Life's too short to play it safe
From January 1st until January 11th midnight, PST, you can vote for your favorite December 2011, “My Gutsy Story.”
To VOTE, please go to the poll on the sidebar of any of the 4 “My Gutsy Story,” submissions, (not on the homepage.)
Here are the 4 stories. Only ONE vote per person.
The winner will be announced on January 12th, 2012.
Good Luck to all of you. Your stories are amazing and inspiring.
Only seven women signed up for the zip-lining and cave-tubing tour in Belize, and they were half my age. With a life-long fear of heights, I forced myself to be Gutsy, and play Tarzan for a day.
Our adventure started the minute we boarded a retired American school bus and bounced all the way to Jaguar Paw Jungle Reserve, a tribal style resort located on 215 acres of jungle reserve in the heart of Belize. The Caves Branch River meandered through the jungle with several miles of underground caves where the Mayans once lived and worshiped.
Two young Belizean men led us on a steep path to our starting point in the heart of the jungle’s lush, tropical canopy. After a brief lecture on the equipment we’d be using, I told Louis I was scared of heights. “You’ll be safe,” he said. “We have two steel cables on each of the eight rides so you’re doubly protected.” We each wore a metal helmet which I assumed was to protect our head in case we crashed into a tree trunk.
I started working out when these young girls were still in diapers, and my years of weight training finally paid off. My arms lifted me with ease, and Louis snapped my belt to the cable. We each stepped into a harness which Louis tightened firmly against our waist and hips. He then fastened the harness clasps to the steel cables and a safety leash secured us to a massive tree trunk at each of the eight landing stations. We looked like seven monkeys tied to a tree trunk, forty feet up in the jungle canopy.
Our first platform was knee-shaking high. “So who’s ready to go first?” Louis asked.
A short skinny girl raised her hand. “I will.”
Louis gave a brief lecture, then instructed the girl to put on her heavy-duty industrial type gloves.
“Put your left hand around all the ropes. Your right hand slides behind you on the bottom cable. The right glove is reinforced with a thick leather pad, so you don’t rub a hole through it and end up with a bloody hand. Use your right hand for braking. If you need to break, you’ll pull down on the cable with that hand.”
“How do we know if we need to break?” I asked.
“We’ll make this type of motion,” he said, waving his hand up and down.
I hoped we were done with all the instructions as I started getting confused.
“Are you ready? Let’s get started,” Louis said.
Oscar, the other guide, demonstrated our first ride to the second platform, about ninety feet away. He made it look fun and easy.
Our first volunteer started her Tarzanna trip, screaming, as she zipped along, though not as smoothly as Oscar had demonstrated.
I decided to be fourth in line—my favorite number for good luck. I concentrated so hard on technique, that before I knew it, I’d reached the other side. What happened? This was really no big deal. My fear of heights didn’t even enter into the equation as I focused so hard on the task. Thankfully, I’d forgotten to look down. Everyone except poor Tracy, became experts at inter-tree air-borne travel.
The grand finale was getting down from the last platform. No we didn’t have the luxury of a staircase or a ladder, we had to repel. We were instructed to squat, grab the rope on the edge of the platform, hang over and control our descent with a hand lever. A slight pull could send you flying, so the exact contraction on the rope was critical.
All of us struggled with the repelling, but I reminded myself not to look down and that helped. Once again poor Tracy was last. It took Oscar a good ten minutes to prep her. She accidentally released the lever too quickly, which sent her flying at top speed. Her terror stricken shriek ended when Oscar controlled the security lever from above and succeeded in aborting her free fall a third of the way down.
“I can’t believe how much I enjoyed this,” I said to Louis, all proud of my accomplishment. One by one we waited for our security gear to be taken off and headed to the Jaguar Paw Lodge, where we met the less brave who spent the day at the zoo.
After a typical Belizean lunch of chicken, rice and beans, our group of seven women hiked towards the underground river and caves, each one carrying an inner-tube into the jungle. Now we were ready to see some Mayan artifacts.
What one Gutsy thing have you done that you remember?
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The last day
For summer vacation, some people go to the beach, some go to touristy places, but in 1968, I elected to take my little near-clapped-out Ford Anglia behind the Iron Curtain. Early in the morning of August 23, 1968, the day my Czech visa would expire, I left Praha and headed south. The day matched my mood: sombre and deflated. The heads were down; the protests were over. I had a small Czech flag tied to the aerial of my Anglia, and where before this had given me quite amazing support from the Czech people, now it was ignored by the very few people who were venturing out.
I had memories that would last forever: while driving at high speed in the dark, narrowly avoiding colliding with a tank parked in the middle of the road with camouflage netting; entering a Russian military base from the rear, which was unguarded because the road behind had been deemed impassable, then driving through, flag still flying; heading a procession of tanks into Praha and forcing them into continual graunching gear changes while hundreds of thousands cheered, and even threw flowers; the rattle of machine guns; people hugging the walls while I walked unconcerned (the noise was clearly in another street, and I favoured the gutter if necessary); a marriage where bride and groom emerged, looked around and burst into tears; protestors marching into Wenceslas Square to be confronted by a yellow line painted across the stones and about a hundred men with submachine guns on the other side; me leaving and shortly after, the rattle, the screams, the ambulances; talking to a Major on Charles Bridge while the soldiers below took off boots and I noticed they had rags wrapped around their feet rather than socks; the Major wanted to know why the people were removing the food. Then there was that which cheered the Czechs and annoyed the Russians more than anything else. One town only refused to protest and meekly did everything ordered by the Russians: Lidice.
