Zen Waterslide: Finding Enlightenment at a Jersey Themepark

by Sara Grove (United States of America)

I didn't expect to find USA

I found nirvana at a water park in Jersey. Not the 90s, Kurt Cobain Nirvana (although “Smells Like Teen Spirit” could make a fine water slide tagline). I found old-school nirvana, the kind bald robed guys sit around trying NOT to try to attain. It happened on a muggy day in the Garden State. On this August afternoon, Buddhist philosophy was far from my mind. I drove fifteen hours from to a ramshackle water park rumored to be under investigation for lax safety standards. I braved turnpikes, toll roads and New England drivers for the promise of cheap thrills with a new friend. Skirting Philadelphia, narrow roads led me past farms and homesteads into hillsides thick with deciduous forest buzzing with cicadas. I hadn’t seen a building in ages. I checked my phone – no signal. Pulling to the gravel shoulder, I spotted a tower poking out of the blur of trees. Could it be… Yes! A slide! I found the park. I found my friend. We shrugged off the eerily empty parking lot, bought tickets and took to the rides. For hours, we hucked our carcasses down chutes, around whirlpools, off platforms. We rode lazy tubes and inverted tubes. We tread water in the endless wave pool until we wanted to vomit, then rode laps on the infamous “water coaster,” always in the shadow of the Tower. That final slide stood, a seductress of the adrenaline junkie within. “Wanna do the lazy river again?” I looked up at the tower: The time had come. Time to face the Tower. Eighty-six stairs up, we panted. “Do you think it’s possible to just Zen-out on this slide? You know, like, we could get in this state of no attachment and float down, zero fear...water sliding like Buddha?” I raised a brow. The Buddhist teaching of non-attachment always seemed a bit sketchy to me. Why would I want to eliminate fear? That made it fun. A stocky guy with army tats sat in the slide, then whooshed out of sight with a yelp. Vertical drop as vehicle to enlightenment? “Ok, lets zen-out.” Zen Waterslide Rules: 1) Remain relaxed, eyes open 2) No spike in heart rate 3) No thoughts “Sure” “Yeah” “We got this” My turn. The jets shot me over the lip of the slide. I entered the 90-degree drop eyes pinched shut, screaming. My shoulder blades thudded along the panel ridges with a stinging pain. Adrenaline pulsing, I clambered out at the end with limp muscles and a giant wedgie. My friend came whooping and hollering down the slide. “That was AWESOME!” An epic failure on the enlightenment part, but the best thrill all day. We raced up the stairs again. “AAHHHHHH!” “EEEEEEEE!” Failure felt so good. The park attendants started roping off queues. We had one more chance. So, we got serious. As serious as one can be when trying to channel the energy of an Eastern mystical tradition to disassociate all emotion while hurtling your body down 150 feet of vertical plastic propelled by gallons of high pressure water. We stepped lightly this time. Inhale. Step. Exhale. Step. The teenage lifeguard with a sweaty sunburn to match his red trunks looked impatient. Inhale. Step. Exhale. At the final platform, I felt a warm sensation – perhaps a new sense of possibility, or just the 98% humidity. Inhale. Sit down. Exhale. Lay back. Inhale. Cross arms. Exhale - Go! Eyes open. Over the edge. Falling. Or was I floating? Floating. I lay at the base of the slide smiling. The world seemed motionless, timeless, soundless. I felt everything – the throbbing in my shoulder blades, my swim-bottoms-turned-g-string, the sting of chlorine. I felt the slow, strong beat of my heart, the warmth of blood reaching my lips and toes and fingertips. I felt aware of all sensations, external and internal, yet attached to none of them. This was different than a burst of adrenaline. Better. I felt a gentle, pervasive euphoria. The bliss of awareness itself. I watched my friend make his final slide. As he exited the trough, I saw the tender look on his face and knew he found it, too. I looked up at him. He nodded.