A whole pack of us had gone out to the lake to go cliff-jumping. There's nothing like jumping beer-buzzed off a cliff in the middle of the night into dark water to remind you that yes, you are still alive, and life is beautiful and never to be taken for granted. You wanted to get this feeling too, but you couldn't quite bring yourself to take the leap. All night long, you kept walking up to the edge, we encouraged and taunted, but you couldn't quite do it. The night and the beer caught up with us, and we all ended up passed out in tents, on tables, in the back of trucks, where ever.
The next morning, you were back at that edge. Most everybody had left, but you were riding in our car, so I was still there. Our encouragements were slightly less enthusiastic than the night before, tinged by an impatience to get on the road. But you made it clear you didn't want to leave without jumping at least once. False start after false start, but you couldn't quite make it. Finally, when all our patience had given out, when we finally stopped trying to make you just jump already, when all of us had basically just given up, you did it. And then you climbed back up and did it again.