June was a Never-Ever. In ski terms this is defined as someone who has never skied and signs up for a first-time lesson. A thirty-something executive, she prided herself on trying anything at least once. She was excited but had an uneasy feeling on the bus ride up to the lodge. She was already cold and had to wonder why she was the only one wearing blue jeans.

The ski boots were her first challenge. She could barely get up from the bench and somehow had to figure out how to walk without bending her ankles. Next she had to maneuver two 4’ long skis and poles without injuring anyone. Thankfully no one was decapitated that day.

With skis attached to the boots, June lost all command of her legs. Although the ground around her looked flat enough, when she stood up an indiscernible incline began propelling her backwards. Always in control at the office, it was not her nature to induce the deliberate fall that stopped the momentum. By this time June was anxious to learn how to just stand still.

The attractive French instructor sounded impressive as he boasted about his credentials. Unfortunately, his accent was so thick June could barely understand a word. Then, without any explanation, Monsieur Frenchman stuck his pole into the snow motioning for each student to move forward and turn at the pole. “Well,” thought June, “if I could do that why on earth would I be in a beginners class?”

The saying goes, “Those who can... do. Those who can’t... teach." Well, he could and that’s what he should have been doing. What June needed was a teacher.

It didn’t take long before the two became equally frustrated. In the distance June noticed two inviting words- “Bunny Slope” (the most gently sloping hill on the mountain- for beginners) and slid off towards presumable security.

She felt reassured and humbly got in line with all the children. She watched as each one grabbed onto a narrow, vertical pole hanging from a wire cable (a Button Lift or Platter Pull) wrapping their legs around a flat disk shaped seat. “How hard could that be?”, she thought.

As it moved along June managed to grab the pole, swing it between her legs and sit her wet butt on the ice-cold disk. All seemed well until she realized that the pole concealed a spring. It stretched against her weight and then contracted, suddenly shooting her forward, right off and into the snow.

The operator stopped the lift as all the children turned to see what the hold-up was. June managed to gather up her poles and climb back on. This time she hung on a bit longer before the seat began to twist. “What the …??” She was prepared for the spring-load, but this new surprise twirled June right off the seat. Lift stops, children turn around and glare.

June was humiliated. It was now clear that she wasn’t even going to make it to the top of the Bunny Slope. She waved to the operator and began to crawl through the tree line paralleling the lift. She saw the sign warning that cutting across the tree line was a big no-no. But by then she was actually hoping the ski police would swoop in, declare her a menace and carry her back to snow free terra firma.

Before escaping from class, June had at least managed to learn the ‘Snowplough’ (a braking maneuver whereby skiers move their ski tips to form a triangular shape). So, at this point she thought she was home free. All this ‘fun’ was just too much for June and all she could think about was sipping a hot chocolate by a roaring fire.

Slowly she started to make her way down the hill when something suddenly whizzed right by, nearly knocking her over. It turns out that for the expert skiers, who begin their run at the top of the mountain, it was home stretch. They didn’t particularly seem to care if they raced by someone or right over them. Apparently they felt it was June’s responsibility to keep herself alive by staying out of their way. It was like trying to merge a bicycle onto the freeway. “How can this be right?” she pondered. “Shouldn’t there be a passing lane or something?”

In spite of her panic, June somehow managed to butt slide down the rest of the hill. She was freezing in her soaked jeans. But while warming by the fire she felt proud to have stretched so far out of her comfort zone. Her day was nothing short of ‘Epic’, ski lingo meaning a day characterized by conditions that make it unforgettable and out of the norm.

June is still plucky and adventuresome, but happily content to be a ‘Never-Ever-Again’ skier!

One last day of packing and he would be on his way, leaving behind the city that had been his home for the last six years. He had already picked up the Ryder truck, and the shadow of its yellow bulk enshrouded the front yard like some massive carrion-feeder, lying in wait to devour the remains of the existence he was casting aside. One phone call from his father and a short discussion set everything in motion, sending Russell Grove down a life-path he hadn’t even realized was there before. To his surprise, his friends were not as convinced.

“Are you sure about this?” asked Steve, as they relayed packing boxes up the steel ramp into the Ryder truck. “You know you’re leaving a good career behind.”
“Kind of late to reconsider at this point,” Russ answered. “But yes, quite sure. I need to go do this with my dad.”

