There is a rock in the ocean. It is just off the coast by the town of Skala Eresou on the island of Lesbos. It is not that big and largely unassuming. It juts about three or four metres out of the sea at its highest point. It is a five minute swim from the shoreline for a moderately unfit person such as myself.
For the first five days of my holiday on the island I found myself drinking red wine, and eating calamari and Greek salad every day while staring out at the rock from anyone of the dozen cafes that ran the length of the beachside front of the town. I was there with my girlfriend of five years Sam. Our relationship was coming to its conclusion, although we didn’t know it at the time, although we did, if we were honest with ourselves. It was the last time we were together. When the holiday ended we separated and never saw each other again. The days we spent there were lovely though. Each day was the same: breakfast, swim, reading, lunch, swim reading, dinner, bed. Sometimes sex, sometimes something a little different: we watched the Tim Burton version of Sleepy Hollow in an outdoor cinema with old garden chairs that had sunk into the ground. One day we went on a boat to the neighbouring town where there was a site with petrified trees. We also had a shiatsu massage from a German woman who was fond of tie-dye. She told me I had lots of tension in my shoulders and that I should come back again. I didn’t.
On the sixth day I decided that we should swim out to the rock and climb to the top. Sam agreed and we dove in the lukewarm Med and headed out using a mixture of freestyle and breaststroke. There was no wind and the sea was flat and calm. As we neared the outcrop the ground rose up to meet us. There was a table of rock just below the surface that one could walk on if one was careful. It was covered in long spined, black sea urchins. I moved around outside looking for the best place to climb up to the summit. At one point the rock folded in on itself offering a kind of ladder if one had a good imagination. I showed Sam my discovery but she looked at me as if I was crazy so I began the ascent alone. I have always been fairly nimble and with little fuss I found myself standing atop this small part of the world looking at a view of blue sea and idyllic seaside town. I was happy.
And then I looked down and realized that I needed to jump off the edge into the waters below. I peered over and saw that if was to jump I would need to clear a distance of about two meters where the water was only about twenty centimetres deep before the ground fell away sharply into the sea. Sam waiting down below read my intentions and said, “Don’t be silly.” I stood there unmoving for about a half a minute trying to work out if I could clear the distance. There was no hospital in the town. Good sense got the better of me and I turned around and headed back. And then I thought, I will probably never come here again. I will never again stand in this spot. Never again will I have the chance to smash both my tibulas at the same time in a small Greek coastal town. I would regret not taking this opportunity for the rest of my life. If I did not experience the freedom that comes from jumping off a big rock into water then what was the point of living. It was not thought through it was just something that needed to be done. I pushed the fear down along with reason and bounded over the edge. I hung in the air, free, alive and then plunged into the cool water just clearing the rocky plateau. My head emerged from the water surrounded by my own blood. Nothing made sense. I was not in pain. Surely if I had smashed my legs it would hurt? I sat on the edge of the water and inspected them. They were fine, except for the long black spines sticking out from under the skin.
Sam spent a good part of the rest of the afternoon pulling dark venomous needles from my ankles while I moaned in mild agony. I don’t know why I had to jump from that rock but I have never regretted the decision.