Finally, a night in an apartment with the Heitlegnerovs (I apologize for the spelling if it is wrong.) The father was a Jew, who had spent the war in the forest resisting Hitler, he had helped organize the Communists come to power, then he was back into the forest in a hut with a dirt floor and no heating because he was a Jew. With Dubcek, he got this neat apartment, and now he feared, back to the forest. I was given one task in return for the bed: he had a daughter on holiday in England and I was to take her best belongings and carry the message that she should stay there.
About twenty minutes short of the border on the road to Linz I picked up two Czech hitchhikers, who were carrying a petition with about 250,000 signatures that they wanted sent to the UN. Would I smuggle them and it out? My problem was, I was involved. I had stopped knowing they wanted to get to the border, so I could hardly just up and leave them. There was no way I could conceal them, but I thought I could manage the petition, so I agreed to let them off 100 meters short of the border. I would wait on the other side for so long, assuming I got through. Then the decision: what to do with the flag? The guards were Czech, so I left the flag and hoped it would work. I wrapped the petition in a large plastic bag and put it in the bottom of a large box that I was using for storing waste.
At the border, the guards searched, and when they got to the rubbish box, they took out the rather dried rye bread I had not eaten, then over-ripe fruit, then smelly empty tins, and they asked me why was I carrying these? As I pointed out, there are no public rubbish receptacles behind the Iron Curtain, or if there were, I never found them, and I did not want to dump rubbish. They accepted that, and I was half through. All I had to do then was to enter Austria.
Then I saw the two triumphant Czech faces and a border guard who knew. I can still almost scream. They thought the Austrian authorities would support the Czechs: how stupid!
Those days in Czechoslovakia were days I shall never forget. It almost certainly strengthened my individualistic tendencies, and it certainly diluted my desire to be with a group of tourists. Now I have taken up writing fiction, there are perhaps three influences over all else. Big events, violence, etc tend to be very sudden, except to those planning them. The second is that groups do not necessarily behave the same as individuals, and that is an issue that literature tends to steer clear of. The third is that I want to explore why some people want power over others, how they get it, and why others let them have it. This makes my writing somewhat different from others.
Alenka received her belongings, stayed in England for about 6 months, then voluntarily returned home. I pray she lives long and has prospered.
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Thanks Ian for sharing your Gutsy adventure back in the 60’s. As you mentioned, those days in Czechoslovakia influenced you and your writing. We look forward to reading your future novels. Please check out Ian Miller’s website, and join him on Facebook.
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Our second poll starts January 2nd-January 11th to vote for your favorite “My Gutsy Story” of the month.
Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?
To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our 8 Sponsors (including two new ones) on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (NEW VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.
Please leave your comments and questions for Ian Miller below and please share his story.
It’s getting close to the end of the year; a time to reflect on what’s important in life, how we can help others, our goals, what we are grateful for and so much more.
Thanks to the Internet, and social media, I’ve met so many wonderful people, and read so many inspiring, funny, sad, informative and motivational stories.
One thing I’ve learned is that we all have our own unique “My Gutsy Story” and I am grateful to Jill Fales, the winner of our first “My Gutsy Story” contest, for her comment.
“I really appreciate everything you do for women and men who want to take a risk. I feel that there may be people out there on the fence and through this contest, they may be convinced to go to the other side!”
I think Jill brought up something even bigger than what I had hoped for with the “My Gutsy Story” series. By reading other stories and sharing our own, we truly help one another realize we have options in life. We are all connected and through our stories and those of famous inspirational people, like Jane Goodall, I find myself more and more attracted to global issues.
I have always wanted to be like Jane Goodall. Perhaps living in Nigeria as a child, has given me the desire to return to certain parts of Africa, or maybe it’s the fact that my children are growing up that has sparked a need to help others less fortunate than me.
As Jane Goodall says:
“If you really want something, work hard, take risks, grab opportunities, and never give up … then there is definitely a way to success.”
I wish all of you a Merry Christmas, a wonderful holiday season with family and friends and look forward to reading and sharing your, “My Gutsy Story.”
Just Another Religious Festival
“OK”. And with that one word, my 15 year marriage ended. We had both given up so there were no fights or last hurrahs to save our union. I wanted our son. Done. He wanted his pension. OK. We actually negotiated the division of property at Starbucks over lattes. Dutch treat!
It doesn’t get any better than that for a friendly divorce.
However, I had spent the previous 15 years as an ice hockey mom and school teacher for at-risk teens. For this 70s throwback of peace, love, rock and roll, violence didn’t fit with my belief system; however, circumstances dropped it into my lap daily both at home and at school. Along the way I disappeared while serving the needs of everyone else. I couldn’t even remember what I enjoyed doing and I didn’t know where to start in creating Cheryl Version 2.0, middle aged edition.