Steve was the sort of guy who acted like your best friend within a week. In a way, Russ envied him that trait and sometimes wished he could be more like him. But then that would make leaving all the more difficult. Most of Russ’s work associates had pretty much the same reaction, most even less understanding than Steve. It seemed hard for them to comprehend that an almost middle-aged man would really want to give up home and career just to go do something with his father.

Russ and his father were close, but not what you would call pals. They did a lot of things together when Russ was a child, but as he grew older his father was wise enough to back off and let him find his own way. Russ really preferred it that way; he didn’t have a lot of friends, but he knew that only one man could ever be his father.

When his father called to ask Russ if he could come back home and help him out with something, he wasn’t immediately sure how to respond. It didn’t sound like the usual “How about coming for a visit” request. It sounded more like his dad was asking for a favor. Russ could not recall his father ever asking him for anything before. Sure, as a child his dad gave him plenty of chores, and asked him to go camping, fishing, or on some other fun excursion, but this was different. He had never thought about it before, but he had asked his father countless times to do things for him. He could always count on his father for a hand with any project around the house. His dad never hesitated, whatever Russ asked. This was a first, though. For once Russ wasn’t the one doing the asking.

“Sure, dad,” Russ answered his father after a moment’s hesitation, “How long a visit? A week or so?”

“Maybe. But maybe a little longer.”

“What’s up, dad? Are you actually going to take me up on that fishing trip to Canada?” Russ asked.

“Not exactly, Russell.” His father paused before continuing. “I went to see your mother’s doctor a few days ago about this backache I’ve been having for the last few weeks.”

Russ knew that as much as his father hated going to the doctor, his back must be really hurting for him to go see one. His dad never complained about anything, not that he ever got sick, and it was not like him to ask for help, no matter how much pain he was in. “What’s going on, dad? Did you find out what the problem is?”
“They did some tests, and told me I have pancreatic cancer.”

His father’s words shot into Russ’s brain as if someone had jolted him with a stun gun. “Have they started treatment? What is the prognosis,” he asked numbly.

“No treatment. Said it’s too far gone. Gave me five weeks at the most. Your mother’s not really accepting all this, and to be honest, she hasn’t been thinking all that clearly for the last few months. I’d really appreciate it if you could be around for when, well, things start to get bad. I’d feel a lot better knowing you were around to help out with things for awhile.”

Russ had thought about it before, and how it would feel, but the feelings that the words of his father were creating in him were not what he expected. Shock, concern, and sadness, yes, but also a numbness, and strangely a feeling of obligation and resolve, as if his father had awakened some post-hypnotic suggestion that told him what he needed to do.

“Sure, dad,” he choked out a tearful reply. “I can come for as long as you need.”

This was the first time his father had asked for a favor, but it was also the first time he was going to lose a parent. But it wasn’t the “firsts” that were on his mind; it was how many things were going to be “last times” with his dad.

He cut the car's engine and looked out at the rain. Rain would obscure him, turn him into just another guy running into the market on his way home. The rain, the store, they would both help.

He would need every bit of help, too. Tonight is his first time, and they all say that the first time is the hardest. When you ruin a man’s life, take from him that which he values so highly. It's not done lightly, nor without planning.

Across the street from where he was parked was one of those little all night groceries. The fluorescent lights from the interior stung his eyes. He squinted into the brightly lit interior of the store and saw that there were no customers tonight. Even better, he thought. No witnesses.

His target lived just down the street. It didn't take but a day or two to find and track his habits. One of those habits included a nightly ritual. His target would exit his brownstone just two doors down. He’d then walk calmly down to the store to buy his nightly package of cigarettes. He’d stand in the store’s doorway light one cigarette and calmly walk home, not a care in the world. Tonight, however, that would change.

The man in the car took a deep breath in an effort to remain calm. He looked down the narrow street at the brownstone, its steps immersed in the watery darkness. The porch light across the street from his target tried valiantly to ward off the rain and the darkness but it was a losing battle. There was just enough light, however. There was a shadow at the top of the steps opposite the light and when the door to the brownstone opened, light would be reflected on it twice - once when opening and again when closing - signaling the exit of his target.

He leaned his head back on the headrest and took another couple of deep breaths. He chewed another antacid and tried to relax. If he didn’t need the money so badly, he wouldn’t even be here. But a job is a job when you're out of work, and money is money and this money is very good indeed. Going from teaching to this was quite a step, but the need for money made his teaching degree meaningless tonight.

