Cliff jumping in my 30s: CHECK

I did something that I consider pretty awesome yesterday. I jumped off a cliff. I have no visual proof, but I do have witnesses. Now, this photo here  <---  is of me on top of another cliff I jumped off ... when I was a kid. I was, perhaps, 11 or 12 years old, and it took me an hour to work up the courage to do this. Daddy, Uncle Craig and any number of other people were witness to that jump, and it was as exhausting for them as it was terrifying for me.
For yesterday, I had learned my lesson from *cough, cough* 20-something years ago. I knew, in my heart, that if I took my time figuring this out, or looked down at the water, that I'd end up sitting there for an hour again. I climbed up the mountainside, with my floaty (because no one's allowed in the lake water without one), and made my way up to the top of the cliff. From there, I took courage from the fact that my kid was waiting below. Also, I stood back from the edge by about three feet so I couldn't see straight down.
I tossed the floaty, waited a few seconds for it to get a safe distance away, and in a split second that I can still bring right to the forefront of my memory, stepped off the edge. I squeezed my eyes shut, squeezed my nose shut, and fell. And fell. And fell. And thought, "Where the hell is the water? Shouldn't I be in the water by now?" And then, suddenly, I was splashing into the lake. Bubbles rose around me. I started swimming up, and then I broke the surface and pulled in a breath. Best part: Sydney cheering for me. Second best part: me proving to myself that I could do it ... without an hour of contemplative thought and courage-building.