There is a thought that I have had in my mind for many years. On one occasion when we went out for a walk, my brothers, my dad, and I went to the river.
There was a large rock in the center of the river, about two meters high or a little more. My father taught me to jump off the rock and fall into the center of the river. The river was on that side, a depth equal to the height of the stone, if not a little more, I wouldn't exaggerate.
Behind the big rock, where we all went up to climb it and get to the top of it, there were many small rocks, covered by a little of the river water, which we had to avoid when trying to climb.
I was alone, eager to go up and I was wet. When climbing the rock, from behind as we all did, almost halfway, my wet hands could not hold on to the rock, and I fell, always trying to hold on. The fall seemed to me to be eternal. I had the opportunity to think that I would fall on the rocks and that would be where my healthy bones would reach.
It wasn't like that. I fell into a kind of small stream of water surrounded by rocks. Neither my hands nor my feet, much less my body, had any scrapes, wounds, or any damage.
My heart feels like it stopped for a moment, and then I got so scared. I was approximately 10 years old. I didn't want to climb the rock anymore and I just asked myself: why was I so lucky? Why didn't I fall on the rocks? Why didn't I hurt anything on my body?
I still remember that moment and my questions are unanswered.