The rapture of free float was intoxicating for a 14-year-old daredevil like me. I’m sure leaping into space like that was the forerunner of bungee jumping.
Our school “circus” was a community event that stretched for several weekends during the spring. Families came from everywhere in their station wagons, loaded with kids who scrambled out the tailgates and poured into the varnished gym that smelled of floor wax and tumbling mats.
Mr. Masters, the P.E. teacher, worked with us after school to perfect our routines. He was young and patient and we trusted his dreamy blue eyes. We’d race from classes to locker rooms where we changed into sweatshirts, shorts and tennis shoes, then bound to the gym to warm up with flips, back bends, twists, somersaults and splits. Mat work, balancing acts and high-wire routines suited me, along with the drama, pageantry and bustle of performance.
The entire gym was rigged with circus equipment. Overhead was a thick rope, the kind you see anchoring ships to the dock, secured to the ceiling with metal plates. It hung there like a swing, in an easy arc, so we named it the Cloud Swing. The metal plates had ball-bearing joints allowing the rope to move freely.
Hanging from the swing were two nylon rope nooses with leather cinches. Perched on the Cloud Swing, I slipped one foot through each noose, then cinched the leather tight to my ankles. The ankle straps were my lifeline and my security. Mr. Masters saw to that.
First, I’d just drop out of the swing. I pitched forward, landing upside down, hanging by the straps around my ankles. I was nowhere near the floor. The swing was high up, allowing ample clearance in that flipped-over position. From there, I’d shinny up the rope and get seated, ready to go again. Soon the drops were comfortable, with a slight swing to the rope. I learned to pump the hefty rope, pulling back with my arms and reaching for the ceiling with my toes.
The Cloud Swing had a rhythm to it. Leaping out of grade-school swings was a cousin to the Cloud Swing; you’d get a smooth jump if you timed it with the crest of the swing. Just as in grade school, I learned to leap from the height of the swing, where I could fly in a graceful curve and get a fluid ride.
Before long, the technique became part of me. I trusted the flight enough to abandon myself to the air. I extended my arms and legs in an “X” shape, spread-eagled. Each jump was a magnificent arc. The better the arc, the longer the sail, the bigger the thrill. I began to get stupendous rides. I was a bird taking flight, at one with the exciting secret of the Cloud Swing. The electric thrill of it was like fireworks: dazzling, glittery, exploding like the Fourth of July, squeezed into just 30 seconds.
On performance nights I was way up high in my black satin costume. The lights were out, the gym was pitch black. The audience leaned forward, eyes searching the darkness. I’d check my ankle straps while the band proudly played a drum roll. I grasped the Cloud Swing, pulled its tautness toward me, leaned way back, extended my legs and pumped.
The spotlight snapped on and caught me above the crowd. The light traced my mounting sweeps back and forth, above their heads. The sea of faces disappeared in the white blaze of light. I pumped higher and higher, imagining I could touch the sky. The Cloud Swing sailed, the rush of movement whooshed in my ears.
The crowd was swinging with me. I sensed the hushed anticipation. A cough. A nervous quiver. Inhale. At the height of the swing I leaped into space and soared in spectacular flight over the crowd, my black satin fluttering like ravens’ wings. A fiery silence coursed through me, into the hushed gym. I floated, drifted, glowed like thousands of tiny stars. It was as close to leaving the earth and flying as I could imagine.
For an instant there was stunned surprise. Then a deafening roar as the spectators released their shock. My sky dive continued over their heads and I finished hanging upside down, swinging to and fro from my ankles. Suspended for a moment in the delight of flight, I was barely there long enough to catch my breath. I scrambled up the rope, settled in and started the ride all over again.
I did some spectacular shows up there in the air. But it couldn’t last forever. When I graduated from junior high, I left the Cloud Swing. Left the rigging, the ropes and the circus. Left them in a tall wooden gym echoing with shouts and applause, intensity and spirit, laughter and delight. But the splendor of those exquisite flights on the Cloud Swing — that, I kept.
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