The Swing

The Swing

After every Friday night football game, a group of us would caravan up to a secluded cliff near Lake Hollywood and perform what would become a favorite teenage pastime. No, it was not your typical teenage activity. It was more than that.

Half way down a nearly vertical slope, an enormous, old tree was rooted. Its' silhouetted branches outlined the sky into a puzzle and streams of moonlight poured through its' hollows.

Hanging off the sturdiest branch was a thickset rope with a fat knot at the end. The rope hung over the edge of the cliff, swaying gently in the breeze. It was known simply as "The Swing".

People from all over the Valley and West Los Angeles would migrate to the Hollywood hills after a night of clubs and parties, take turns jumping off the side of a cliff, while clinging to the rope, feet bending around the knot. If things went right, a person would make a semi-circle around the right side of the tree, ending up on the left side. No one dared to think what would happen if things went wrong.

To attempt this fete, I would psych myself up the whole ride up, through the palatial homes of Hollywood. About a mile from the tree there were rows of parked four wheel drive trucks on elevated tires, tricked out Baja bugs, Mustangs, Camaros and even a few station wagons with faded wood panels on the side. Cars were the four wheeled emblem of adolescent freedom in Los Angeles.

Once a parking spot was found, our group would walk, then hike twenty feet through rocks and dirt. To avoid plunging to my knees, I tried keeping my feet planted in past Nike shoe tracks.

As soon as we got past the treacherous path, we came upon a grassy area where the noble tree first came into sight standing silently in the cool evening air.

There was the usual crowd of people standing near the edge of the cliff, waiting their turn to swing, while cheering the current contender on.

My friends and I got in line, we mingled and waited. Even though I chatted and made small talk, my mind was filled with fear and excitement as I anticipated my turn.

The assemblage in front of me was slowly dwindling until I stood at the front of the line. The knotted rope was passed to me and I grabbed its blister inducing threads. Shaking with anticipation, I walked to the edge of the cliff. In the background I heard the familiar hoots and cheers and a far away radio grinding out Cashmere by Led Zeppelin.

"Go for it!" hollered a deep Valley accent.

I attempted to let go of all apprehension as I shoved off the cliff, my eyes squeezed shut, while my breath just stopped. For a moment I felt I was flying. I was flying!, The fear left my body and I popped open my eyes all while a loud yelp escaped from my smiling mouth.

Around the tree I went, the wind blowing in my face. Moments later I landed on the other side of the tree, feet planted firmly, reminding that in fact I was not a bird. Adrenaline infused my body as the slaps on my back from fellow swingers, made me laugh with glee.

And so this is how it went all football season, until the novelty wore off and my fellow adventurers and I took to sliding down blocks of ice at the local golf course late at night.

I didn't return to the swing for many years. One night, after a pleasant evening out, my date and I decided to revisit the location of some of the most exhilarating moments of my youth.

We drove the familiar route and were finally greeted by a deserted road that I had last seen over flowing with life.

Despite the emptiness we parked the car and began the descent toward the swing. We approached the tree and saw the rope was gone. We walked closer hoping that maybe it was still there, swinging in the light breeze.

But no, it was gone.

My heart sank, but my nerves calmed with relief as I realized I wouldn't be risking my life tonight. Even so I was sad and gloomy at the thought of the absence of the majestic swing. All my courageous exploits were locked into memories, only to be opened when I got a rush of nostalgia and reminisced of my swashbuckling ways.

My date and I left the lonely sight and drove silently through the winding hills toward home. I sat in the warm cocoon of the car watching the lights of the city twinkling around me. I smiled at the memories of past visits and I realized the swing would always be there, flying in my head.