February 2008 was freezing in Kentucky. It was also a time when I rediscovered some moldy scraps of feelings that had been lying dormant for years, held in check by those pesky everyday realities of ambition, stress, and anxiety…those things that appear to be important in our journey, but really aren’t. I rediscovered how great it feels to do something to help others who will never know what I did.

One of my daughters, in addition to being a newly minted college graduate and veterinary technician, was also a bartender-waiter-manager at Mellow Mushroom. She and some of her friends there, being carefree, adventurous, and possessing the “careless abandon of youth”, had decided to participate in the Polar Bear Plunge to help raise money for Special Olympics.

Naturally I cautioned her about the foolishness of plunging into an icy pool in the middle of winter, although secretly I was proud of her commitment and her willingness to be bold. Then two days before the event, several teammates got cold feet and, for some totally illogical reason…I offered to plunge with them.

Their costume theme was Alice in Wonderland, and I did possess a floppy rabbit-ear hat from a previous Easter skit at church. So I became was the Rabbit. A 60-year old rabbit.

To help raise a little money I turned to my large email address book at work in a desperate attempt to beg for pledges. Surely one plaintive plea for money, sent to 300 recipients would exponentially increase the chances of getting a few token contributions from sympathetic friends and associates. Then the surprise came.

Within 24 hours, by plunge day, our team had accumulated over $1,800 in checks, cash, and pledges. Most of the 11th hour contributors were old friends and business associates I had not seen in a few years, and they all were intrigued at the image of a grown man jumping into an icy pool with rabbit ears. Many responded with some cute comment, most insisted on pictures, and all opened up their wallets to the Special Olympics.

I learned a valuable lesson. If you ask people for something you get one result, but when you get people emotionally invested in the same goal, you get something entirely different. I became involved by plunging, and they became involved by contributing.

The Saturday plunge turned out to be fun. At zero hour, temperatures were in the mid-20’s, sky overcast, wind blowing…perfect conditions for hypothermia. 20 large blocks of ice stacked imposingly next to the above-ground pool at Applebee’s Park made us rethink the sensibility of the cause. But just before the plunge, standing in line next to Beetlejuice, Superman, and other year-around Halloween fans, I was proud of us all. And I treasured the time I got to spend with my daughter, doing something goofy, irresponsible, and memorable.

We got TV and newspaper coverage, but the real victory was in the event and the reasons for it, to raise money for Special Olympians, and the way we all, plungers and payers, did our respective parts. I told my contributors that even though the Special Olympians would never know who the money came from, they would. It’s gratifying what we can accomplish when we don’t worry about who gets the credit.

Eventually our team raised almost $2,500 for the Kids. It’s all over now, and I go back to being a non-rabbit. I didn’t perish in the ice water. I didn’t even catch a cold as my 90-year-old Mom promised.

But the spirit of the Special Olympics emphasized to all of us “normal” sports fans what competition is really all about. The object is to participate. And winning, while a natural and worthwhile objective, is not the only one. There is a quote on the Special Olympics Kentucky website:  “Let me win, but if I cannot win, let me be brave in the attempt.”

So I’m guessing this is why my teammates and the other 275 plungers did what we did. We wanted to participate in this short event called life. We didn’t care about the humiliation. We didn’t care about winning. We didn’t require any compensation. And we would not have traded the opportunity for anything.

Life is not a dress rehearsal.

Last March, while visiting friends in Florida, I dropped in on an over-sized yard party disguised as a car race.

Held every year since 1953, the “12-Hours-of-Sebring” is technically America’s oldest sports car endurance race. In reality, it’s an exhaust-flavored Woodstock without the hippies. Lots of blue-collar buds and gals, hanging out for three days with their favorite adult beverages, grilling and chilling, while brightly-colored, corporate-sponsored, turbocharged, fuel-guzzling death machines, engines wound tighter that Pamela Anderson’s bikini, speed around a track at 130 mph.

Don’t mistake it for anything NASCAR, though. Instead of a symmetrical oval, the course is a drunkenly-inspired, 3.7 mile track snaking its way through 17 hairpin turns. But the point here is that it wasn’t so much about the cars, or even who won the race, but the underlying subplot, an ultra-casual block party, stuffed wall-to-wall with several-thousand RV’s, three times that many tents, hundreds of grilles and smokers, plus a cast of some 107,000 happy souls, all satisfied to lay back and cruise on their own tiny tract of scrub for three days, with no responsibilities but to eat, drink, play music, sling BS, and generally just take a breather from life.

This is something I have trouble doing. It defies my sense of order, my need to justify how much I accomplish during each hour of my spare time, something I call “casual productivity”. But this weekend, I was determined to abandon my orderly lifestyle and “waste” a weekend.  So off I went with my friends, who over the years had already learned to successfully navigate the road of sloth.

We quickly stumbled onto one party of typical die-hard Sebring-ites.  One RV, 5 tents, assorted canopies, four LP-cooking units, and enough supplies to fill three shopping carts at Publix.  Oh, and numerous characters.  Steve, the cook, held court in his tank top and Mardi gras beads.  He was engaging and eager to offer samples of his venison steak filets.  When I gushed about his efforts, he slipped me some of his “secret stash” of special-battered shrimp.  Catching on quickly, the more I bragged, the more he shared.  Before the weekend was over he and his buddy, Dallas, a former butcher, insisted that I try some of their venison jerky. And the coupe-duh-grass:  Dallas’s homemade venison-garlic-onion sausages, grilled on a warm bun, flavored ever-so-slightly with the essence of diesel fumes.