He mind went momentarily to the item in his jacket pocket. No matter how he shifted he could feel its presence tucked away where it was protected from the rain. He put his hand against the lump in his jacket to feel its presence, it’s power. So much power in such a little package.

His ruminations were interrupted by a momentary flash of light in the puddle of darkness at front of the brownstone. Another flash. His breath stopped. He watched the shadow without moving, without breathing without blinking. The shadow became a man; the man opened an umbrella and stepped to the curb. The target was moving.

He didn’t hesitate. He opened the car door in one fluid motion and pushed himself out into the rain, his wide brimmed hat acting like an umbrella.

He stepped across the street, taking casual easy strides. His timing was great. He made it across the street stepping onto the sidewalk just a step or two in front of the man with the umbrella.

He turned his head, as if seeing the man for the first time.

“George?” he asked. The man with the umbrella stopped at the question. The man with the hat turned to face him. “Aren’t you George Goodman?” They both stood in the rain, one shielded by his big black umbrella and the other the wide brimmed hat. The rain ignored them both.

“Why, yes,” the man offered tentatively, “Yes, I am.”

This was it. Quickly the man with the hat reached into his jacket for what he needed. In one deft motion, he yanked it out, his arm going forward, the motion stopping just in front of the other man’s heart. The man with the umbrella stood motionless, it all happened so fast.

“George Edward Goodman,” stated the man in the hat,” He stepped forward again, pushing his hand into the coat of the man with the umbrella, the envelope slipping easily into the folds of the man’s jacket, protected once again from the rain. “You’ve been served.”

Marie mustered up her strength, then reached out … barely touching the ball, but nudging it just enough to make it change its trajectory. It bounced softly, rolling off the court onto the lawn. Safe! She could breathe again. How long could she play with such intensity without overextending herself? And would that effort be enough?

She now regretted revealing that she played tennis to her long time colleague. Not being spontaneous of nature, she had surprised herself inviting Clara over for a game. She enjoyed the company and playing tennis, but her fear was growing faster than her friend’s talent. Keeping the ball within the court and immediate area was proving to be a greater challenge than expected.

“You’re working out for both of us!” panted her opponent as they met by the net. “You’re in amazing shape!” Marie smiled and admitted, “I’m just trying to keep the ball away from the field,” and mumbled inaudibly, “where there could be snakes.” Moments later, Clara’s cheerful “Same time next week!” lingered in the breeze. Marie wished she could be as carefree.

Why did snakes scare her? She tried to reason that the scarce local species were harmless and small. In fact, she had never seen one near her home. Not near the tennis court, not by the woods, not in the barn, not even in the garden. Yet, it seemed that for the past thirty years or so, her life had been about avoiding snakes. Ever since that brat of a neighbour had thrown one on her, while she had been sunbathing by the river… She shut off that thought with a squirm.

Marie’s parents had respected her fear without understanding. Her brothers had assumed that girls just don’t do certain things. And her darling Pierre, knowing her phobia, had lovingly retrieved all errant balls when they played. She had even seen him going through junk mail, magazines and catalogues pulling out the occasional picture of the dreaded reptile. She saddened at the thought that her irrational fear had affected her family.

Marie breathed in and for an instant, imagined life without anxiety. She could… no, she would! A shiver travelled from her shoulders and settled in her knees. With this foreign determination, for the first time, she was exerting control. Oh, but to make this feeling of accomplishment last!

She gave herself a week. At first, Marie kept her resolution to herself, as if sharing it might break the spell. Pierre commented on her perkiness. As if prompted, plans elaborated in the secrecy of her mind were revealed with great confidence… until she whimpered: “Who am I kidding?” And she revealed how much she felt she weighed on her surroundings, how she tried to reason with herself, how this fear dominated her life. Her partner silently appreciated her openness, nodding occasionally, and squeezing her hand as encouragement.

Clara was warming up near the net. The lacquer on her nails barely outshone the tennis balls’ flamboyant pink. The exchanges started, friendly but increasing in challenge. In a quasi nose dive, Clara sent the ball over Marie’s head. Powerless, she followed the pink trail bouncing off into the abyss.

