The Leash

Three of my earliest childhood memories took place in Iceland in 1969, when our parents took three of the four boys (Christopher was just one) on a sub-arctic adventure. All three memories revolve around personal embarrassment in and around water: swimming in the hotel pool in my tighty-whities cuz my Mom forgot to pack my suit; slipping and slamming the back of my head on the slope leading into the deep end of a mostly- empty pool; and worst of all, the Gulfoss incident.

Gulfoss (see picture left circa 2010) is one of Iceland’s most magnificent natural treasures. Thousands of cubic meters of glacial runoff rushing down a gorge and over a fissure in the earth’s crust, pounding down to the floor below. It’s really tremendous and really scary. Unlike Niagara Falls with its iron fencing and concrete viewing platforms, Gulfoss has an approach of slippery mud and grass framed by an ankle-high string politely suggesting that the viewer pass no further towards their own pummeling, gruesome grave.

In 1969 there was no string. Well, there was one string. More of a leash, really; a yellow polypropylene line, one end tied tight around my waist and the other held in my Father’s right hand. Any sense of pride or independence the young Gregory had immediately evaporated into Gulfoss’ billowing mist. This experience was formative.

I told my kids about this formative memory as we approached the falls yesterday. One asked: “where did he get the rope?” I had no idea, but as they neared the edge I wished I knew, as I would have paid almost anything for that bit of paternal peace of mind. Thanks Dad. I get it now.