Snow Regrets

My dad grew up on an old farm built into the side of a valley. The surrounding fields are rented to a neighbouring farm, but during winter, they become one enormous two-hundred-metre-long hill.

One snowy day, Dad and I build a ski jump at the bottom of it.

Dad: “I have some work to do inside. Be careful while I’m gone.”

Me: “I will.”

Naturally, I decide that the first test jump should involve riding my sled from the very top of the hill.

Partway down, I worry that I am not going fast enough, so I start paddling against the snow with my foot.

Mom is washing dishes in the kitchen, which gives her a perfect view of the jump.

Mom: “Oh, no.”

She watches me hit the ramp, fly high into the air, and disappear from view.

Mom: “GO GET HIM!”

I face-plant into the snow and lose consciousness. Dad runs outside, wakes me up, and checks that I haven’t suffered a concussion or any other serious injury.

Dad: “Can you hear me? Do you know where you are?”

Me: “Yes.”

Dad: “Are you dizzy? Does your head hurt?”

Me: “Dad, get the tape measure.”

Dad: “What?”

Me: “We need to know how far I went!”

The jump measures 18.4 metres, and I estimate that I was airborne for four to six seconds.

It remains both my greatest achievement and the strongest evidence that Dad may have checked the wrong end of me for brain damage.