The sea

ONE YEAR AGO:

From heights of sixty to eighty feet, it takes up to three and a half seconds to hit the water. In that brief moment of time, a thousand thoughts, images, or feelings rush through my mind. Sometimes during the fall, I’d worry I’d forgotten how. The air would rush past my body, but I’d keep my eye on the landing—growing closer each fraction of a second—as I’d tuck and somersault or straighten into an arrow. With three seconds to freefall, you enter at such a force that if any part of your body is out of line, it will break. But I’d trained for this. My body knew exactly what to do. When I hit the water, profound silence—as near to death as I could imagine—allowed me to forget what I’d done.

I had a suitcase packed and ready under the defense table in the courtroom. The prosecutor Aaron Stroheim and I gave our closing speeches, and the jurors filed out to deliberate. They didn’t take long to come up with a verdict, my case was solid. My client was acquitted.

As soon as th