Fear and desire met on the high diving board

I called Hanging Rock State Park a couple of years ago and posed what seemed to me a pretty simple question. "When did the park tear down the high-diving board at the lake?" I asked.

The person at the other end of the line was quiet for a second or two. I quickly deduced he was one of a fleet of high-school-aged summer help the park annually employs at its offices, bathhouse and concession stands.

"You want to know what?" the young man asked.

"Several years ago there was a high-diving board at the lake. I don't know when it was, but at some point I returned there and it was gone," I continued. "I wanted to find out when it was torn down."

"Well, there's two diving boards out there now and neither of them is  very high," he answered.

It was my turn to pause. I took a deep breath and plunged in again - no pun intended.

 "Yes, I know. I've seen those diving boards. But in the 1960s and ‘70s there was a platform out there at least 15 feet high and maybe more."

The young man told me to hold on. In the dull air that followed I imagined him placing his hand over the mouthpiece and saying to a girl standing nearby, "Hey, you wouldn't believe the psycho I've got on the line. He insists there was a high-diving board here years ago. Can you believe it?"

Then he came back on the line and stated flatly, "I talked to somebody who's been here awhile and they said there was never, ever a high-diving board at Hanging Rock."

I bit back the urge to scream into the phone, "Wrong again algae breath," and said instead. "Well, thanks anyway." My mom would've been proud of my behavior. But that didn't do much for my state of mind at the time.

The reason for this is simple. I absolutely know for a fact that there was a high-diving board at Hanging Rock State Park. I'm certain of it because I basically grew up there.

Yes if there was a central part of growing up in Danbury - a village nestled near the heart of the Sauratown Mountains where time actually stopped in about 1967 and has rested in limbo ever since - it was summers at Hanging Rock where the lake was colder than an icy watermelon.

The lake was like our home and we pretty much acted as if we owned it. All those other folks - the campers and day trippers splashed with suntan lotion, were merely vagabonds passing through.

It wasn't out of the ordinary in the morning for our moms to drive the steep incline to where the paved road ended in a parking lot and the dirt pathway to the lake began and simply drop us off for the entire day. We were given  just enough money to buy a drink with nabs and to gain entry to the formidable stone bathhouse, a structure built by the civilian corps of workers mustered by Franklin Roosevelt in order to put Americans to work during the Depression.

We emerged from the bathhouse upon a small beach where lifeguards perched on high-rising chairs. They watched the wide expanse of water, which was divided by ropes marking the shallows where little kids were herded by anxious moms, from the deep end where we liked to play.

In the middle of it all was the high diving board.

The tower was a fearsome sight as it rose from the sturdy wooden dock situated in the middle of the brownish mountain lake. Looking from the beach, the short diving board most folks used was on the left. What we called the "high-dive," where another lifeguard stood watch, was on the right.

Only the brave tried that one. And everybody I knew wanted to be brave. Absolutely nobody wanted to be forever branded a "chicken."

The day I finally took my leap was preceded by what felt like months of vacillation, false starts and flat-out balking on my part. I had an uncommon fear of heights then and now. Jumping off the high dive, I figured, might be the hardest thing I'd ever do.

Even on the day I finally stood at the end of the board looking down into the bottomless water I wasn't 100 percent sure I'd do it.

The fear of backing out - as my friends provided catcalls in the background - was overwhelming and only came to an end as I stepped off the edge and let myself fall straight as a pencil toward the water.

I watched my shadow grow as the water drew closer and braced for the impact. The icy water grew even colder as my feet explored depths of the lake previously unknown.

I never felt better.