Still Standing (Slightly Tilted): Vol. 5 – Things That Should’ve Ended Me (But Didn’t)

There’s something in all of us—has been for centuries, really. The urge to fly. Not in some polished, engineered, first-class-seat kind of way… I’m talking about that raw, unfiltered version, the kind that shows up when you’re young, fearless, and standing somewhere you probably shouldn’t be.

The kind that whispers, “I bet you could…”
By now, you’d think I would’ve learned. You’d be wrong. 

Vol. 5 isn’t about one bad decision. It’s about a handful of moments where I got just close enough to that edge… to feel what flying might be like.

The tower climb started, like most of my stories, with someone else going first. There’s always that guy. The one who does something just dumb enough to make everyone pause… and just impressive enough to make you think,

“Well… I can do that.” The difference? He didn’t have a bowling ball in his hand. I did.

No countdown. No plan. Just grabbing it and starting up. A few steps through, reality checked in—one hand gripping, the other holding 10 pounds of “this was a mistake.” That moment hits where everything slows down. Not flying, but definitely not on terra firma either. Just hanging there, with one arm, somewhere in between.  

The most insane reason I even attempted this, my roommate Steve, was forced to do something similar while he was pledging a rival fraternity. I did not want him to get the one up in insanity! No bragging rights in our dorm room... territory had to be marked!

I think I always had a secret desire to be The Fiddler on the Roof . That was the closest thing to flying I ever got. Late nights. Warm air. That quiet hum of a campus settling down. We’d sit on steep, slanted roofs like it was completely normal—leaning back just enough to convince ourselves we had control, looking out over everything like we’d somehow earned that view.

For a few minutes, you forget gravity exists. You feel light. Free. Like if you leaned just a little too far forward… you might not come back the same way. Then somebody lets out that ridiculous moose howl, someone down below panics, and just like that—you’re grounded again.

Who could forget the antenna crossing… That one was less “flying” and more “defying gravity and reasonable explanation.” Two rooftops. A gap. And instead of saying, “Let’s not,” we said, “We can make that work.” The antenna flexed the second weight hit it. Not reassuring. Not stable. But by then, you’re committed.

There’s a moment in the middle of something like that where everything goes quiet. No jokes. No bravado. Just you… balancing… realizing you’re one bad shift away from finding out exactly how this story ends.

And then there are the smaller moments. The ones you don’t even think to tell at the time. Climbing a little higher than you should’ve. Jumping a little farther than you needed to. Balancing where there wasn’t much to balance on. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to feel that lift for a second… before gravity reminded you how things actually work.

Looking back, that’s what all of it was, wasn’t it? Not just bad decisions. Not just stories. But little attempts at something bigger. At freedom. At weightlessness. At proving—even for a second—that the rules didn’t fully apply.

And somehow… every one of those moments ended the same way. I made it back down. Back across. Back inside. Still standing.  Still tilted. 

When it comes do to it, here’s the truth: People have been chasing that feeling forever. Some build wings. Some build planes. Some of us… just climbed things we probably shouldn’t have and leaned a little too far into the moment.

Thankfully, unlike Icarus, I never "flew" too close to the sun. Because that would’ve been an entirely different story… and probably written by someone else. 

Still Standing (Slightly Tilted): Vol. 4 – Nature Tried to Take Me Out

By the time college rolled around, I’d already proven I could survive bad decisions. But Volume 4? This is where I tested that theory against something less forgiving than dorm walls and dares. Nature. And let me tell you—nature doesn’t negotiate.

It started in Port Aransas, Texas. Sun, salt water, and a few fraternity brothers who, like me, viewed "caution" as a suggestion rather than a rule. At some point, we found ourselves in the surf with several "long, skinny fish." They moved with a precision we didn't possess—fast, clean, and rhythmic.

We didn't panic. Panic requires awareness, and awareness was in short supply that day. We swam, we laughed, and we carried on like we owned the ocean. It wasn't until we were driving away—salty and satisfied—that the radio report hit: Sharks. Plural. Close to shore.

I don't remember how long the silence lasted in that car. But I remember the shift. Everyone became very reflective, very quickly. It’s amazing how brave you can be when you’re functionally oblivious.

Then there was the sailing incident. Calling it an "incident" is generous; it was a maritime disaster waiting to happen. A Texas storm rolled in—the kind that doesn't ask permission, just turns the sky to charcoal and the water to chaos in minutes. A couple had wandered off from camp on the water, and the timing was treacherous.

Our rescue vessel? A Sunfish. For the uninitiated, a Sunfish is less "boat" and more "floating suggestion."  Two of us—full-grown men—were hiked out as far as we could, bodies perpendicular to the water, legs straining to keep the mast from snapping. There was no discussion. No weighing of options. Just: They’re out there. Let’s go. Adrenaline doesn't ask for your certifications. It just shows up and takes the wheel.

The wild part? That wasn't even my first questionable sailing decision. A few years earlier, I had talked my way into being a camp Sailing Director. Minor detail: I didn’t actually know how to sail.

The previous director figured this out five minutes into our first outing. He gave me a "crash course"—basically pointing at the rudder and the sheet—and then, without ceremony, he jumped overboard. He swam back to the dock, leaving me alone in the middle of the lake, 2 miles from land, with just enough information to either figure it out or become a local legend for all the wrong reasons.

I docked that boat clean. To this day, I don’t know if that was instinct or just God protecting the foolish.

Looking back, these weren't just "funny stories." They were close calls. The margin between a "good story" and a "tragedy" was thinner than the fiberglass on that Sunfish. When you’re young, you don’t measure risk; you just... go. And sometimes, "going" works out.

I look at those moments differently now. Not with regret, but with a healthy respect for the "what ifs." Nature doesn’t care if you’re bold. It doesn’t care if you have a blog.

I made it through the sharks, the storms, and the jobs I wasn't qualified for. I'm still standing. Still tilted. But these days, I have a much deeper appreciation for dry land... and knowing when to stay on it.