---

In my late twenties a lake and skiing invitation prompted an immediate nod of affirmation. When I was younger, a lot of bad decisions just seemed right at the moment.

Captivated by the spirit of adventure and some landlubber ignorance, I shopped a little. Speedo briefs were the apparel of choice since that’s all the sporting goods store had on sale at the time. I wondered why everyone else was choosing the trunk style. Poor self-confidence may have cost them a penny or two.

I picked a red pair, added suntan lotion, but returned the beachcomber shades at the last second. My prescription sports glasses offered thick black frames that could be cinched tightly with a stretch strap. They were perfect. Picture, if you will, a chubby, balding Superman with Clark Kent’s eyewear still on. I was a spectacle with or without glasses.

Once we landed on sand, things went south from the get-go. No one volunteered to smear the protective lotion on my back. The Speedos didn’t look right without a cape; and, truth be told, I couldn’t swim. Hanging on and getting pulled across the water lost its luster as the opportunity neared. Bad choices do that.

In those days I had just enough grit and too much pride. So, when it was my turn, I settled into the skis, grabbed the rope, and prayed that the skimpy swimming trunks would stay on after I had rubbed too much prevent-a-sunburn grease on my legs.

Sometimes good things almost happen. At takeoff the rope tightened, and I held on. Captain Ahab accelerated, and I held on. Spectators waved, and I held on. Then calamity reached from the depths of a soggy darkness, grabbed my ankles, and ripped the boards from my feet … and I held on as if holding on was what life was all about.

The pace increased, and I belly-slid through, over, and under the waves. My glasses disappeared; so did some skin. Maybe I screamed or gallantly grinned. No one knows because the intake of water muffled the sound. By the time I released my grip, the lake was shallower, and I was choking. I had swallowed half of it.

That lesson was not about conquering or being conquered. It was not about the thrill of victory or the agony of defeat. It was about something I do not excel at. It’s hard for me to let go.

My glasses sank to the bottom that day. Either Mr. Limpet or Don Knotts has them. However, my inability to let go resurfaces all the time.

Decades ago, for example, I left the family car, a genuine lemon, for repair at a combination garage and gun dealership. When I returned for the diagnosis, the dealer yelled, “Hey.” I turned around as he tossed a machine gun my way. “Do you want to shoot it or fix it.” Funny guy. He knew I couldn’t let go of things.

Yesterday I was reminded of all this when I scrolled through the addresses on my i-phone. I was trying to remember a name and was sure it might be bobbing around in cyberspace.

It was not there. If it was, I did not recognize it. But the names of more than twenty friends and relatives who had died over the years were right in front of God and everybody. Once more I could feel the rope in my hands and the strain on my shoulders, but I held on.

A little voice in the back of my head advised me to erase the information of those who had passed away, and I almost did.

Then my heart spoke firmly. “That’s not right. That’s not you. You’re a holder-on-er. Surely you can avoid the purge.”

Those names and addresses projected faces and places. Last words echoed. Favorite gifts presented themselves again, and a few hands gripped my shoulder or held me.

Not one of them reached up from the grave and pulled me under. Because a few tugged on my heart strings, I may have made a choking sound; but the only water that caught me off guard this time was a tear. That can happen when you don’t let go for a long time.

My phone is recharging now. I’m doing the same. The addresses and names remain in my contact list. Over the years I have definitely made a lot of awkward decisions. Holding on to friends and family, however, hasn’t been a bad one yet.