Photos by Kathleen Porter

Pulling on the mandatory leggings, I moaned, Why? Why had I registered for this two-hour trapeze workshop?

Sweating, I ambled across the huge meadow fronting the thirty-foot high trapeze scaffolding. “Uncle Tony” strolled up to the check-in table. “You have no idea what you’re getting into,” he said. He didn’t bwa-ha-ha, but did he need to?

“Instant addiction, right?” I quipped back. The man’s eyes lit up. Oh God.

Five days ago, I had arrived at Omega Institute (a.k.a. summer camp for adults) for a workshop on natural spinal alignment with Kathleen Porter. Now I planned to jump off a trapeze tower.

At the orientation, the trapeze team stood out against us granola types like brightly colored tropical birds. The Gypsy leader, Peter; a coal-black Nubian prince, Spencer; a tall blonde Amazon, Lieza; a barrel-chested, unreasonably-short antique in a jaunty captain’s cap, Uncle Tony. Here I was, lining up to practice on the “low” bar.

Peter explained the physics of “flying.” At the top of the swing, there is a moment of weightlessness. “Wait for it. When you feel it-- Hustle, hustle! Hook your legs over the bar!” Right. I climbed a couple rungs up the step-ladder, grasped the bar with both hands, and hopped off.

“OK,” Peter instructed, “Swing forward, swing back, swing forward, when I say ‘Lift up!’ hook your legs over.”

Swinging was no problem. To get my legs over the bar though, Peter had to give my tush a push up. “You stopped yourself at the top of the swing! Gravity worked against you.”

Story of my life: I make easy things hard. He looked me in the eye, “You’re better than you think.” Right.

My feet groused-- Ouch! each step up-- Ouch! the ladder to the trapeze platform— Go faster! Couldn’t. Peeling one hand at a time off the round rungs took forever. Trembling, I pulled up onto the platform, knees first. Hooking my left arm around a pole, I stood up. The view was breathtaking. As in, I couldn’t breathe. No guardrails. Completely exposed. A bird flapped by below the platform.

Uncle Tony grinned at me. “Ready to fly?” He clipped a rope to each side of the corset-like belt cinching my waist, then grabbed the back of it with one hand. “Feet shoulder width apart on the edge of the platform! Lean out!” He pulled back.

Quivering like jello, I leaned forward a nanometer. A cloud drifted by, blocking my view of ant-sized Peter down on the ground, supposedly holding the ends of the ropes clipped to my waist. Was that gray blur rain? No, the net.

Uncle Tony’s grip didn’t waver. Still, if he turned a hundred at his last birthday, that was young. With his other hand, he casually retrieved the trapeze bar with a long hooked rod, “Grab it with your right hand!”

I leaned out another micron and grabbed the bar with my right hand. “Good! Grab the bar with your left hand!”

That required leaning even further out, and letting go of the pole— “YOU”LL FALL!!! YOU’LL DIE!!” screamed my mind, the trapeze pro, no experience whatsoever.

“I gotcha!” Uncle Tony pulled back harder on the belt. Taking a deep breath, I leaned out, and somehow grabbed the bar. I hung on with both hands, terrified, amazed—

“Good job! Bend the knees! Hup!” I bent my knees very slightly. The heavy bar suddenly pulled me out into space—

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