Dallas turned out to be a character in his own right.  A certified fire-inspector in Georgia, Dallas also answers to his professional name:  Dilly-Dally the Clown, a proud member of the Georgia Firefighters’ Clown Society, specializing in balloon animals and magic.  And, like me, more interested in how cold the beer was than in the race.

Later during a random walk through RV city, beverage in hand, I encountered others worth remembering.  The three “liquidly-enhanced” amigos in Chick-fil-a Cow costumes; one burly fellow lumbering through the 80-degree day in Viking horns and hides; a chap riding a motorized beer cooler.  I observed dozens of the obligatory cornhole games, two pole-dancing stands (G-rated), hundreds of lawn chair lawyers, at least two professional BBQ cooking teams with sophisticated grille rigs with sinks, one generator-powered 96” TV, and a life-sized female inflatable doll, swimming with her “date” in a kiddy pool.  But no troublemakers.  Just a lot of “individuals” making a good case for relaxation.

Oh, and there were those pesky cars, zipping around the track, fans parked in lawn chairs at strategic dangerous turns hoping a driver that might down-shift too slowly and lose some minor accessories, like, oh, say tires, or transmissions.  The constant decibel level at these track-side viewing areas was intense, something I liken to a high-pitched chain saw revving full throttle a foot from my ear.

But when the weekend was finally over Saturday evening, and the hundreds of thousands began to pack up and orderly stream out, I realized that even though I had not actually “accomplished” anything, I did have a surprising sense of mental well being.  My stress level was abnormally low.  And in retrospect I recognized that Steve, Dallas, the Cow Boys, and even the professional racers and pit crew, all had one thing in common.  They had all taken a break and taken part in something that filled some unnamed void, whether it registered on the value meter or not.

Not sure if I will make another Sebring, but I made some new friends and gathered some new memories and maybe learned how to slow down a little bit, even if no goals were met.  Maybe between now and next year I can learn to do balloon animals.  That would make Dilly-Dally proud.

Terry Wilson and I are not related, share no common blood, friends, life skills, or job interests. We do share the fact that we were once married to the same woman (not at the same time)…and one other critical thing. We share, along with Mary Beth, an uncommonly common bond.

We share daughters.

It came to light as I contemplated the lunacy of jumping 9,000 feet to my certain death.  Well, not actually certain death…the previous hundreds before me that attempted skydiving had never discovered that sudden, breath-taking impact. They all survived. And so would I, I concluded, while I waited in the terminal (inappropriate choice of words I think) for my time to come…my first skydive. A gift from my daughter and step-daughters for Father’s Day.

What happened to the time-worn tradition of a gaudy tie and a hug? Or maybe just a casual dinner with goofy cards?  I encouraged them to be creative but this was outside the lines.

Layne is my birth daughter. Tiffany and Hailey are Terry’s birth daughters, who became my step-daughters by marriage. We all know the differences, yet the heart forgets and takes it own course. All three girls became full sisters in heart and mind, and remain so today.

So today, here we all were, blood and not, celebrating Father’s Day with Terry and Ray. We shared the father-feast with Elmer, Tiffany’s husband, and granddaughters Lily and Rosalie. And with Tom, Hailey’s soon-to-be hubby who would later father grandson Finn.

It was a good excuse to gather. My eventual plunge headfirst into open air from 9,000 feet, dropping like a rock toward the patchwork of verdant fields below, was literally a leap of faith. It defies the natural senses to look down, see nothing but a mile and a half of open air…and then step out anyway. The knowledge that I was plummeting toward the earth at 62.4 feet-per-second was exhilarating. Then at 6,000 feet, feeling the reassuring “catch” of the parachute as it responded to my tug on the rip cord… that was exhilarating. And as Mike (my tandem coach) and I glided down, using the guide lines to perform several 360’s, challenging my stomach to keep the faith, the thrill of the gentle descent through clean country air at dusk was part peaceful and part exhilaration as well.

But as I glided closer and closer to the landing zone, my extended family waiting and cheering and laughing and videotaping every goofy move, I found a strange exhilaration that was un-related to physics or gravity or the environment, but rather of the pure joy of the moment.

My skydive was without a doubt a “high” point in my life.  Certainly part of it was the actual plunge from a perfectly good airplane.  But most of my emotional high originated and ended at ground zero, as I realized how my daughters had planned, organized, coordinated, participated in, and paid for such a luxury.  The thought was original and a little bizarre, the picnic spread impeccably planned, and the cumulative party one for my mental highlight reels.

But I measured the success of the entire day as I quietly observed the entire group, gathering, hugging, laughing, sharing, living the moment. It was quite spellbinding. I watched an un-choreographed dynamics of beautiful daughters, step-daughters, grand-daughters, amazingly original sons-in-law, even ex-husbands of ex-wives, all bonding in one mass of laughter and joy, forsaking all parts past for the joy of parts present and the promise of parts future.

I know the day was not entirely mine.  I caught Terry several times beaming with paternal pride. And Elmer’s shared joy, with two perfect daughters of his own, was clearly equal to ours.  But I did realize a virtual “high” on this day I may never be able to adequately describe.

And the skydive was pretty cool, too.