I’ve worked for fourteen different companies and started eight of my own. The last three, a marketing firm, a production studio, and a non-profit organization, have worked with hundreds of clients and partners. Every change or start-up was a bit like jumping off that bridge — I never really knew what I was getting into or how it would turn out. I’ve had my share of successes and failures; it’s been a hell of a lot of fun.
So, What’s the Point?
So why post this story now? What’s the point in writing about my past and sharing it with you? I’ll defer to someone smarter than me to put a bow on this “first in a series” post. Scott Galloway, in his “No Mercy, No Malice” blog, wrote this about how humans contemplate the future while reconciling it with our past:
“The human brain has extensive circuitry devoted to imagining and worrying about, the future. The seat of memory, the hippocampus, extrapolates possible futures from our experience of the past. Our default-mode network — the components of the brain most active when we’re not focused on a specific task — includes the brain regions concerned with the past and the future. Whenever we aren’t asking our brains to do something specific, they default to contemplating the future. And worrying about it.”
A Bad Decision is Better Than None at All
As long as it doesn’t kill you, a bad decision is better than no decision at all. As long as they’re not deadly, every decision is a chance to succeed and, at worst, an opportunity to learn. To learn what not to do or better understand something you didn’t before. The stakes get higher as you get older, and if you add a spouse and a kid, maybe some employees to your group, things can get downright terrifying. But you could make the case that your decisions should be even bolder and riskier. If money, success, fame, fortune, or legacy are words in your definition of success — go big.
My Life Is Mine Alone
My life is mine alone. That’s what makes humans so cool. Given our biological, physical, social, educational, financial, geographical, philosophical, and experiential differences, none of us are the same. So, what might work for one person won’t always work for another; it rarely does, in fact. But there is value in us sharing our stories. I meet so many people driven by fear and paralyzed by indecision that I feel I should share some of my stupid stories. Let you in on some of my greatest misses. Because despite all the bad decisions, my life has been very good.