As if in a distant voice, Marie heard “Your go.” She willed herself to walk towards the field, her back to Clara. Not leaving the asphalt, she appeared to be looking. She took a step forward and started parting the tall grass with her racquet as she had often seen others do. Focusing was hindered by watery eyes. She concentrated on staying there, on not screaming her anguish, on not letting fear win. Her next step brought a shiver as the long grass brushed against her leg. “Ok,” she reassured herself, “This is working, I’m in the field, and there are no snakes. Now where is that stupid ball?” And then she saw it… a mere two steps away, for any other human.

She stood there assessing the distance for what seemed an eternity. A hint of striped colour caught her eye. “Do you see it?” Clara’s call shook her out of her stupor. In her boldest act of courage, she took a giant step, grasped the ball and backed out in a dash holding up the pink ball. As she met Clara on the court, she smiled triumphantly: “I’m keeping this one as a trophy.”

As she later shared the outcome of the match with Pierre, she knew that she was not ready for an encounter with a snake yet. That old bungee cord had made her heart skip a beat and would stay in the field for a while. But she knew that she could take a few steps outside her comfort zone. And she had a pink ball to prove it.

The old college hall was ablaze with the last shafts of daylight. Students were leaving, briskening their pace, calling their friends who lingered to compare notes.

Robert Hill strolled in to face the bustle. His first class would begin in five minutes, but he didn't hurry; he knew the night crowd was always a bit late.

I wonder if I really have it in me. I was so thrilled when I got the job. I don't know anymore. It's being here. It's being back here to my old haunts that bothers me. It's ironic somehow.

He took a piece of paper from his pocket. A bunch of people pushed their way past him, talking in excited voices.

First class will be in room 08. I think we can see the garden from there.

As he turned left, the voices faded. He felt at ease now; even the jacket - something that he wasn't used to wearing on campus - gave him an odd sense of comfort.

The garden; the inviting shade over the wooden benches in the full morning light, when I skipped classes just to sit there and read. Alone with my poets. Tessa would walk softly down in her dad's oversized coat, and join me for the break. She'd lean back, her legs stretched, her eyes fixed on the branches; we hardly spoke. I'm growing old at twenty-five! I've never thought about her since. She would disapprove of the jacket; it's a fine leather jacket, but she would sneer. Most likely, she's wearing the proper corporate outfit now.

Robert was still smiling when he reached the ground floor. He quickened his pace, his heart sped up.

It's like running fast to the sea on the first day of summer. Eager. Eager to get started.

All doors were closed, except one. That would be room 08. He peered in. Beams of light lingered over the shabby floor, and he could hear the leaves' rustle outside.

"Hi. You're early, you know?"

The flat voice put an end to his rumination. "What?" He hadn't noticed the girl sitting on the third row.

"We don't tend to be on time, do we?", she went on. "Running from work to college is a damned business at rush hours."

"Oh. Yes, it is… hum…", he replied, still baffled.

"Janice. You?"

"Robert."

"Well, Robert, our dear professors don't even remember that we have jobs. They're strict on punctuality. If it says five past six it doesn't mean ten past six."

"I'm sure they won't mind if you're a few minutes late", Robert said, with a soothing tone in his voice.

The girl grinned at him. "It's your first time?"

"Does it show?", he replied from the doorway, smiling.

Ten past six. They'll be coming soon. The rest of them. Better wait for a minute or two, then I'll go in.

"Excuse me," said a male voice behind Robert. He stepped aside and a man in a suit trudged in, puffing as he took a seat in the front row.

"Hey, Steven", said the girl.

"Janice! What's up?", the man replied, turning to face her.

A cluster of students strode into the room, pulled the chairs, and settled in. Robert followed, and closed the door quietly.

The man called Steven had tilted his head and was asking: "Does any of you know who this Mr. Hill is?"

The same reply came from the class: "No. Never heard of him."

"Who?", asked Janice.

"The man who's teaching first semester", Steven said. "For goodness sake, don't you even know his name?"

Janice passed her judgment in her flat, unruffled way. "Must be someone new. And I expect he's a bum. They come in all kinds and colors, but the best choose not to teach at these unsuitable hours. We have to put up with whom's left."

"Don't bash him. You don't even know him yet", snapped Steven.

"Good evening", said Robert.

All heads turned. Robert was standing by the teacher's desk.

"Oh my God", Steven whispered to himself.

"My name is Robert Hill. Welcome to the twilight course of Literature Studies."

His eyes swept around the class. He was glad to notice that, among those who listened with a somewhat puzzled expression, Janice was blushing.

