I was only 9 years old when I first jumped off the high dive. My heart was pounding in my chest as I slowly climbed up the steps. Though there were loud sounds of people at play in the pool, my shallow breaths were still audible. I knew there were people waiting in line urging me to hurry up, though they didn't say it out loud. My feet felt like weights as I tried my hardest to continue up to the front , nevertheless, I reluctantly, forced myself to go forward. Halfway there, I took a deep breath, inhaling the mildly concentrated chlorine air. I didn't want to turn back, yet I was almost certain I couldn't jump off. Taking small baby steps, I inched my way up to the front of the diving board. When I had finally reached the front I peeked over. My heart was racing and my breathing quickened. I must have been 500 feet above the water. My shivering body stiffened as I closed my eyes and finally jumped off. At first I hated the feeling of falling a thousand feet, though, realistically, it was only about 13 feet high, then I had this sudden excitement as if I was flying, not falling. In less than 5 seconds I plunged into the cool water, feet first. Water bubbles brushed against my face as I swam back up. In no time I popped out to the surface spitting out the bitter tasting water. I had the biggest smile on my face when I hopped out of the pool to tell my mom. I did it.