Jumping Into El Fuerte

I like jumping. Like up to grab a crossbar that supports a telephone pole, or from cliffs into a river. I'm no daredevil, but, like water feels to the body when submerged, flying a little in air has that weightlessness. I dig the soar, however momentary. I also like the feel of the grab of the bar or branch or rim. Or the plunge into water or sand, as off a good swing set. Jumping from a cliff into a river? Best of both sensations.

I'm also a fan of jumping, as a concept. Into the fire, as they say. On stage. I've learned from experience that it's much better to just go ahead and jump, as the Van Halen boys suggested, rather than hesitate. At least, don't hesitate too much. Because those few, albeit practical, voices offering their timid warnings usually start to work against you and something you might've done easily is now hard because, oh yes, that fear is creeping in. Self-consciousness. Intimidation. Wait, how high did you say it was? Look over the edge long enough and you'll start talking yourself out of it. You might never jump. And who wants that?

This past weekend (June 6,7), I took a few jumps. And as always, they were rewarding. But here's what's fascinating: I'm not exactly sure I would've jumped--at least not so easily--knowing what I now know upon landing.

I was invited to attend a private gathering of musicians on a piece of land near the Yuba river, up in the foothills near Nevada City. Gorgeous property, with oaks and rock outcrops along a ridge with views down the hillsides to the thick river far below. When the sun set, or the full moon rose, with folks playing samba and singing in Portuguese, I was hardpressed to contain my swoon. (For those familiar with HSMF, picture a mini-High Sierra with simply one stage on a more remote and beautiful property for no more than say, 60 people.)

The owner of the place, a guitarist and singer named Kevin, plays in a local Bay Area band called Boca do Rio which plays Brazilian samba music, also categorized as Latin/Funk/Afro-beat. Many Brazilian musicians were there, quite well-known in these circles, guys my friend and drum teacher Robert, who invited me, and friend and fellow student Aaron, know from bay area music scenes and from previous "El Fuerte" gatherings. This year's event, and full moon bacchanalia, was edition number 7. Two of the Brazilian regulars are brothers, one of whom, Alex, is returning to Brazil after 14 years in the U.S. The party doubled as a farewell for him, what they call in Spanish, and I learned also in Portuguese, a despedida. Man, can that dude play the pandeiro. (Brazilian tamborine, click on Robert's video example to the right on Total Rhythm's homepage). Smile on his face, he smacked it and shook it and flipped it. He played that instrument like John Henry swung a hammer. Which is to say: born to it. His older brother Marcos, also warm-spirited, played guitar and sang in Portuguese. With Kevin up there on stage with them, his easy sway and handsome smile, and the others--funky bassist, drummers, etc.-- the swing of this music was enchanting. And with the friendly vibe and the early summer setting, in those environs, it was, in the immortal words of a Billy Ray Valentine reveler: a stone groove. Muito obrigado, Kevin!

Before we arrived at the hilltop estate, we stopped at the Yuba for a swim. The weather was overcast, but not too cold. The blessing in disguise was it kept the normal Saturday river crowd away, though that also included the party folks we thought would be there for the annual Saturday dip. So Robert, Aaron and I hiked in to the spot where the revelers usually go and the three of us enjoyed some river time alone before heading up to the party.

On the way down the trail to the river's edge, we hiked along the massive rocks carved smooth by the river's ancient masonry. They're the kind you might find at any big river, but the Yuba has some particularly prominent ones, characteristic of the area with their coloring and marbling. It's a great river for finding little swimming holes and diving/jumping spots. One spot in particular we passed on the way down was the perfect invitation for an ambitious cliff jump: high, but not no-way high; good launching ledge, and plenty of deep river in which to land. But also: a decent-sized rock shelf below that needed clearing to make water. In other words: no slipping. Just standing at the edge looking over, my heart raced with a combination of that weird sensation one gets to jump when overlooking ledges and edges--like, bizarrely, tall buildings: what malfunction of human survival instinct is that?--and a goading inner voice that said: you could do it. No, you should do it. Maybe right now! I was half-tempted, in a fleeting moment of male bravado, to just lay down my towel and water bottle and boom: leap out and down into the cold Yuba. Thankfully, we hiked on.