"Literature is all about printed words that make meaning, that create characters and points of view. I'm here to help each of you to be a good reader, and a good thinker."

He paused. Then, with a softer voice, he added:

"Don't expect me to be the best teacher you'll ever have. But you can be sure that I'll be the best teacher I can be."

Dusk was seeping in. Robert reached for the switch and turned the lights on.

"By the way, I'll leave the door open until six fifteen."

I sat, resting on my arms, with my head between my legs. With every heart beat I could feel the blood rushing to my head, sweat dripping from my brow, glistening in the warm sun. The slower I tried to breathe, the more my toes dug in to the sand like they were trying to hide away to avoid what was to come.

This was supposed to be a good day. I reached down and touched the scar across my leg. Running my hand across the stitches, I began to count. 1…2...3… The blood started to rise in my throat, taking my breath away. I have to stop this! How bad can it be?

I looked down again at my leg. A single bead of sweat ran off my index finger down my scar. It lit up under the clear sun, temporarily blinding the stitches from my sight. That looks better. I started to breathe again. I better go slow. Lie back and start again.

The warm sun gave me a sense of security, I closed my eyes and breathed slowly.
For a fleeting moment, all the pressure was gone. The back of my closed eyelids were a warm red. My toes relaxed and surfaced out the sand, pulling my legs straight as if to say, “It’s okay, we are ready for you.” I could hear the laughter of a couple kids playing in the distance, unaware of the plight I seem to find myself in.

I opened my eyes again; it was bright, disorienting me as I tried to readjust. I reached over and ran my fingers along a section of fiberglass. It had a hard touch, sand roughing up my fingertips.
Okay, step two, sit up again. I pulled my legs in towards my body and sat up. I looked to the right and saw the two kids chasing each other up the sand, their mother a few meters away so engrossed in her book, she seemed oblivious to there actions. Must be a good book, bad things can happen around here! Stop it! I was going to work myself up again.

It was time to start step three. I reached over and strapped the velcro leash to my left ankle. The sand felt rough between my skin and the strap. A slight breeze started to blow, cooling the sweat against my body. The smell of tan lotion rushed up my nostrils, giving that warm holiday feeling.
“Excuse me mister? Are you a surfer?” It was one of the little kids from earlier. He was staring at my board with the largest grin on his face. “Yes I am, do you like surfing?”
I was suddenly in charge again. This little kid was amazed and I was not about to let him down. I felt good!

“Did a shark do that to your leg?” he said with his eyes wide open, pointing at my scar.
I could feel my face going red; the blood was rising in my throat again. The pleasant breeze was suddenly cold, making me feel vulnerable. Who is in charge now?
“Mathew, get over here now!” The little boy’s mom had taken a moment from her book to save me. He ran off to play with his brother again. His mom gave me a discerning look over her sunglasses and went back into her world inside of her book.

The shark attack was three years ago, I have to get back in the water. Technically I was only dead for thirty seconds in any case. The shark didn’t win! I stood up so I could get the blood in my feet. They were hiding in the sand again. I picked up my board and freed my feet from the sand, walking slowly to the waters edge. The water was surprisingly warm. It was time to surf again. This was my first time back in the ocean and there is no turning back now.

I walked until I was knee deep, rinsing the sweat from my scar.
I stared at my scar for a second, watching it turn purple in the cooler water. It was as if it was a sign. Maybe I should get out now while I still can?
I looked back up the beach and saw the little boy watching patiently. Maybe it was just an excuse but I could not let him down now.
I lay my board in the water and paddled out, smiling ever so slightly.

The swell was perfect, the water a soft blue. I turned my board around and motioned myself with the swell. The board caught momentum and I jumped up. I could hear the boy cheering from the beach. My heart raced, but this wasn’t fear.

I was alive again!

I wanted a magnum.

I remember that. I wanted a chocolate covered magnum with almonds, but they didn’t have it at the counter.
I was in Italy at the time. The holiday village I was at had a lake; it was separated from the rows of bungalows and the pool with the restaurant and amphitheatre by a road – which was for the most part empty of cars. During the day, people would swarm to the cool breeze of the lake and the younger children would play on the swings or go out on a boat. We would usually play volleyball or simply hang around – like teenagers do, while the adults would sunbathe in the summer light.

