Leap of Faith
By Anne Sternberger
It started with a plane and ended with a plane.
Sweat cascaded down my forehead. My hands felt clammy. The blood drained from my face. My jailhouse orange onesie clung to my skin and trapped the blistering heat. I felt like I was sitting in an inferno. I peered out the window of the Cessna 182. The plane reached 13,500 feet, and my jumpmaster smiled slyly.
“You ready to spread your wings and fly?” I inched toward the open doors. The jumpmaster tapped my shoulder and
leaned against me. His weight pushed me forward. I fell.
Our family vacation to Panama started off hectic, as most vacations do. We raced through the halls of the LaGuardia Airport, barely making our second connection. The mood was sour. My father was eager to arrive and see his brother, who lives and sells real estate in both Panama and Costa Rica. The two of them had just rekindled a relationship after years of separation, and I knew this trip meant a great deal. After reaching our gate, out of breath and disgruntled, we met my sister Lynn, who had arrived at LaGuardia from Boston, a few hours prior. Our spirits seemed to lift as we boarded our flight to paradise.
After landing, peeling off our excessive layers of winter clothes, and shuffling through customs, we met my uncle outside. He hugged and kissed us. I pretended
to return the affection, although I had never liked him. He lived a solitary life, making more money than he knew how to spend and priding himself on owning
the most expensive and updated technical toys. I told myself to suck it up and enjoy the week of sunshine and relaxation.
Our first sight seeing stop in Panama was to the Grand Veneto Casino, in the heart of Panama City. Being so young, I had never been allowed into a casino, but the age restriction there was a mere fourteen. Flashing lights and scantily clad women entranced me. Girls who didn’t look much older than I chatted up men at blackjack tables and leaned over seductively, revealing underdeveloped chests.I was more interested in playing the slots. My father handed me a few coins and
let me run wild. I wasn’t sure if I was winning or losing, but I loved the noise the handle made when I pulled it. Over the next couple of days we continued on our sightseeing expeditions, visiting such places as the Panama Canal and the mountains of El Valle. My earlier doubts about the trip began to dissolve as my family and I shared these precious moments.
On our third night, my uncle took us to supper. We went to a local Chinese restaurant that had been thrown together inside of an old garage. The pull-down
door was lifted so that the tables were exposed and we could enjoy the warm breeze. Dogs, ribs protruding like sticks of kindling, wandered in and eyed us
with eternal hope. My father ordered shrimp balls. My uncle laughed and began discussing the anatomy of Crustacean genitalia. My mother rolled her eyes and
buried her face in chow mein. I never looked up from my General Tso’s or joined in the banter. My thoughts wandered to our plans for the next day. My uncle had
arranged a skim boat ride out to a private island, and I couldn’t wait to soak up some rays and unwind.
Isle de Iguana beach looked like the set of a tropical island in a blockbuster hit. White sands stretched for what seemed to be eternity, and the transparent ocean
was unbelievably blue. Hermit crabs left trails behind them as they scurried about the shore. I lifted one up, watching its legs flail, and brought it over to my father. “That’s nice honey,” he answered as he fidgeted with his snorkeling gear. “Susan, do you have the Vaseline?” he called to my mother, who was busy spreading towels and arranging snacks. My father always wore a full mustache and had to use Vaseline to mat it down. Otherwise, his facemask would leak.
My sister and I waded into the water and introduced ourselves to a local boy who was also snorkeling. His name was Jorge and he was nineteen. That was about all my rudimentary Spanish knowledge allowed me to understand. His dark hair fell right above his eyes, and his lips pursed in a curious, yet enticing grin. He
was beautiful. When I finally lifted my eyes from Jorge, I decided to join my mother, who was a few feet closer to shore. I don’t remember where my father
was. I don’t know why he was alone. When I reached my mom, I could tell that something was wrong. She held her chest, fingers curled, and gasped. “I think I am having an asthma attack,” she managed to choke out. I grabbed her arm and led her out of the water. I helped her lie on one of the towels and stroked her hair as she continued to struggle. She never had asthma attacks. After her breathing became less labored, I relaxed and reached for the snacks. Feeling tired from the intense sun, I rested my head and let the sun’s warmth radiate through me. To this day, I can’t recall why the splashes or laborious grunts caught my attention.