We got down to the river's edge, and swam across to the beach. It was a brisk swim, based more on necessity than a need for refreshment, since the beach lay on the other side and there isn't a dry way to cross. Like most swimming experiences I've had--and this is in complete accordance with my theory of jumping--once you're in, it's good. Even cold water holds a special exhilaration that, if you remember rightly, should always get you from the rock hesitation point to the plunge. Oh, the time we spend on the hesitation points of life! Hear me toe-dippers: get yo' body in there!

After drip-drying on the other side, with much arm swinging and warm-rock-clinging, Aaron left us and walked up-river aways and found some fat fish in the shallows near an inviting dive ledge. He came back and got me and we meandered up there, checked out the 2-foot (rainbow?) trout and contemplated a cliff dive. This wasn't nearly as high as the one we passed hiking in, but it required a good-sized leap-out and flat dive to make sure of clearing some submerged boulders. (They were probably not a real concern, but might've been easier to negotiate if the weather had been different and we could see them better.) This was clearly a dive spot, though, not a jump spot, on account of those fish-sheltering rocks. Couldn't risk going too deep. I looked at Aaron and said: "It's like we have to. It's just too inviting." He nodded; it was true.

I thought about my entry, wavered some, moved over a foot, picked my line, massaged down a quick fear thought, and dove. The rush of cold water and the force of it on my arms and chest and neck was powerful. Even this jump, once made, was more significant in actuality than initial assessment. Still, I was in and safe, it was over and really not that dangerous, and as I floated forward, supermanning down the current, I realized adrenaline's summoned presence, the risk ride reward, the aliveness and relief.

From down the river, I looked back toward Aaron. He was hesitating. My dive-and-success clearly said that, according to the most fundamental tenets of the man code, he must do it too. I stood up on a distant sandbar and watched him as he hovered up there on that polished gray rock in his yellow trunks, peering over the ledge into the rushing water. I noticed it was a more significant height than it had seemed when standing up there, since I now had the benefit of distance and perspective. Aaron readjusted. "What are you going to do with your glasses?" I shouted, worried he'd forgotten them on his face. He showed me how he planned to clutch them in his fist. He looked over again, gathering mojo. He knew I was watching. I had a fear thought: don't miss. I followed it with a prayer, or call it a quick blessing thought: Let him make it. Then I leaned into an even better mindset: he's got this. And then he dove. Perfectly, right on target. When his head returned to the surface, the smile he wore said it all: I did it!

Later, Robert and Aaron went for a walk and I stayed at the beach. I was alone; even the family down the river had packed up and gone. I decided to meander and enjoyed walking up and over the warm rocks with my bare feet, checking out new river vistas and remarkably sandy beaches. No wonder this was a popular hang spot, I thought, it almost had a quality like Hawaii, only without waves and a completely different vegetation. But of a similar nature, that was for certain. If the sun had been out, I doubt I would've been able to enjoy this spot by myself.

I started to get cold. I'd left my towel on the other side of the river after watching Aaron attempt a river crossing with towel extended skyward only to fail after slipping and dropping it. I scouted out an inviting river channel that led out from the beach and around a rock into the center depths and current and over to the other side. It looked like I'd have no real trouble climbing up onto the big, tall boulders on that side and could walk back up-river to where I'd stashed my stuff. I waded in a few yards and dove, swimming hard for several strokes, then paused to experience the current. After treading for a few seconds, I went all the way across.

I got out feeling great, found a route up the boulders, then discovered: there I was, standing at the big jump spot we passed earlier. Alone. I looked up-river toward the beach and beyond to see if the fellas were walking back yet. No trace of them. I looked back out over the ledge. It was calling me. I figured I could do it, yeah, no trouble. But I had to admit: it was a big leap. I looked again for Robert and Aaron, debating my intentions, then realized: it's not about them seeing me make this jump. I should just do it for myself, a self-challenge.

Swimsuit dripping onto the slick rock, I planted my foot on the very edge and decided I'd do a leaping one-footer. No need to risk slipping with a running foot plant. So that's what I did, the swinging one-footer. And just as I left the rock, my heart stopped: did I not clear it? My arms flapped, the river rose up to meet me, and quickly--and thankfully--I realized I had. I landed and submerged deep into the water, surprised by the force of the current immediately pushing me down-river. I found the shallows and stood up, shaking my head of water and with disbelief. I was satisfied, yes, but I was in possession of another, different feeling. This was not a fear-before-leaping sensation, this was a holy shit feeling of afterthought: that was actually kind of freaky!