At night, however, there would be no light at the lake. And we loved it! We would usually watch the cabaret, dance the group dances which we had all memorized, and then when all the adults would sit around laughing and chatting, we would quietly sneak away and go to the lake.
So I didn’t think that night would have been any different. All my friends had gone off to the lake, and I would join them as soon as I got myself my magnum – with almonds.

I had a reputation for thinking over there; sometimes I would just look out towards the horizon and admire the splendor of the sea, or wonder how the birds moved so easily through the air. I would spend time lying on the grass with my camera trying to get the best view of the sun reflecting on the lake, or sit by the pool with my little red book writing stories. It amazed my friends why I would do anything like that, but I did, and I still do. And as I walked to the lake, I was thinking, as usual.

When I got to the lake’s shore, I saw that my friends had jumped over the gate which the lifeguard would close to prevent the little kids running to the end of the pier when he wasn’t on duty. We always did – it was low and taken at a run we could all do it. Tonight they had also taken some of the sun-beds and lifted them over so they were perched on the very end.

I jumped over, sending the pier rocking gently. 7 heads lifted themselves from the 4 beds. Odd, I thought. That would mean two on each bed… then it hit me. These were the couples. 3 couples had been made. Suddenly I wanted to go back and leave them to it… sometimes it actually made me sick, the way that they always flirted, the way their flimsy self respect could be snapped to easily by a harsh word, the way they were so quick to change their minds to please each other. My friends called me over, but most were back to their conversation by the time I reached them.

Nicolas was the only one without a girlfriend to snuggle up to like the other guys. So naturally I went to sit on his side – the outside of the little group. He pulled me down though, so I was lying next to him.
I thought it was weird, and being my normal self I went all rigid. There was a breeze at the lake at night too, but this one would relieve no heat – it would just make you cold, biting into your skin as if it was winter again. Which was why everybody was snuggled up I guess. Nicolas put his arm round me. It was warm…very warm. I still remember that. I rested my head on the hollow of his neck.

“Che pensi?” he asked. (“What are you thinking?”) “Che pensi Sofia?”

I didn’t know.

I was thinking of nothing and everything. The sky was … was as if someone had covered it in velvet and made it bleed pure silver by covering it in tiny pinpricks. I was thinking of how funny it was that the moon just sort of hung there, perfectly central. I was thinking how soft the clouds looked from down on earth. I was thinking how dark the water was in contrast with the sky, how strange the noises of the crickets were behind us. And yet, I couldn’t answer his question.
So I said nothing.

A cold gust of wind made me shiver slightly, and I snuggled closer in.

We didn’t kiss. We didn’t do anything. Eventually we talked. If I had liked him any more than a friend I would have called it romantic, and if he had liked me ay more than a friend he probably would have kissed me.
But it was a first time. That was the first time I actually felt myself growing up. I was in a guy’s arms, someone who was two years older than me (and at that age that was a long time) and he wasn’t intimidating. I liked it. There was nothing weird or strange or unnatural about it – it was nice, warm, comforting even.
I may remember precious little about the rest of that holiday, 3 or 4 years ago now, but that was a major turning point in my life. I grew up.

That was a first.

For me.

It was a beautiful spring day over Berkenfeld, Germany. Blue skies with not a cloud in sight. It was a little chilly, but I was just wearing fatigues, whereas most were wearing flight suits (the jump master’s sporting the prestigious “Golden Knights” emblem). One thing that might have added to the chill, was the fact I was sitting more outside than in the UH1B Huey helicopter. My feet resting on the strut the only thing really keeping me on the aircraft.

The doors and seats had been removed, and there were sixteen of us jumpers crammed aboard. Only three of us were Air Force, the rest Army. I was to be the first to jump, hence my position on the outside, right behind the pilot. The scariest part of this was when the helicopter was banking. I’ll bet my knuckles were a nice shade of white holding onto the undercarriage. You see we had no seat belts, and our static lines were not yet attached.

We got to 3,500 feet and the jump master told me to take position. This was not exactly the safest thing I had ever done. I had to stand on the strut, and then step up onto the spot my behind had been trying to occupy. Once there, I attached my static line to an O-ring above the door opening. Unlike what you see in old war movies, there was no line that everyone hooked up to. Only those of us without the minimum jumps required prior to free fall, would even use this method.