Slowly I experienced rebirth, dabbled in online dating (just don’t!), raised an amazing son and developed deep interests in yoga, reading and writing. My regular haunts included Starbucks, yoga studios and bookstores. Not exactly the life of a thrill-seeker but joy appeared in subtle ways through the perfect backbend or a well written novel devoured over a latte and cookie. I was restless though. After so many years living in ice rinks and never taking a vacation I had to blow off some steam and this lovely life I had created did not include adventure.
Three weeks. That became my gift of time and for once in my adult life, I had freedom. Throw caution to the wind, this was a childless adventure. My friends thought I’d head to the shore with a stack of books when I shared the news of a getaway. Not this time.
The Festival of San Fermin! That’s where I chose to go so I planned a vacation around that religious holiday. Traveling to the major cities of Spain introduced me to centuries old neighborhoods, gothic cathedrals, and fabulous museums. I soaked it all in while spending siesta time sitting in plazas drinking cava. Three weeks. Time for me. And for kicks, I went alone and did not activate international cell phone service. No one to tell me when to get up, what to eat for dinner, or how to spend the days.
I enjoyed 2 glorious weeks traveling throughout Spain with my camera in hand. I wandered through street markets, toured museums and palaces and chose to view only masterpieces at the Prado. I even crashed a wedding reception. Why not? No one really knew what I was doing but me. I enjoyed freedom for the first time.
Did I mention that the Festival of San Fermin is more commonly called the Running of the Bulls in Pamplona? I didn’t tell too many people from home either. I certainly didn’t tell my mother what adventure awaited me. My guess was that wouldn’t go over too well.
A train ride later, I entered the tiny village of Pamplona. The annual kickoff food fight had fortunately already ended by the time I settled into my hotel but the partying had just begun. I began to realize that my standard glass of wine was not going to be the norm for the next few days.
Mardi Gras looked tame compared to Pamplona during the festival. Dressed in obligatory whites with red sash and scarf, I elbowed my way through the crowds to enter the streets. Once there, African conga drums played, strangers pulled me into their arms to dance in the street and mimes entertained all. Music poured forth from stores and vendors filled the streets selling t-shirts and flags. The streets provided sensory overload but once I got into a rhythm, the crowds became invisible. Callemucho . The drink of San Fermin poured freely usually by flask or 2 gallon jug.
After a night of partying and no sleep, the actual festival began. Fueled with over a decade of pent up energy, I chanted “let ‘em loose” in my mind. Catch me if you can. But I’m not quite as foolhardy as it appears.
First, most of the people running had imbibed for at least 24 hours. I chose to toss back just one flask of Callemucho (cheap wine and soda). Juts for courage I thought but my balance remained rock solid. Next, a plan. I wasn’t about to run on a cobblestone street the width of a standard American alley full of drunks without knowing the lay of the land. I watched the first day, safely ensconced on a balcony two stories above bull level.
Day 2 however I joined the crowd in the street. My earlier reconnaissance showed that the end of the run was safer as there were fewer people (still packed shoulder to shoulder), a bit more space on the street and a fence to leap over should the need arise. So that’s where I planned the start of my run.
I heard the shot indicating that the bulls had left their pens, waited my 17 seconds for them to arrive, and then hit the street. There they were, 10 agitated, magnificent 2000 pound beasts and me soaking wet at 115 pounds. This sister ran fast, smelled their musky odor as they swept by and breathed a sigh of relief as I choked on their dust when they roared past. My 2 seconds of glory. Not trampled, not hurt and only a slight glow of perspiration on my brow. I ran with the bulls. Feel my power now people!
This single mom can do anything these days. When life gets tough or when I’m feeling a bit beaten up, I don my red sash from Pamplona, look at the photos I took of the bulls on my desk and smile. I found my inner courage again. I’m getting to know myself too. Life’s not so bad as Version 2.0.
Cheryl Stahle, memoirist, author and founder ofYour Best Writing Group (www.yourbestwritinggroup.com) lives in Doylestown, PA with her son. Cheryl consults with aspiring authors to guide them in telling their life stories. She has a special interest in working with adoptive families as an adoptive parent herself.
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Thank you Cheryl for giving women the courage to do something so unique and spectacular for themselves. I am a firm believer that when you get out of your comfort zone, you get that special feeling that you can accomplish anything in your life and you are a perfect example of this.
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Do you have a “My Gutsy Story”?
To submit your own, “My Gutsy Story” you can find all the information, and our sponsors on the “My Gutsy Story” contest page. (NEW VIDEO) Submission guidelines here.
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Jill Fales, winner of our first “My Gutsy Story” contest, picked the following prize:
Rhonda Hayes, came in second. Since she was the first to submit her story and since this was the first contest, she also won a prize and selected a chapter critique from Angela Ackerman..
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Voting for your favorite December “My Gutsy Story” starts on January 1st-January 11th. The December winner will be announced on Thursday January 12th.
Please leave your comments for Cheryl below.
