Pressed between the
pages of a dusty photo album is a picture of me at about twenty years old wearing
an unsightly black eye and a band-aid. A few days earlier I had tumbled off my
water skis and the tip of the ski clobbered my cheekbone. In my vain youth I
worried about a scar, so I went to a doctor who sewed a few stitches and later
sanded it down. If the ski had hit an inch or so higher, well, I’d rather
not think about that.
Everyone but me has
probably forgotten about that incident, and I dare say that anyone notices the slight dent in my cheek that I can see to this day. We’ve all taken a few spills,
haven’t we? One minute we’re almost walking (or skiing) on water and in the next we’re trying to
stay afloat, clutching a cheek and seeing blood.
When the accident first
happened, I said I would never ski again, but mostly due to my brother’s making fun
of me (his brotherly form of encouragement), about two weeks later I put on my skis again and he pulled me out of the water. I haven’t water skied in decades, but I have taken plenty of tumbles of one kind or another and the next one is out
there lurking. It’s not a question of if but when. The only thing I can do when
it hits is to brace for impact and rely on my faith to break the fall on the
way down.