A couple of weeks ago in Iceland, some friends and I went to go visit this massive glacier on the coast. There were enormous chunks of ice (let’s call them icebergs) on the shore because the whole thing backed right up to the ocean. Our friend Billy told us to hop up on one of the bergs so he could take some photos. High on ice and pictures of ourselves, three of us jumped up and one cautious one stayed safely on the shore. Her loss.
We waited for the tide to retreat and then we ran up and jumped on the iceberg. My friend Jana told all of us that she had a really strong foothold and that was the last thing I ever heard her say because then the whole thing started to sway and roll unexpectedly, throwing the other girls into the ocean, while I held form.
All I remember is thinking that I needed to stay on the ice; apparently all Billy was thinking was that he should keep taking pictures. There was a moment of survivor’s guilt and/or pride when I figured they had drowned before Jana stood up and told everyone, including herself, that they were ok.
Another announcement from Jana that their legs could fall off made us all adult-sprint back to the car in fear and chaos. Fortunately, we made it back to the car before anyone’s legs were offered to the sea.
Later in the car when I was looking out the window, thinking about breakfast, my friend who had stayed on the shore (very proud of her cautious wisdom) asked me smugly if I was thinking about my reckless choices. I think we all felt a little better about our internal abilities to survive that day.