As a byproduct of my upbringing, my personality is one that's sharply divided. I am terrified of nearly everything: that rocks will dislodge on a fourteener and bury me alive; that my plane will crash land in the Atlantic and I'll have to survive Tom Hanks-style in 30-foot waves; or that I'll leave the stove on and my house will explode with poor, thumbless Santos asleep inside.
The other half of me is a rebel, a thrill seeker, a rejection of all those worries. It's a trait that leads me to do things like: swim through an underwater tunnel in a Samoan cave without knowing its length or depth; taking the lead, with a blasé indifference, in an abandoned, pitch black, and crumbling WWII bunker in Papua New Guinea; and running out into an empty field in Kenya's Masai Mara range, arms thrown up in wonder, to gaze at the night sky despite the rustling of a nearby hyena.
The combination ensures that, when traveling, I'm always the first in my group to read the hotel's safety procedures and plan an exit strategy in the event of, say, a tsunami. Or, when hiking in the jungle, I can identify almost an equal number of poisonous spiders, snakes, and plants as my guide. But I'm also the first to blissfully explore a skeleton-filled cave in Belize or swim with Caribbean Reef sharks in The Bahamas.
Momma Marsha approved? No.
Would Poppa Erb say it was worth it? Yes.
And they're both right. Assessing and accepting the risk makes the reward all the more worth it.
(Just don't tell my future children I said that.)