The jump master threw out some toilet paper, and those of us that could, watched it fall streaming away. He leaned forward, talked to the pilot, and then we were banking farther away from the airfield. When he thought we were at an adequate distance that would make my descent take me to the drop zone, he patted my shoulder and yelled “GO”.

My first mistake (one of many we laughed about later) was to launch myself like superman, rather than just hop to my right and let gravity do it’s thing. Well, I couldn’t see the helicopter, but I still did what I was trained to do: counted to three, pulled my dummy ripcord, looked up to be sure my chute had properly deployed, checked my altimeter and disengaged the explosive charge from my reserve chute.

When my chute opened I was facing away from the drop zone, so I tugged on my left draw line to spin me back in the right direction. Also unlike the war movies, where parachutes are solid, these chutes, though military, had been altered with guide holes. Pulling draw lines was all that was required to steer them. Now that I was facing the right way, it seemed to me that the drop zone sure was a long way off. I couldn’t have been more correct.

Between the field and myself, there was a farm house, pasture, woods and a large stream. As I got nearer to it, that farmhouse looked as though it wanted to block my descent, and maybe use it’s chimney to impale this intruder. It came close to doing just that. I barely missed the chimney, then the edge of the roof, but safely landed in the pasture.

Unfortunately, there was a cow there that thought my orange and white chute would make good eating. Instead of braiding the chute, I settled on the short distance draping method, where you basically just fold it alternately around each arm. Luckily this can be done fast. You see there was also this bull in the pasture. He must have thought I was teasing his girlfriend, by reeling in that tasty morsel. Anyway, he started heading my way. I had the chute around my arms, so I wasn’t the most agile at the time. I jumped this little wire fence that enclosed the pasture, but the toe of my left combat boot grazed the top wire. I would have never believed such a small fence could carry so much electricity.

Luckily for me, someone dispatched a deuce and a half truck to pick me up. At least I didn’t have to ford the stream.

Back at the drop zone I prepared to re-pack my chute. I had no sooner staked it, when my name was called for the next jump. The jump master said this would probably be the last one for the day. Naturally I wanted to make it, but it takes time to pack a chute. A girl with a cast on her leg told me I could use her chute, since she wouldn’t be jumping I immediately took her up on the offer. But of course that is another story.

The bottom fell out of my stomach like an elevator on speed as I heard the music start.

Do you know what? That’s not enough. Nowhere near enough. Let’s throw an anvil (a dozen anvils, even) in there too.

Hell, let’s set the elevator on fire for good measure.

Ok, so it’s a rather Hanna-Barbera style description, but it still wouldn’t do the awesome feeling of ‘this is make or break time, buddy,’ justice. It’s way bigger than that; astronomically bigger, and it’s hotter, better and much, much scarier (but with less flaming elevators and anvils, if I’m truthful) though I suspected that they lurked nearby.

I’m not sure that I actually have the words to describe it, to be honest, and today, today, I feel that the measure of my honesty is a subject of intense scrutiny and concern to certain very interested attendant parties - those being (mainly), the parents of my rapidly approaching bride to be.

Brain disconnects, goes into freefall, yelling something incoherent about terminal velocity. Bladder does something uncomfortable, reminding me who is in charge. Rational thought attempts to leave the building (via flaming elevator, no less); as I hear the music that she and I picked months ago kick in. Reptile brain rears its ugly head, and starts getting vocal.

Why has everyone gone quiet? Why have they those people stood up? Why have all those little, nagging fears (don’t you dare call them doubts) that you swept under the carpet ages ago suddenly come back to haunt you?

Stand up, idiot. You should be standing already. Your Best Man is looking at you weirdly. He’s not the only one. Your parents in the front row are wearing that all-too-familiar ‘what are you doing?’ expression. It’s time to stop daydreaming; time to take a stand (literally).

Reptile brain starts to make noises. I recognise the sounds at some awful, primal level, and try to ignore them.

Doors open. Heads turn. Smiles break out like a communicable disease (stupid brain, shut your mouth!). Heart grits its teeth and prepares itself for the race of its life. Two figures turn a corner, and take three steps from elsewhere, gliding effortlessly into view; one tall and dark, one in white and embroidery and silver. Unknown becomes known. The imagined becomes real.

She’s here. She’s here.

My stomach unexpectedly arrives at this floor. The elevator has left its cargo of anvils elsewhere, and the fire that previously affected it has been extinguished utterly, forever.

