Keeping Up With Dave

The next morning, I skipped breakfast entirely. I headed up the mountain on the big ski lift with Dave. It took a few minutes to get to the top of the mountain, and I felt braver and braver as we neared the top. Then it was time to get off. I had no idea how to do that.

I tried to remember what I’d been told during the previous day’s lesson. I had a dim memory of being told something about how to get off a ski lift. But at that point, I hadn’t really been listening to the instructor. I’m sure it would have been hard for anyone to remember, especially if you couldn’t possibly imagine yourself getting off a ski lift because you couldn’t even stand up on a snowboard that wasn’t moving. Then I thought I remembered something. Anyway, I definitely heard a voice inside. The voice told me to just fall down, and get out of the next person’s way. So that’s what I did. I just let myself fall. But when I tried to get up, I fell again.

I sprained my ankle.

Then Dave really did have to hover over me, but not as I crawled down the mountain on my ass. I was taken down the mountain on a toboggan, headfirst so that my feet remained elevated above my head. I spent the entire day in the infirmary—hungry (I didn’t eat breakfast, remember?) and alone (Dave went back out and didn’t come back for me until after lunch). When he finally brought me to the lodge, I drank two cups of coffee and ate everything in sight. A few hours later, we started home. We got free lift passes to make up for the fact that I hadn’t gotten in a single run.

In the years since I married Dave, we’ve gone snowboarding many times. On our third Christmas as man and wife, he gave me my own board and boots. I wish I could say I haven’t had any more snowboarding mishaps, or that I’ve become quite the snowboarder and can keep up with my athletic husband. But I’d be lying.