Sean's new ski jacket bears the logo NO FEAR! Unlike some other ski fashion labels, this slogan is neither meaningless tosh (Gush, Soldowt, Blueblood) nor indicative of some alpinist aspiration (Descente, Quiksilver, North Face); instead, it explains his actual performance. These videos taken on Sean's third day out, and Julian's first, show how easily one can do things, if you're a child, and without fear.
"How did you learn to do that?," I asked him, as he herringboned faultlessly up to to the lift, then slid down backwards, and turned to talk to me.
"I watched other people, and did what they were doing," he said.
And it's probably true. But I can watch other skiers endlessly, and like most adult learners, will never be better than an awkward intermediate. It's not (just) that I'm incompetent, but it's not beautiful to watch: I lack the fluidity that comes of spare synapses, young muscles, and a fearless view of the slope.
Of course, as Ayumi points out, we have reasons to be fearful as adults: a sprained ankle might be a badge of honour for Sean, but the inability to drive children to nursery, the slower recovery period—my toes have never recovered from a fall three years ago—the health insurance costs, the indignity, the list goes on). More significant, perhaps, is the fact that whereas Sean and Julian bounce like soft tennis balls, I bounce like an apple: I may well survive, but with considerably lower resale value.
I suspect, though, that it is more superficial fears—inhibitions, hesitancy, adult learner's reticence—that mean that I will always look like a Brit on skis, rather than a Swiss or an Austrian, or a true Canuck: the alpine equivalent of White men can't jump.
(Yesterday on the slope, my friend Nathan—who is the one teaching Julian in the second video—introduced me to his friend Herbert: even before we had spoken, I knew from his completely fluent skiing that he had learned young; his skis moved together so well, you might have thought they were one. Another well-spent Swiss youth.)
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