Chicken Rock

Evan Grace 

Ms. Asuncion 

English 9H, Block 2 

1 October 2015 

Chicken Rock 

It had been a great week up in Massachusetts. We were vacationing at my cousins’ beach house in Scituate. After hanging out with them at the house, kayaking in the ocean, and exploring rocky islands, we had reached our last day. We didn’t have any ideas of what to do, and, after playing cards early in the morning, we all decided to bike to the beach. On the bike ride, which was two or three miles, my brothers and I were told of a 35 foot high rock, known as “Chicken Rock.” The name described the rock perfectly, my cousins said. If you didn’t jump, you were chicken.  

We arrived at the beach and chained our bikes to up to a rack. It was a rocky beach, unpleasant for our feet. The water was quite chilling, like stepping into an ice bath. The gloomy skies didn’t help much, either. After throwing tennis balls around in the water, pretending we were making spectacular diving catches, we explored the very rocky hill next to the beach. We climbed the hill until the owners of the hill yelled at us to get off their property. We ran off laughing and scrambling back down into the water and onto the beach. Soon after, the moment of truth finally arose. 

“Chicken Rock?” someone asked. 

“Chicken Rock!” my brother replied. 

I felt my stomach turn over. I didn’t know about this jump, or if I’d be able to even get up the rock! 

As we swam out deeper into the bay, where the rock was, the water got even icier. I was definitely out of my comfort zone. Once we got to the rock, we had to climb it. At about 35 feet high, it was steep. With fear in my passenger seat, I warily took steps up the rock, which was feeling like a mountain. It was a slippery route up the rock, from waves constantly crashing over it, and we had to watch our step. I’ll admit, I lost my footing on multiple occasions, which just added to my mounting fear. Once at the top, I felt as though the sky turned dark and ominous, as if I were in a movie. Of course, getting to the top of Chicken Rock was only half the battle, probably less looking back. I still had to jump. 

My cocky, courageous cousin led the way, jumping right on in. Another cousin and my brother followed, but I kept my distance. However, a couple of splashes later, they all turned on me. 

“Let’s go, Ev! C’mon, jump!” my brother said, half encouraging, half egging me on. 

“I will, I will. Calm down,” I replied. 

I stepped closer to the edge, but quickly turned around. Although, if you have any older brothers, you know what comes next. I was turned around and pushed towards the edge-- stopping myself just in time to keep from falling off. They wouldn’t let me off that edge, holding me there as I was forced to look down into the black, cold water. The water was pretty rough from the dreary day. Waves crashed into the cove which I was above. I’m going to be honest: I was petrified, standing there, 30 feet in the air, on the edge of a cliff. Knowing only one thing, one certain action would take them off my back, I announced my fate. 

“Get off me. I’m jumping.” 

My cousins and brothers gave each other triumphant nods, and let me go. I backed up a few feet, for a running start, despite the fact that I felt my legs going, turning into jelly. A couple of times, I tried, I took a first step or two, but stopped abruptly on each try. I felt I couldn’t do it. 

“WHAT. A. CHICKEN!” my brother yelled. 

“He’s got no guts!” my cousin added. 

I probably would have pushed them off the rock for that, had I not been the smallest there. And we were on a cliff. I really hated them at that at that moment, so I took a deep breath, went five paces back, sprinted five paces forward, and took a complete leap of faith. 

The thirty feet passed in less than three seconds. The air rushed through me, the freezing water stabbed me, and I knew I had done it. Not knowing how deep I had sunk, I quickly came up to the surface and, breathing very quickly, yelled, 

“I FEEL ALIVE!” 

The shout was met by whoops and cheers from above. It was the best I had felt all week. As I climbed up the rock, my legs were cut by sharp barnacles. That didn’t matter now, though, because I was no longer a chicken. I got back to the top and was greeted by high-fives from my cousins and brothers.  

“Way to go!” one of them said. 

“Bok, bok,” my brother still teased. 

That last comment didn’t matter though, because I was about to jump again. Another five paces back, another sprinting leap, and I was in the water. After a few more leaps from a few of us, my cousins, brothers and I decided to call it day, and raced home to on our bikes, eagerly awaiting the chance to tell our parents about the day’s endeavors. 

This memory of my time at Chicken Rock, making my leap of faith, are etched into my brain. I am glad that the memory is one of triumph, not one of what could have been.