Playing with fire

On paper it sounds so manly and tough-guy-like. The words jump off the page. I can’t deny that they kind of make me sound like a bit of a crazy person too. Yes, yes, here goes: I jumped through a raging fire.

Yup, a glowing red fire ranges in temperature from 1112–1800° F (600–800° C). When hotter and more orange-yellow in color, the fire would have been more on the 2012° F mark (about 1100° C). No matter the color and heat, I still leaped through an inferno.

In reality, it’s such a different story. 

Photo by Kristina Gain by Pexels.

Seeing the world

First some background, when my daughter was in middle school more than 13 years ago, I went with her on a trip to Spain, landing in Barcelona and then traveling south to Granada, Malaga, Seville, with quick side trips to Gibraltar and Morocco. The trip was an educational trip offered by her school and led by one of her former teachers. She raised money for her trip for two years and, when the teacher offered the trip to parents, I decided to go along.

A few days into the trip, we stayed in Malaga near the Southern tip. On the night of June 23rd every year, Spaniards celebrate the feast day for St. John. It’s common in Malaga for people to light fireworks and build bonfires on the beach and to jump over them which, according to legend, cleanses the body and the soul. It gets better, it’s traditional for locals to jump at least three times.

(Of course, I learned later that one can also write down anything that he or she wants to get rid of and throw the list into the fire — without ever having to take his or her life into their hands. Now if only someone had been thoughtful enough and told me that in the moment.)

When in Rome, Do as the Romans Do

I had no idea about the tradition prior to arriving. Of course, that night when fires started to dot the beach, the teacher who set up the trip took the students down to the beach to watch. At first, the only jumpers were locals, tanned young men and boys. I looked at them in their tight shorts and bare feet and then back at me in my pudgy dad, cargo shorts and flip-flops and got an impression in my head of an ambulance backing up to the beach.

When a group of people circling one of the fires stopped singing, my daughter asked me if I was going to jump. I laughed at her. “You kidding me? You hear of something called third degree burns?”

Photo by takenbytablo by Pexels.

A good luck sign

I already had to deal with a stye, an inflamed oil gland on the edge of my eyelid, on the trip. The last thing I wanted was to leave with a serious burn wound by falling into a fire pit. As the flames went down and some adults and kids started to jump in, my resolve waivered. I started to reconsider. If a little 10-year-old kid could do it, I could do it, right? I’d like to blame my poor decision making on too many beers, but there wasn’t a beer can or mixed drink to be found.

When I made up my mind to make a run for it, the challenge became a timing thing. Every time I collected myself and started to make a run for it, someone would start too and I’d have to stop and pep myself up again.

Okay, this time!

Finally I got up the courage and made a run for it hell or high water. I have to admit it’s a strange feeling running towards a glowing circle of fire and flames sparking up in the air. I found myself tripping, yes klutzy Brian needed to make an appearance. I came close to stepping directly in the fire and my landing came scary close to the edge of the fire, closer than I would have liked, but I landed and continued onto the sand still in one piece.

Whew!

I let out a sigh of relief. Oh, I should have ran another couple of times, but once was enough for me. When we boarded our bus the next morning to head to our next stop, the embers from the last few fires burning on the beach still floated through the morning fog. I’m not sure I came away from the experience with my soul cleansed, but I still felt happy about the new experience.

Yes, just call me a fire jumper!

.