I got out and climbed back over the boulders on my nicely negotiated path, more quickly now since I'd already trailblazed it, and stood again at the top. Whoa, I thought, looking over the ledge with newfound respect. I had done it, but I wasn't sure I'd do it again. (Ok, maybe. If you dare me.) I walked up-river further along the rock wall and descended from the top ledges and back toward the jump, where I could look up at it from below. Damn, I said to myself. That's actually pretty high. And the shelf below that must be cleared, well, it's a good distance out from the launch, which is to say the jump's ledge is set back aways. I hadn't experienced this feeling, at least not for a long time, of bigger fear after the fact, as opposed to before. Now, I felt more intimidated by the jump, not less so. But hey, you do it once, you can do it again. Right?

I told the guys about it when they came back down-river. It seemed ironic that I'd made the leap without them in order to have my own experience with it, but ended up talking about it incessantly because of what happened. They both said, as a first response: dude, you should've waited until one of us was around to watch a jump like that. And they're right. Aaron assessed it by my height compared to the ledge above, and concluded it was about 18-20 feet.

Yes: a good jump. It's good to jump.

Off we went up into the hills to the party. The evening's festivities had begun. The potluck was finished, and we arrived while a few moms and children were completing a play/performance for the crowd. Little squirts reading their lines from playbooks, while moms added energy and direction where needed. After it was over, the musicians took the stage and soon live Brazilian music flavored the whole scene. Robert was quickly called up to add his percussion skills to the mix, while Aaron and I mingled, drank beers and cooked food.

About an hour or two into the jam, the groove red-hot, Robert got Aaron's attention and summoned him to come join onstage to do one of the rhythms we know well from class. Aaron grabbed me, and without hesitation--just jumping--I left the conversation I was having and walked up to the stage. I got my djembe from its bag and a chair from backstage and sat down with all these professional musicians like I was somebody. (Do a Stanley Kowalski: I coulda been somebody.)

And that's it: there's just something about jumping into it. Leaping. I don't know why this particular set of circumstances created a space in which I could do it without hesitation, but there it was. Onstage, we were grooving immediately. Robert, Aaron and I had always enjoyed rare moments in class when we played together, just the three of us, and we'd long talked about an opportunity like this to really play together. It was my main reason for going to "El Fuerte." And, as it occasionally happens, we had something special going. I looked up at the other musicians, and they looked back at us, at me, smiling and nodding. We were locked in. More than that, rather than hiding behind the beat, which is somewhat possible with so many instruments and drums, I was adding flavors, and those flavors were being met with approval by these incredible musicians. And believe me, I know the opposite feeling. Most musicians, no matter how "big," won't completely freeze you out, but you know almost immediately if you've been deemed unworthy. You won't get any attention, no love. No smiles or nods come your way. But, this wasn't that kind of scene, which is to say nobody was going to be that rude anyway, and, it was just obvious. Something was happening. When we were in the middle heat of the jam, I looked out toward the crowd and everybody had come forward and was dancing. It was thrilling.

When the song ended, with a big euphoric finish conducted by the main singer, a dude in a black leather jacket and groovy en vogue fedora, all the musicians, including me, shook hands and congratulated each other. Every one. Me and the lead singer, me and Kevin, me and Alex, me and Robert and Aaron. Everybody. It was just dynamite. Even then, there was no freeze out. Everybody was warm. For a moment in time, we had come together as a team. I felt so included, and it was really exciting. Come to think of it, for all they knew, I might've actually been a more seasoned musician. (And I'm not saying I'm not a musician, only a minor leaguer compared to these pros.) Only I knew, and Robert and Aaron, this was a rare experience.

Afterwards, Aaron said to me: "So, how did it feel to play with Sila?" I said, who? "Wait," Aaron said. "You don't know Sila?" I looked at him sheepishly, shook my head. "Aw, man!" he cried. "Well, dude, you just played with Sila. How does that feel?"

It turns out Sila, the lead singer, the guy in the fedora who looks a bit like Miles Davis, was one of the heavy hitters up there, and the song we played was really the only one he joined in on. While we played, he turned back to us drummers with a big approving smile on his face, at one point dancing over and putting the mic down near our djembes.

Wow, I thought, considering it all anew.

And now, like the high cliff jump, I must wonder: would I have gone to the stage so easily, and played as loosely, with such joy and carefree, if I'd known beforehand that I was going onstage with this local music luminary?

Sometimes, it's just better to jump. Muito obrigado El Fuerte!