From the Ground

When I was ten, my family went on vacation to Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, and as fate would have it, our motel was directly across the street from the then-famous Myrtle Beach Pavilion Amusement Park.

I loved splashing in the surf and swimming in the pool, but the thing that really grabbed my attention was the massive pirate ship ride that seemed to call out to me every time I stepped outside our room.

It ran day and night, stopping only long enough to unload one set of lucky passengers and board another.

Being a ten-year-old in the early eighties, this giant swing on steroids was about as good as it got.

And I wanted on it.

Badly.

I hounded my parents from the moment we pulled into the parking lot until the last day of our trip to let me ride it.

Eventually, my persistence paid off.

Against my mom’s better judgment, my dad agreed to take my little brother and me on my dream ride.

It was after dinner, right around twilight, and all the lights came on just as we were buying our tickets.

Pure magic.

I was beside myself with excitement and anticipation.

I’d never seen a ride like that before, and the closer we got, the taller it looked.

I was thrilled.

As we waited in line, the massive ship swung back and forth above us, leaving a howling wind and blood-curdling screams in its wake.

That only whipped up my excitement more.

This was going to be the highlight of my trip.

Maybe even the highlight of my young life.

Finally, our turn came.

I watched the previous passengers disembark, each looking more disheveled and wild-eyed than the last.

Then we boarded.

I chose a seat beside my dad at one of the far ends.

Best seats in the house, I thought.

After studying this ride for days, I knew the ends went the highest, fell the farthest, and would undoubtedly provide the biggest thrill.

Then the moment finally arrived.

The colossal beast grated and whirred as it laboriously propelled itself into the air.

Like any pendulum, it had to build momentum, and the first few swings were everything I thought they’d be.

My stomach dropped a little, giving me a pleasant tickle, and the warm wind on my face felt wonderful.

I waved to my mom, who was watching from the ground with concern and dread.

She hadn’t wanted us to ride it.

She’d warned me it wouldn’t turn out the way I thought it would.

I smiled and waved.

She’d been wrong.

This was amazing.

Until suddenly, it wasn’t.

It didn’t take long for the behemoth I’d strapped myself into to really pick up speed and leave all my good feelings behind.

It went way too high.

I could practically see Europe.

And way too fast.

I was pretty sure my face was being pulled taut.

Each time we reached the pinnacle, my dad tightened his grip on my brother and me to keep us from flying out of our seats.

“I want to get off!” I screamed.

“Can’t get off, Kimberly. We’re in it now. Just hold on, and it’ll be over soon.”

Only it wasn’t soon.

Apparently, the ride operator enjoyed torturing small children and had decided to give us our money’s worth.

I didn’t think it would ever stop.

Closing my eyes didn’t help.

Screaming accomplished absolutely nothing.

And each time we swung past my mom, who was looking positively terrified by then, I wanted nothing more than to be standing safely beside her instead of strapped into that death machine.

And the worst part?

I’d wanted this.

Begged for it, even.

I’d spent days watching that ship from the ground, imagining exactly what it would be like to ride it.

It had looked like so much fun from down there.

From the seat, it was a whole different story.

Needless to say, I eventually made it off the pirate ship and lived to tell the tale.

And although I didn’t realize it at ten, that ride taught me something I’ve encountered many times since.

Things can look very different depending on where you’re standing.

The interesting thing is, I hadn’t actually misunderstood the pirate ship.

I’d watched it carefully for days.

I knew how high it went.

I knew how fast it moved.

I’d heard the screams.

I’d even deliberately chosen one of the end seats because I understood that was where I’d get the biggest thrill.

I had all the information.

What I didn’t have was the perspective.

There’s a big difference between watching something swing through the air and being the person strapped to the end of it.

I think we encounter versions of that in business all the time.

We look at someone else’s business and think we’d like what they have.

Their growth.

Their team.

Their clients.

Their visibility.

Their freedom.

Their success.

And sometimes we absolutely would.

There’s tremendous value in seeing what’s possible and allowing someone else’s success to expand our own ideas about what we might build.

But from where we’re standing, we’re usually seeing only part of the experience.

We may see the thriving company without seeing the responsibility that comes with employing twenty people.

We may see the impressive client list without seeing the expectations that accompany it.

We may see the packed calendar without knowing whether the person who owns it wishes there were a little more white space.

We may see the freedom without seeing what had to be built, risked, or sacrificed to create it.

None of that makes those things bad.

It simply means they may feel very different from the seat than they look from the ground.

And I think that’s why perspective matters so much when we’re deciding what we actually want.

It’s easy to ask:

How do I get what they have?

Sometimes the better question is:

Would I want the whole experience that comes with having it?

That’s a harder question to answer from a distance.

Sometimes we can research it.

Sometimes we can talk to people who have already done it.

Sometimes we can try something on a smaller scale before committing ourselves completely.

And sometimes, despite our best efforts, there’s simply no substitute for climbing aboard and discovering what the ride feels like from our own seat.

That doesn’t necessarily mean we made a mistake by getting on.

Sometimes learning what we don’t want is every bit as valuable as discovering what we do.

I certainly learned something that evening in Myrtle Beach.

The pirate ship was every bit as exciting as I’d imagined.

The lights were beautiful.

The ship went incredibly high.

And the end seats absolutely provided the biggest thrill.

I had seen all of that perfectly clearly from the ground.

I just hadn’t known what any of it would feel like from the seat.