Reptile brain manages one last ‘FLEE!’ before I finally manage to strangle it. Suddenly, there's a change. I catch my breath, hearbeat slowing a little - still racing, but now there's a certain pattern to that rhythm that somehow, somewhere, starts to be a measure of joy that you expected, but never really imagined.

Tou embrace it. Revel in it. You smile without thinking.

After the months of planning, after all the apprehension, it’s time; time to get married.

Married for the first time.

My first thought, as I approached the blank page, was that cliche of writers staring at a blank page, you know, writers block. I laughed softly at the thought. (My terror was really the hours it would take to correct my typing mistakes.)

But I had a cunning plan. My very extraordinarily clever idea involved actually writing about the emotions I would have as a first time textor! My triumphs and my failures, each morsel held up and cherished.

Looking up, I realized I had four wonderful lines of Times Roman type. I wondered, is leading and kerning an issue?

So, there I was, words on paper. I had strongly worked through the dreaded writers block. First time, too easy!

Relief slipped away as my prime emotion of the moment, to a kind of smugness , I suppose. Bravely typing, boldly working, wishing that my new generation keyboard would in fact sound like the typewriter of old.

Just like the “journo” madly finishing his news column, before the presses rolled. Editor eating a cigar, leaning forward, sweat-stained armpits, and hat on the back of his head! Well, I am sure I have seen a movie like that, or am I actually thinking of the private eye secretary. Yes,OK, it's my story, fishnet stockings and perfect nails. Clicking away, whilst a couple of earnest shadows pace back and forward through the Venetian blinds on the half glass door behind her.

Well, it doesn’t! It’s silent, thin and extremely touch sensitive. It’s state of the art. A proud monument of the advancement of the species, beneath my hands. I see them a lot when I type, because, well I can’t touch type, I have to have my head down, looking at my fingers. Sometimes I wonder, how my hands kinda know where they are going.

I even then test myself, and wiggle my toes and see if I can put heat on my ears, what is that, mind power? It is not telepathy, is it? Can you telepath yourself? Is that even a word? 'Course not, because you kinda have the heads yup - well you do!

You know what I mean.

Plot development, story, get things down on paper, my mentor’s words start to creep into my mind as I reach half way down my A4 sheet of paper. Oh no, I am now expressing doubt, gnawing at my soul? No that’s too strong, but my cheerfulness is wavering. I know I have no plot, I'm just writing what I’m feeling. How dare I! Who would want to read a diatribe about a first writing session with a mentor, some scruffy painter pretending that he can articulate through words.

Well, alright then, let's begin at the beginning. A story, just tell a story, be convincing, introduce some memorable characters and create a scene for them to be illuminated beyond words on paper.

I suppose that I could explore the concept of a writer writing, but, I have read heaps of books like that, there ís nothing new in it. Hold on, I remembered something from the fifth form, what was it? First person singular! That’s it, so I'm legitimate, right? You know, legitimate in the sense of Iím talking about my journey into this thing.

Hmm, who’s the bad guy going to be? Hold on, will there be a love interest for me? Hey. Yeah!

It’s OK my wife is in bed!

This is writing, literature, lofty pencil-lined mustaches and corduroy pants kind of stuff.

Or a crowd pleaser, some Bruce Willis type of swarthy, hip, sassy kinda metro bad ass!

So, swarthy, hip, Brucey-type guy walks into the private eye’s office. The late afternoon sun sends shafts across the room that seem to light up each and every speck of dust. A dust starburst surrounds the most stunning woman Dirk ( swarthy guy's name, friggin' Dirk, well I can come back and clean that up, can't I?) had ever seen.
Dirk shifts his toothpick across his chiseled lips, and his eyes sparkle with the intensity of Hollywood leading actors looking at pretty girls.

He is distracted for a second as a fedora-hatted, stubble-chinned silhouette shadowed through the blinds behind the girl.

The d**k is leaning into a big-haired, (or is that coiffered? Or, Dolly-Parton like?) well-dressed dame. Dirk smiles and returns his attention to the girl, who has stopped clacking away on her ancient typewriter.

Slap!!

Dirk reaches for his gun as the door behind the girl crashes open, and with a good head of steam on the society broad storms through the office pushing Dirk roughly to the side, the cruel and mean expression on her face matches the loudest door slamming noise he’d ever heard as the entry door slammed almost off its hinges.

I'll make coffee and send this to my mentor. Yeah, lol.