In Pieces(14)

But knowing how to float and jumping from the high dive were two different things, and by the time I could safely dog-paddle myself around, that’s what my stepfather wanted me to do. Climb up and jump off; ready, set, GO. I stood there, rocking back and forth, my toes gripping the edge of the platform while I repeated Jocko’s instructions in my head over and over: legs together, toes pointed, hands at my sides, until finally I’d push off, pointing everything I could point, and jump in. But that wasn’t the end of it. After I could climb up and jump in without too much hesitation, pushing off with enough force to distance myself from the platform, out came the pool pole—a long aluminum stick with a net fastened to one end used to scoop leaves out of the water—now being used as a piece of training equipment. Jocko would hold the pole out in front of me while issuing new commands: Arms over your head, tight to your ears, legs straight, toes pointed. Push off hard and dive over the pole. “Go!”

But I couldn’t move. Not just because I was afraid of the smack in my face or the breath-grabbing sting on my stomach, even though that played a big part in it. It was that Jocko’s tone had changed. Nowhere in sight was the loving patience he had shown during our bicycle training days. Now he sounded mocking and condescending, as if my inability was purposely done to challenge him. Was he teaching me to dive or trying to make me cry? And if I fell on my face would he applaud my attempt or enjoy my pain?

A weekend in Palm Springs. Legs together, toes pointed, hands at my side.





Directly across from the pool, on a lawn to the side of the house, Jocko had erected a square made of iron pipes, standing about eight or nine feet above the ground—a minimalist version of monkey bars. In those days, women with muscles were not considered attractive, so I was rarely expected to perform on this bastardized version of gymnastic equipment. No, the bars belonged to Ricky, and when Jocko started demanding feats of strength that the chubby eleven-year-old wasn’t capable of achieving, no matter how hard he tried, it was not an ownership my brother wanted. With each clumsy attempt, it seemed that Jocko’s need to disgrace my brother, to reveal him as unmanly and incapable, increased. And to top it off, at the end of every demoralizing session, Jocko would push Ricky to the side, then hop up himself, looping around and around on the bar like a toy you get at the five and dime, ending each performance with a dozen effortless chin-ups. Even though he avoided my eyes, I knew my big brother felt just as he was being taught to feel: ashamed.

In the center of the yard was an unfenced, unused paddle tennis court with its shaggy net lying in a neglected heap to one side. A big trampoline now stood between the two metal poles where the net would have been strung. The trampoline—ah, yes. I could bounce—we could all bounce—and I could definitely point my toes. I could land on my knees and then bounce back up. I could land on my butt and bounce back up. I could even land on my butt, bounce, change direction in midair, then land on my butt again, facing the opposite way. But I could not, under any circumstances, do what Jocko demanded: flip. I couldn’t do a flip of any kind, no matter how much he pushed. I wouldn’t even try. So out came the pool pole again, as if this aluminum stick were somehow the answer, the surefire way to address my incompetence. If I could dive over the pole, curling into a somersault before I landed, I could eventually translate that well-executed move into the same kind of smooth aerial display that Jocko so gracefully demonstrated. But I never could because some part of me wondered if his reasons for pushing us were not about our successes, but about our failures. A tiny cell in my head began to distrust.

On the right side of the yard lived the tree: a sycamore so huge that when I put one hand on its mottled torso, balanced on the low brick wall that encased the roots, and slowly walked around the massive trunk, I counted out thirty little-girl steps. If you stood back and looked at it through squinted eyes, the tree became a monstrous giant with two large branches dipped down, one slightly lower than the other, as if they were arms waiting to catch something in flight.

And that’s exactly what we were expected to do: fly. Jocko had somehow attached a long thick rope to each of the sycamore’s arms. Ropes so thick they were impossible to grip and so coarse they tore up your hands, ropes you’d imagine being used to tie the Queen Mary to its moorings. A flier might take off using one of two methods: As you held one of the ropes, Jocko would grab you around the waist, then walk backward until he stood in the camellia bushes, under the kitchen window, as far as he could go. He’d then launch you into the wild blue with an enormous push and if the initial heave didn’t knock you off, the momentum at the top most likely would. Therefore, the method of launch I preferred was the entanglement approach. I’d stand on the low picket fence that edged the pink flagstone walkway surrounding the tree, lace my hands around the rope hanging from the lower branch, then jump backward into the air. While using the rope connected to the taller branch (which was therefore longer) and standing on a much higher launching point (sometimes from the balcony above), the opposing flier, who was often Jocko, would time it just right and take off, gathering more speed than me with my tiny jump back. The performer on the longer rope would then swing out and around my shorter one and when the ropes engaged, it would whip me with a snap of centrifugal force that was both thrilling and horrifying. We’d twirl round and round each other, caught in “the dance of the ropes,” ending when the two partners finally collided. I learned to loop the rope around one foot when I was dizzy and slipping, then I could use my legs plus my not-quite-big-enough hands and have a prayer of staying on. If not, I’d be flung to the walkway below.