The summer after sophomore year I discovered the Quincy quarry.
It’s prominently featured in Gone Baby Gone, but if imagination is necessary, picture a thousand slabs of rocks, graffiti’d brightly, stacked a hundred and fifty feet high. The rocks surround a deep pit filled with water, and legend has it, there are hundreds of corpses at the bottom, so deep that divers can’t retrieve them.
A good friend broke his back that summer jumping. Not that that stopped us.
When jumping from a hundred feet here’s what happens:
2. Panic. Why haven’t I hit the water?
3. More falling.
4. Greater panic. I still haven’t hit the water?!?
5. More falling.
6. Desperation. Please don’t let me hit the water!!!!
7. Hitting the water.
I remember three independent heart attacks with every jump. No broken backs, but enough adrenaline released to jumpstart a Toyota.
I recently made a big decision. It has not been dissimilar from jumping off a cliff—something I decided to do, while every fiber of my being begged me not to. Unlike quarry jumping, it wasn’t a bad decision, or a wrong decision, it was just one in which logic and love were in utter discord.
Also, unlike quarry jumping, I’m waiting to hit the water.
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