I had to look twice. Even then what I saw didn’t seem real. A fisherman struggled as he fought the waves. In his hands he held the arms of a man. He pushed
against the currents and dragged a body onto shore. It didn’t flop or stir like the catch of the day; it lay still, with all the heaviness of the world. “Mommy,
that’s Daddy, Mommy,” I screamed.
My mother’s voice echoed inside my ringing ears.
“No it isn’t. No it isn’t. Marc, Marc!” I ran to him.
I couldn’t tell if my heart had stopped beating or if it was palpitating too fast to detect. The fisherman had dragged him far enough that only his feet and waist were licked by the waves. His arms hung limp. His eyelids were unnaturally blue and purple, the veins prominent. Clumps of sand matted his curls. His belly appeared bloated, as if he had swallowed the entire sea. His mouth lay slightly agape. He didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t hear him breathe. I peeled back his eyelids, hoping to catch some flicker of life. Motionless. Vacant. I knelt and tried to recall the CPR lesson I hadn’t paid attention to in school. With all the power I could muster, I beat my hands on his chest and attempted to give him my breath. The breath he had given me. His chest rose and fell but I knew it wasn’t of his own doing.
“Annie, don’t stop, don’t stop. Marc, Marc come back to me,” but he couldn’t hear my
mother’s pleas. I could hear screaming beside me. My sister had finally seen. I looked up at her. Tears welled in her confused eyes. I couldn’t take it. I ran. I ran until the screams were inaudible. I fell to my knees. I prayed. I begged.
“Don’t take him from me, don’t take him.” My fists clenched. The earth gathered my tears.
My mother staggered towards me. “There is a boat for us. We have to go.” She sounded muffled, as if she too had swallowed salty
water. I managed to stand, my legs wobbly and sand clinging to me. Men were loading my father onto a boat. They picked him up by his arm and legs. His head
swung sickeningly free.
A few natives shouted indistinctly and placed my mother, uncle, and I, on the boat that brought us to the island. My sister, Jorge, and a few fishermen accompanied my father’s body on a slightly larger skimmer. I looked over at Jorge, his once beautiful face now looked pained, empathetic. His pupils were large and red around the corners. With my father’s body stretched out on the boat’s keel, I could see my sister attempting CPR once again. She refused to give up hope, but I knew it was too late. On March 18, 2008, a beautiful seashell washed upon shore. Its shell was intact, but nothing lived inside. My father was gone.
The boat carrying my father to land arrived before ours. My sister no longer attempting CPR, sat next to my father’s body. She had gashes on her knees from
kneeling on the boat’s abrasive floor. Blood ran down her legs. Sirens approached and my sister called me over. “You have to say goodbye, Annie. You have to say goodbye now.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me down next the body. My mother also quietly sat. We linked our arms around one another, my father’s body in the middle, and together we wept. The police covered my father with a sheet and escorted my mother away from the boat for questioning. My uncle accompanied her in order to translate. Lynn had wandered off, but I could still hear her sobs in the distance. Alone, I grabbed my father’s hand, cold to the
touch, and forced his fingers to wrap around mine. “Why, Daddy. Why did you leave us?”
My father never wanted to be buried. Instead, he had always asked that we spread his ashes in the places that he loved.
For Father’s Day, my mother, sister, and I had given my dad a gift certificate to skydive. The experience had thrilled him, and after he died, I knew that I, too,
had to take the leap of faith. I was only fifteen when he jumped, too young to go along, but he promised me that he would take me when I turned eighteen. Instead, I took him.
The powerful winds spiraled my body. My eyes stung. I squinted, but I would not allow them to close. I wanted to remember every detail of the moment. I pulled
the ripcord and leveled out. I unzipped my thigh pocket and retrieved an Altoids mint can. I pried the lid open, shaking slightly, and tossed its contents into the open sky. “This is for you, Dad,” I screamed as I watched the ashes sail off.
