By Julie Miller
Flying through the air to be caught by a partner is an exhilarating experience. Credit: Carol Haynes
I'm not afraid of heights, but I don't like the idea of hurting myself, or looking like an idiot. The latter is guaranteed; comedic entertainment for the crowd that has gathered to watch my literal fall from grace.
I'm standing on an eight-metre-high platform, about to launch myself on to a metal bar at a trapeze school, spectacularly located overlooking the Pacific Ocean on Santa Monica Pier. Within this two-hour introductory session, I'll face fears and push my body to its limits, all in the name of fun. As I prepare to make my virgin fly, however, I realise I'm way, way out of my comfort zone.
Quivering with adrenaline, I await instructions from my belayer below, who assures me that between the harness and his rope, I'm in safe hands. But when it comes to obeying Blaine's commands, I seem to have developed body dyslexia.
"Reach forward and grab the bar, arch your back like a banana," he yells. I immediately stick my bum out, the exact opposite of the required position.
"Julie, you're not listening!" Blaine reprimands. I correct myself, stretch as far as I can, and catch the bar. I'm ready to fly, on Blaine's count.
There's a five-second delay, however, in my brain. I teeter hesitantly on the edge, before collapsing ungracefully into the void. But somehow I've done it – I'm flying, an unco-ordinated spider grappling for her web.
My brain finally clicks and I'm hanging upside-down, grinning like a demented monkey.
"Legs up, legs up!" I hear Blaine command. My inner 10-year-old kicks in, schoolyard monkey-bar mode. "OK, hands off!" What, already? I've only just made contact. Now he wants me to let go?
My brain finally clicks and I'm hanging upside-down, grinning like a demented monkey. I hear whoops of congratulations from below, but as Blaine eases me gently on to the net, I'm met with stern admonition.
"Next time, LISTEN!" he says. "You've got this, but you need to surrender control. Stop thinking it through. You need to submit."
That certainly comes into play in the final stage of the lesson: being caught by another flyer. In order to succeed, I have to jump on cue – timing is crucial. "Three, two, one, hup!" I hear my partner holler, already dangling from his knees in full flight.
This time, there's no cognitive breach. I launch, swing my legs up, then release my hands, stretching out blindly towards the setting sun with new-found faith.
Immediately, I feel Brad's firm grip on my wrists. "Gotcha!" he shouts, and instinctively I drop my knees and allow myself to fall.
I'm flying, and I explode with excitement, relief, pride. What a magnificent, empowering, liberating feeling – for approximately 12 seconds, I am a bona fide circus star. Is it too late for a career change?
See losangeles.trapezeschool.com.
The writer was a guest of the Santa Monica Visitors and Convention Bureau and the Los Angeles Trapeze School.
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