At the onset, the hands are dug knuckle-deep into geometric fissures of twisted, weathered rope — created through the accrual of fibers upon fibers, building into braids, then the accrual of braids upon braids, building into a rope: twisted, fractal and tight in its arrangement.

The feet are planted firmly on this rock. Underneath the feet, the ground is wetted a darker gray, where the steady drip-drop of water tumbles from second-time jumpers’ shorts. The feet are desert-dry on top, soggy-bread soaked on bottom, and the rock is solid beneath the feet — in a way that involves more than just this steady ground. From this rock radiates an instinctive sureness, a trustworthiness, an assurance. This is a loftier weight than sticks or trees, of which there are many, here: a small hint of gravity wanders above this old rock, is picked up as minute vibrations, felt in the skin of the calves, the shins, the back, the butt, and the triceps. Arms dangle from the skyward rope, and the work of keeping them raised is split between the hands and the weight of the body. The arms are above the head, which is craned out and gazing onto dark depthless waters: how excited the brain was, to enter, until it came time to jump into these shock and awe waters, the river, unceasing, flowing, murkily, past this rock.

The brain is at a cross-roads; the body has been standing here for over 350 seconds. The brain has frozen, apparently. The friends, standing further up the embankment, in a row, and leaning on the low wooden fence, have started asking the ears what the issue was. The ears pretended they weren’t home. For the mouth to tell the friends that this was the first time going off a rope swing, it would be considered mutiny. And so the mouth remained quiet.

The arms are already tired, and the sweat on the palms makes the idea of using the biceps to take the strain of the body onto the rope as feasible as picking up an anvil with hands and fingers made of orange rinds. The knees are not wobbling; they are locked straight with muscles flexed; they are loose triggers ready to spring out at any moment. The toes curl on the rock, and wiggle slightly to wake up.

One can’t avoid confronting the feeling in the chest. It is there, and, though seemingly shallow, important. Because, in anticipation, the chest becomes a flute player entrenched in the depths of a dramatic melody. The chest becomes a christmas tree lit, with enough lights to threaten busting the fuses. The chest burns brighter and brighter, and the temples swell and recede, rushing to supply the necessary amount of blood to the pumping brain.The lips are dry from adrenalized mouth-breathing, and the palms are beginning to sweat and sting under the crusty rope. The brain wants to let go, but the body is injected with a consequential rush of hormones, and therefore willing. The brain considers the humiliation of having to turn around, and walk past the line of friends still waiting their turns for the rope. The body, unclothed from the waist up, is folded boomerang-like at the stomach, butt stuck out, holding onto the rope and waiting for the moment when the brain will finally boot-up, and signal the launch code. At this point, it follows necessarily that the brain shut down, and allow the body to act on its own behalf.

That’s the moment that matters the most: when the brain shuts down, because now the body is allowed to act on its own; the feet have now flattened onto their heels, from knees which bend forward and compress like accordions, like they are meant to, and hands that grip the rope tight and feel themselves slip down until they hit the thick gnarl of rope where they will rest — the squishy round outside-part of the hand mashing tighter and tighter against the rope — as the butt and the back come forward, and then back, pulling the body’s weight down, as the wind runs willy-nilly through these still-dry shorts, and hands start making double-sure to hold tight — before butt and back launch back-up, now, knees rotating around again to angle forward as their springs unload; the feet finally leave the rock for the last time and float up via the weight of the body which is now under the strain of flexing biceps, the rope stretched taut, a body-made pendulum born from the toes wrapping around to cradle a nub of wet rope at the bottom of this childhood rope swing.

I have always wanted to do this, but have never had any courage; and suddenly, my body is airborne, swinging illustrious over the wrinkles of currents intersecting with currents, space-like darkness, and glaring reflections.

My chest and stomach muscles contract, my shoulders become tangles of strain, but my legs (appendages that reveal the true extent of their work load’s toll only when they are given a chance to rest) are completely free of weight. I can feel my organs shift downward, moment by moment, as the end of the arc approaches, centripetal forces turns centrifugal. My fingers and hands feel over-worked, as do the arms, the abs, the forearms — evidence that there is still one thing I hold on to. It is something I must soon let go.

And so, my muscles heave one last time, upwards, at the top of the swing, launching this now unrestrained body as high as nature will allow, before the awaiting plunge. And as my hands flick away the rope, rolling the braids through the tips of my fingers, my body becomes free of all ties to anything: this body, afloat in the air, suspended above a molasses river, as if on a string. Up here, nothing touches me except for the air — thrilling, frightening, real, absent, air — and for a moment, right now, there are no outside influences at play in my body. At the height of my arc over the water’s slimy flow, I begin to look forward to the sharp fall ahead; my appendages, dangly, dancing in wild circles, as the gravity that had seemingly been thwarted begins to reveal itself again. It makes the brain wake up again, like embers from an unstubbed butt sparking a garbage can to flames: and I begin to wonder whether it’s just the brightness of the sun above, or the momentum of my jump, that made my eyes so suddenly keen on the lulling wobble of the water’s surface, as I, lingering untouched above the sun-spotted brown river for a final second, descend into these depths for the first time — breath already held, as if by instinct.