Sweat cascaded down my forehead. My hands felt clammy. The blood drained from my face. My jailhouse orange onesie clung to my skin and trapped the blistering heat. I felt like I was sitting in an inferno. I peered out the window of the Cessna 182. The plane reached 13,500 feet, and my jumpmaster smiled slyly.
“You ready to spread your wings and fly?” I inched toward the open doors. The jumpmaster tapped my shoulder and
leaned against me. His weight pushed me forward. I fell.
Our family vacation to Panama started off hectic, as most vacations do. We raced through the halls of the LaGuardia Airport, barely making our second connection. The mood was sour. My father was eager to arrive and see his brother, who lives and sells real estate in both Panama and Costa Rica. The two of them had just rekindled a relationship after years of separation, and I knew this trip meant a great deal. After reaching our gate, out of breath and disgruntled, we met my sister Lynn, who had arrived at LaGuardia from Boston, a few hours prior. Our spirits seemed to lift as we boarded our flight to paradise.
After landing, peeling off our excessive layers of winter clothes, and shuffling through customs, we met my uncle outside. He hugged and kissed us. I pretended
to return the affection, although I had never liked him. He lived a solitary life, making more money than he knew how to spend and priding himself on owning
the most expensive and updated technical toys. I told myself to suck it up and enjoy the week of sunshine and relaxation.
Our first sight seeing stop in Panama was to the Grand Veneto Casino, in the heart of Panama City. Being so young, I had never been allowed into a casino, but the age restriction there was a mere fourteen. Flashing lights and scantily clad women entranced me. Girls who didn’t look much older than I chatted up men at blackjack tables and leaned over seductively, revealing underdeveloped chests.I was more interested in playing the slots. My father handed me a few coins and
let me run wild. I wasn’t sure if I was winning or losing, but I loved the noise the handle made when I pulled it. Over the next couple of days we continued on our sightseeing expeditions, visiting such places as the Panama Canal and the mountains of El Valle. My earlier doubts about the trip began to dissolve as my family and I shared these precious moments.
On our third night, my uncle took us to supper. We went to a local Chinese restaurant that had been thrown together inside of an old garage. The pull-down
door was lifted so that the tables were exposed and we could enjoy the warm breeze. Dogs, ribs protruding like sticks of kindling, wandered in and eyed us
with eternal hope. My father ordered shrimp balls. My uncle laughed and began discussing the anatomy of Crustacean genitalia. My mother rolled her eyes and
buried her face in chow mein. I never looked up from my General Tso’s or joined in the banter. My thoughts wandered to our plans for the next day. My uncle had
arranged a skim boat ride out to a private island, and I couldn’t wait to soak up some rays and unwind.
Isle de Iguana beach looked like the set of a tropical island in a blockbuster hit. White sands stretched for what seemed to be eternity, and the transparent ocean
was unbelievably blue. Hermit crabs left trails behind them as they scurried about the shore. I lifted one up, watching its legs flail, and brought it over to my father. “That’s nice honey,” he answered as he fidgeted with his snorkeling gear. “Susan, do you have the Vaseline?” he called to my mother, who was busy spreading towels and arranging snacks. My father always wore a full mustache and had to use Vaseline to mat it down. Otherwise, his facemask would leak.
My sister and I waded into the water and introduced ourselves to a local boy who was also snorkeling. His name was Jorge and he was nineteen. That was about all my rudimentary Spanish knowledge allowed me to understand. His dark hair fell right above his eyes, and his lips pursed in a curious, yet enticing grin. He
was beautiful. When I finally lifted my eyes from Jorge, I decided to join my mother, who was a few feet closer to shore. I don’t remember where my father
was. I don’t know why he was alone. When I reached my mom, I could tell that something was wrong. She held her chest, fingers curled, and gasped. “I think I am having an asthma attack,” she managed to choke out. I grabbed her arm and led her out of the water. I helped her lie on one of the towels and stroked her hair as she continued to struggle. She never had asthma attacks. After her breathing became less labored, I relaxed and reached for the snacks. Feeling tired from the intense sun, I rested my head and let the sun’s warmth radiate through me. To this day, I can’t recall why the splashes or laborious grunts caught my attention.
