Dead Poets and The Devil’s Waterhole

“The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” — Henry David Thoreau

Reading the great poets is sometimes like looking at a fancy top-hat from seventeen-whatever behind some glass.

The plaque contains a paragraph of perfectly factual information. You skim — just in case anybody asks. It’s meant to “enrich” you, whatever that means. It’s vaguely interesting, but, honestly, lunch is more pressing.

Sometimes, though, if you gaze through the glass long enough, you slip right through it. It telescopes impossibly into a 50 foot hole, and vertigo sets in as the poetic heights become real and lift your guts.

In Austin, there is this beautiful river with sheer cliffs on either side. “The Devil’s Waterhole.” Locals dare you to jump 50 feet into the dark water below.

As I climbed up to give it a try, this kid smiled at me. Then, I noticed his left foot was absolutely mangled. It had happened recently — you could tell by the swelling. I stared, mouth open, clinging to the rocks. He laughed at me. My heart was racing, but, when you’re 20-something, you aren’t allowed to not jump off rocks.

After what felt like a full minute of free-fall, I slapped the water with my body. Immersed in the darkness for a private…