1999.

One weekend, a few of us from Edison planned a picnic to Lake George—one of the most scenic and beloved tourist destinations in the country. Nestled between towering mountains, the lake stretches along the railway line between New York City and Montreal. The view alone takes your breath away. And the water? Perfect for boating.

We couldn’t wait to try. After a quick training session—covering orientation, wind reading, anchoring, and safety—we rented a boat. My family climbed aboard with a few friends. Ram, our unofficial leader, took the helm, and we pushed off into the glistening water. The excitement was electric.

Ten minutes in, I took over. Maybe it was the thrill, maybe overconfidence—but I accelerated hard and jerked the wheel into a sharp turn. The boat lurched violently. Screams erupted as we tilted sideways, hearts pounding, hands gripping whatever we could. For one terrifying second, I thought we might capsize. Then—just as suddenly—the boat steadied. The lake smoothed back into glass. We sat in stunned silence, humbled and wide-eyed.

Next up: parasailing.

The organizer’s safety briefing wasn’t exactly reassuring. “There are always risks,” he said with a shrug. “But no one’s died recently.”

Most of us laughed it off, the thrill outweighing the fear.

Then we watched as a couple—together weighing over 120 kilograms—rose gracefully into the sky, their parachute billowing behind the boat. They soared to about 100 feet… and then plummeted.

Gasps tore from our throats as they hit the water with a slap. Miraculously, their life jackets kept them afloat. They clambered back to the boat, shaken but unharmed.

Now it was our turn.

My wife gripped my arm, her face pale. “Did you see that?”

I squeezed her hand. “Be brave. Whatever happens, we face it together.”

Minutes later, the speedboat roared to life, and the wind yanked us upward. 300 feet in the air, the world shrank below us—the lake a mirror, the mountains like folds of velvet, tiny boats trailing white wakes. For 25 minutes, we floated in silence, suspended between heaven and earth.

Then a gust jerked the parachute. We swayed violently, the harnesses digging into our shoulders. My mind flashed to a scene from Thunderbolt, where a woman fell from this very height.

“You know,” I said, half-joking, “in that movie, the parachute line snapped—”

“That’s just cinema,” my wife cut in, her voice calm. She smiled.

And maybe that was the difference—trust over fear.

We landed softly, giddy with relief, our hearts still racing. Grateful. Exhilarated. And closer than ever.

“Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace.”
— Ephesians 4:3