I had to look twice. Even then what I saw didn’t seem real. A fisherman struggled as he fought the waves. In his hands he held the arms of a man. He pushed
against the currents and dragged a body onto shore. It didn’t flop or stir like the catch of the day; it lay still, with all the heaviness of the world. “Mommy,
that’s Daddy, Mommy,” I screamed.
My mother’s voice echoed inside my ringing ears.
“No it isn’t. No it isn’t. Marc, Marc!” I ran to him.
I couldn’t tell if my heart had stopped beating or if it was palpitating too fast to detect. The fisherman had dragged him far enough that only his feet and waist were licked by the waves. His arms hung limp. His eyelids were unnaturally blue and purple, the veins prominent. Clumps of sand matted his curls. His belly appeared bloated, as if he had swallowed the entire sea. His mouth lay slightly agape. He didn’t say anything, and I couldn’t hear him breathe. I peeled back his eyelids, hoping to catch some flicker of life. Motionless. Vacant. I knelt and tried to recall the CPR lesson I hadn’t paid attention to in school. With all the power I could muster, I beat my hands on his chest and attempted to give him my breath. The breath he had given me. His chest rose and fell but I knew it wasn’t of his own doing.
“Annie, don’t stop, don’t stop. Marc, Marc come back to me,” but he couldn’t hear my
mother’s pleas. I could hear screaming beside me. My sister had finally seen. I looked up at her. Tears welled in her confused eyes. I couldn’t take it. I ran. I ran until the screams were inaudible. I fell to my knees. I prayed. I begged.
“Don’t take him from me, don’t take him.” My fists clenched. The earth gathered my tears.
My mother staggered towards me. “There is a boat for us. We have to go.” She sounded muffled, as if she too had swallowed salty
water. I managed to stand, my legs wobbly and sand clinging to me. Men were loading my father onto a boat. They picked him up by his arm and legs. His head
swung sickeningly free.
A few natives shouted indistinctly and placed my mother, uncle, and I, on the boat that brought us to the island. My sister, Jorge, and a few fishermen accompanied my father’s body on a slightly larger skimmer. I looked over at Jorge, his once beautiful face now looked pained, empathetic. His pupils were large and red around the corners. With my father’s body stretched out on the boat’s keel, I could see my sister attempting CPR once again. She refused to give up hope, but I knew it was too late. On March 18, 2008, a beautiful seashell washed upon shore. Its shell was intact, but nothing lived inside. My father was gone.
The boat carrying my father to land arrived before ours. My sister no longer attempting CPR, sat next to my father’s body. She had gashes on her knees from
kneeling on the boat’s abrasive floor. Blood ran down her legs. Sirens approached and my sister called me over. “You have to say goodbye, Annie. You have to say goodbye now.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me down next the body. My mother also quietly sat. We linked our arms around one another, my father’s body in the middle, and together we wept. The police covered my father with a sheet and escorted my mother away from the boat for questioning. My uncle accompanied her in order to translate. Lynn had wandered off, but I could still hear her sobs in the distance. Alone, I grabbed my father’s hand, cold to the
touch, and forced his fingers to wrap around mine. “Why, Daddy. Why did you leave us?”
My father never wanted to be buried. Instead, he had always asked that we spread his ashes in the places that he loved.
For Father’s Day, my mother, sister, and I had given my dad a gift certificate to skydive. The experience had thrilled him, and after he died, I knew that I, too,
had to take the leap of faith. I was only fifteen when he jumped, too young to go along, but he promised me that he would take me when I turned eighteen. Instead, I took him.
The powerful winds spiraled my body. My eyes stung. I squinted, but I would not allow them to close. I wanted to remember every detail of the moment. I pulled
the ripcord and leveled out. I unzipped my thigh pocket and retrieved an Altoids mint can. I pried the lid open, shaking slightly, and tossed its contents into the open sky. “This is for you, Dad,” I screamed as I watched the ashes sail off.
About the Author
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