A few months back, as part of the local hospital's plan to kill me, I was told that I did not in fact, have asthma, and after they took my inhaler away, I was filled with this profound sense of freedom which focused on one dream:

Scuba diving.

Asthma is the one medical condition that will prevent you from scuba diving in any way shape or form, for obvious reasons. But I dreamed of scuba diving, of running off to Maine and making a living as a research diver up there, and immediately signed up to get my scuba license through classes at the local dive shop.

I was able to draw two conclusions from my experiences in the class:

1. No, I really do have asthma.

I am never taking another co-ed experiential class as long as I live.

My scuba class tales are exciting in a kind of danger-and-nearly-dying-in-the-pool-at-the-Y way, but this entry is not actually about those class. It is more about the class I took next, the all-women's introduction to rock climbing.

For the past six weeks I have been climbing, falling, swinging and screaming at PetraCliffs, an indoor climbing gym in Burlington. PetraCliffs is filled with routes of different levels and many pretty people covered in chalk and looks quite a bit like the treasure cave at the end of The Goonies. Also, for the past six Thursdays and some alternate Saturdays, it has been filled with a group of women learning to climb.

Now, the defining thing for me about women's experiential classes is that they foster a sense of community growth: we are all learning to climb, and everyone's success is measured by everyone's performance and more importantly, everyone's comfort level and sense of achievement. So to get one woman up one wall, we needed to clip someone into the climbing side of the rope, and another someone into the belaying (ie prevention of falling) side. Then we had one or more additional women check each clip. On one of the routes where we used a different, and riskier type of clip, there were four checkers, one of whom served as a backup on the belaying. We are so serious about safety it's ridiculous; don't even ask how long it takes us all to stretch.

So now someone's clipped in, and someone's belaying, and there are two or three additional women there to provide advice and support. In climbing, apparently, helping someone find a route is called "giving beta". In our case, it is called "breathing". We're all so eager to help that we are unable to stop shouting out suggestions. We are all so eager that the climber make it to the top of the route, that she have a good experience and not suffer to the point of frustration, that we will help to the point of hoarseness, to the point of obnoxiousness and beyond. And when we are not giving beta, when the person is actually climbing, and climbing well, the noise does not end, oh no. We are so excited for them that we keep up a continual stream of encouragement and praise: "You're doing awesome! Good job! Keep going! Nice work!" We are not quiet by a long shot. Quiet does not build community. Quiet is not supportive.

And our noise, which has drowned out children's birthday parties on two separate occasions, is in sharp contrast to the noises invariably made by the men next to us. "Come on you pussy, don't fucking stop! What the hell, man? Get up that wall, loser. What's wrong with you?" Maybe that works for them, and more power to them. We applaud, they punch each other. One way would seem more obviously fun than the other, but I've been wrong before.

There's a new route up at the gym, one that involves climbing a straight wall, and then climbing a two-part overhang (pretty much like it sounds--the wall curves over in a kind of arch so that your tears of frustration fall on innocent passersby rather than dripping discreetly down the wall), and I have yet to reach the top. However, if you fail to reach the top, due to the way the ropes are set up, letting go part way up sends you sailing halfway across the gym about 25 feet off the ground. Which I don't mind, except that everyone stares at you, and all the talented climbers know which route you fell off of.

So yesterday I was on the ground, belaying (ie. preventing someone from dying from a height of 25 feet or more) Vanessa, a friend of mine as she climbed this route. Up up up she went, higher and higher, until she was almost at the top, and I marveled at how easy she made it look. As opposed to me, who, due to size constraints, frequently makes undignified epileptic-spider-monkey lunges upwards, sideways, and more frequently, downwards. So I marveled, and I marveled so hard that I totally forgot two important things. One, Vanessa is 5'10". She's an Amazon, complete with flaxen tresses and long legs, although also complete with two boobs, unlike your "canonical" Amazon, so perhaps not such an apt comparison now that I think of it. And two, I was not tied to the ground.

Being tied to the ground is a fabulous idea if you happen to be oh, I don't know let's take an example completely at random, a foot smaller and 40 pounds lighter than the person about to fall off the wall 25 feet above your head.

So up up up went Vanessa, and then oops! She fell off, in what may be the most graceful and attractive fall on record, and so all the men who had been watching the progress of Vanessa and her magnificent legs up the wall, suddenly watched as she went zinging across the gym and I, the belaying midget, shot up off the ground after her in a stunning display of the laws of physics.

Now, before you swear off climbing for life, know several things. This pulley system thing happens a lot, only most people are a little more prepared for it. Because of this, Vanessa was in no danger at any time; even shooting upwards I had a death grip on that belay device, so I would have hit the ceiling before she hit the floor. Also, see above where two other women were hanging onto another portion of the rope, and promptly sat on me.

Sisterhood is powerful.