The Jumpers

                                      

                                    

                                       On the Fourth of July 1994, I attended a fleet show with my two older sisters —Sam, who was 6 months pregnant at the time, and Stephany. Originally I declined the invitation but the two of them nagged and insisted, twisting my arm the way a set of controlling sisters would. They implied that I could use a nice day out and they didn't want me home alone on a holiday just three weeks after my girlfriend dumped me. So when the phone rang that morning, with more of the same maternal nagging on the other end, I assured my sisters that I would join them for the holiday. After I hung up, I dragged myself off the couch, splashed cold water on my face —debated whether or not shave (the scruff kind of looked good on me) then threw on some clothes that passed the sniff test. I grabbed my keys, double checked the door had been locked behind me, and then drove to the Bankston County Bay. The strange thing was (of course I never would have admitted it to them then) I was kind of happy to get out of my stuffy apartment that morning; something about the day seemed... special.

 The fleet show took place along the port, which is encompassed by boating docks, tall city buildings and parking structures.  There are Seafood restaurants and non-seafood restaurants and quaint high-end gift shops where a person could purchase twenty dollar keychains and overpriced postcards that read, We visited the Bankston County Bay. There's even a historical museum filled with relics of early marine life where you could buy passes to our operating lighthouse. Each pass includes a walking tour up cascading stairs, several flights up, which lead to the keeper's sleeping quarters, kitchen and the famous oil lamp room. And of course, at the end of your tour, you get a free bumper sticker. Bankston Bay has it all, nestled nice and neat along the harbor's cul-da-sac.  Most of the harbor's largest buildings surrounding the impasse rise high above the water then jut out over it, so you can imagine the amount of tourist our bay attracts —"Come visit the floating town! It's a sight to see."

The air that morning was hot, sticky and humid and smelled of ocean water and raw fish as thousands of people flowed from parked cars, minivans and campers, and proceeded to their favorite watching posts; off to see the colorful ships sail by on America's birthday.

Two identical Bankston Bay parking garages stood opposite each other on both sides of the narrow bay, and were both open for onlookers to view the fleet show from within their structures. When we first arrived we decided to climb up an arduous mountain of stairs, since the elevator line was miles long, and as we slowly trekked upward, I kept wishing I had worn my old sneakers because my new shoes (mainly the left one) kept rubbing against the sides of my heels, forming blisters (and I hated getting blisters; everyone does, I guess). The buildings rose twenty-five floors above the harbor, but we were only given access up to level fifteen, and we climbed passing the lower levels that were already jam-packed, and continued our languidly march upward until we finally found a decent spot on level ten. Some people, if they arrived early enough, were able to drive up and park, and by noontime there were numerous cars parked alongside an impossible- to-breathe-in sea of people. We found a small nook up near the front where the safety gate was stretched across the interior siding of the building. It seemed a little high up, but I guess that's what happens when you don't show up at the ass-crack of dawn for these sorts of things. 

Where we waited inside of the Bankston Bay Parking Garage #2, there were hundreds of men and women dressed in reds and whites and blues,' holding the hands of chatty children whose small fingers were tightly wrapped around pint-sized American flags. My sisters and I had a nice view right up against the safety gate, or as close to it any person would feel comfortable being. Not to say I didn't feel safe being so close to a gate that rose ten stories above water; it seemed sturdy enough.  The gate was strong and thick and rose up to about the height of my chest, if I were standing, and in the center of it, welded on tight, a cautionary sign stated in bold white letters against a red backdrop, DANGER! NO CLIMBING! - along with its Spanish interpretation. And we all knew why. I looked down and saw how long the drop was. There was of course a safety catwalk; if you were to somehow find yourself on the other side of that danger sign. But who would want to climb over the gate? Maybe some punk, trying to impress his girlfriend would try it. Or maybe even a small child, whose parents were too busy, not paying attention, could somehow climb over due to innocent curiosity and take a daring swan dive from the narrow walkway.  Being that high above the water and looking down just gave me a mild since of vertigo, that's all, but I felt safe.