Night at the quarry.

Feeling your toes curled over the precipice of the limestone, steadying yourself, leaping forward and falling through the air.

There is a brief moment before you hit the water when the world sucks into oblivion, and then you’re underwater, surfacing, wiping your eyes clear so you can get your boundaries and swim back to the ledge.

Shaking a little bit from the excitement and exhilaration of the jumps, I looked up at the stars, brighter than they are in town, wreathed by the treetops. Fireflies flickered in the foliage, frogs croaked nearby and, ever once in a while, a gunshot rang out in the distance. But the biggest explosions were our bodies hitting the water, sending ripples through the calm darkness.

We climbed back to the car to find someone parked behind us smoking a bowl. “Hey, could we get our car out,” James asked into the black of their windows. “Sure thing,” a voice responded. “I was just about to back out.”

On the way back to town, the Shangri-Las, Chiffons and other girl groups serenaded us through the summer night.

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