Moab, Actually.

So,  it does not matter - How I Look In A Swimming Suit.
Cuz total time spent in bikini flaunting...anything...was about 27 minutes.
I was too busy doing much meatier stuff.  Such as belaying my nephew, Max.  He took off climbing and I watched the synapses fire.  I saw his endorphines mix with dopamine and he fell in love.  Could not get enough.  The boy who is usually a quiet mouse was chattering his way up the wall.  He asked questions, made observations about the sky and how far up into it he had ascended.  I know this feeling.  From the first time I stepped from the ground to rock in sticky rubber, it felt right.
Just like swimming.
Just like writing.
Just like painting.
I am not exceptionally good at any of these things, but I am in sync when I do them.
I was content to belay him all afternoon.
The sun oozing down my shoulders and into the sweat pooled at the small of my back.  I let the desert fold over me.  My arms like an octopus sucking in rope and flinging it through the belay device to keep Max safe.  It is automatic, this motion, all the while, eyes on my tiny climber.

Then, my lil family hiked through the desert to the circus.
We were just going to watch.
People.
Crazy people,
were jumping off the Corona arch.  To call this a rope swing is an understatement.  The arch is 140 feet tall.  5 bolts at the top secure the ropes, and the jumper wears a harness tied to these ropes and Supermans off the top.
I walked up to the "swing" wearing a skirt, and thought,

"I can't jump because I am wearing a skirt and I can't put on a harness in this skirt.  Phew...relief."

Then my friend, who is significantly smaller than me says, 

"You can wear my shorts."

Crap.

Both cheeks barely fit into those shorts in fact, they probably didn't.

But how could I pass up the chance to fly?

So I shimmied those babies on and strutted up to the base of the arch.

For a second I worried if my husband was embarrassed of his crazy wife in the too-small shorts.
What if I get up there and can't jump?  Decide then.  Jump or not. Do you trust the gear?  Yes.  Do you trust your "belayer?"  Yes. Then the risk in minimal right?  Right.  Just another bolted route.  Jump or not.  Yes.  Jump.  As soon as they say your are clear to go.  You go.  Okay.  It is decided.

So, I set flip-flopped foot onto the ascent.

"You're wearing flip-flops?"  said the other climber.

"It's all I got,"  I said.

And up we went.

The whole time - me - exhaling fear.  Hands shaking.  The space between head and feet quickly shrinking as it does right before I do something terrifying.

My Baby Beckam is at the base of the arch.  He is wearing a floppy plaid hat and his cheeks are tiny cherries. Sophie is down there too.  In nothing but a swimming suit and flip-flops.  

It still makes my stomach drop to remember that initial free fall.  The step off the edge where every instinct in my animal body screams at the edge of my flesh to stop.  

In the morning I ran the desert at sunrise.

My legs flew beneath me and I paced myself straight into the sun.  

It's light trickled along the top of the river and I flowed with it.

I nearly cried, which happens often to me when I run alone.

Because I realize I can go back to my life and live it well.

Also, I grieve for the times I could not.

I think of Sophie's dad, Jeff.

We were married for 4 years.

He taught me to climb, to trust my gear, to talk less.

When I came to the ground off the arch, Sophie was the first to hug me.

"Your Dad taught me how to do that,"  I told her.

"My Dad taught you to do THAT!"

"Yep, he did."