One Second Shy
How a Ski Trip Snapped Me Awake to Life’s Wild Ride
“We are always one step away from the abyss.” — Albert Camus
Ever wonder how quickly life can flip? One second, you’re cruising—coffee’s hot, everything’s chill—then it’s not. I used to hear “life turns on a dime” and give a polite nod—like, sure, intense, whatever. But you don’t get it ‘til it’s you.
One tick, that’s it—your story splits into Before and After. Wild, huh? What’s your fastest flip? I’ve got mine tied to a ski trip, and I’m still shaking it off.
March 2025—me and my friends, loud laughs, dumb bets about who’d eat snow first. We’re mid-run, razzing Marco for last year’s viral wipeout—“Skis everywhere, pride went!”— life’s steady ‘til it’s sideways, and you’re left blinking.
We coast, right? I'm thinking tomorrow’s just today with better Wi-Fi. Then a fall—or a text—yanks the rug, and you’re scrambling. That day, watching the chaos unfold, it sank in: we’re one heartbeat from a rewrite. Not to channel your uncle with Nietzsche vibes (though I could fake it), but it’s wild how fragile this is. The slope was just the trigger—the real jolt? Realizing everything we bank on can vanish in a second. You’ve felt that shift, yeah? Where the ground moves, and you’re stuck asking, Now what?
So, there I am—ski trip, mid-run, still giggling about Marco’s flop last year when it goes down. Alvaro’s ahead (not his real name), owning the slope like a pro, and some skier barrels into him out of nowhere. Hard. It’s slow-mo in my head: the crash, Alvaro spinning, then down—leg mangled under the guy’s weight. One second, he’s king; the next, he’s cursing through clenched teeth. I skid up, heart slamming, as ski patrol swarms, firing questions I can’t answer. I’m just… stuck, staring, thinking, Did that just happen?
But it’s not about the wreck. It’s what it ripped wide: that hairline crack where “fine” becomes “not fine.” You know it. A bone snaps, a call drops, and the floor’s gone. One second rewrites everything. No big Heidegger moment hit me, just a gut punch: we’re all one slip from freefall. While up top, people kept shredding—laughing, clueless. Life doesn’t hit pause for your gasp. Ever wonder why that stings so deep—how it all rolls on while you’re choking on the moment? I do. It’s like the world’s saying, “Deal with it,” and you’re left there, snow in your boots, figuring out how.
So, Alvaro’s down—leg trashed, snow smeared with his swears—and I’m useless, watching ski patrol sling him onto a sled. They whisk him off, and I’m hobbling behind, replaying it like a glitchy reel. But here’s what sticks: the mountain didn’t blink. Kids kept squealing, and some guy bombed past, but nobody noticed. Life just… kept rolling.
Your world quakes, and it’s static to everyone else? One second flips your page, and the universe shrugs, “Next caller.” Back at the lodge, I’m gripping cold coffee, feeling ancient, while the group chat buzzes—“Alvaro ok?”. We’re little islands, huh? Your mess explodes, and someone’s still snapping their après-ski shot while you’re googling “tibia fracture recovery” (eight weeks—Alvaro’s pumped). It bites—that disconnect. Shouldn’t everything freeze for this? Nope.
The sunsets and the lifts hum, and you’re left reeling while the show plays on. It’s not some grand Kantian revelation: life doesn’t care about your script. That day, watching the slope buzz like nothing happened, it hit me—our disasters don’t dent the world’s rhythm. Ever feel that ache, seeing it all march past your wreckage? It’s brutal—and weirdly alive. You’re down, but the beat goes on. How do we even roll with that?
Alvaro’s crash—it’s not just his leg (though he’s got a saga there). It’s what it rattled loose in me. One second he’s shredding, the next he’s out, and I’m like, How do we even do this? It’s like the veil ripped: it’s all shaky as hell. You’re vibing—coffee’s on, day’s golden—then poof, gone.
What lingers isn’t the crash—it’s the glow after. Alvaro’s leg cracked, but he still apologized. Then there’s me—I rode the ambulance with him and stayed ‘til post-surgery, bleary-eyed in that sterile waiting room. Everyone was shocked I did. “You stayed?” they said, like I’d climbed Everest. To me, it was just… what you do, right? Stick with your guy when he’s down. Or maybe not—maybe I’m the oddball who didn’t think twice.
One second can snap you, but it spotlights who you are. A jolt reveals you. I’m not slapping “carpe diem” on my wall (yet), but it’s got me gripping my crew tighter. Life’s frail as hell—I’m done dozing through it. You’ve had those wake-ups, yeah? That’s my take-home. Not the drop, but the lift. One second strips it raw, and what’s left is gritty, real gold.
So, Alvaro’s still in the hospital—leg wrecked from that skier’s plow—and I’m back home, sipping coffee, typing this like it’s normal. But my brain’s glued there, looping that second it all flipped. One tick, he’s down—could’ve been me. I was seconds back, close enough to hear the snap. I keep gnawing—could I have shouted, dodged, anything? (Nope, but guilt’s relentless.)
The thing is, it’s not the crash I’m hooked on—it’s him. Alvaro’s there, wired up, joking about his “bionic leg” upgrade, grinning like he’s aced it. Guy’s pure light, even now. Me? I’m rattled, mulling why life’s a coin toss —a haunt that sparks you.
Life’s a snowflake—one puff, gone—but Alvaro’s proving it’s steel, too. You’ve got your near-misses. Those what-ifs that reforge you?
Alvaro’s fire says we don’t just crash—we climb. One second shifts it all—and that’s fuel to burn brighter.
If you’re into chewing on this, pick up Tuesdays with Morrie by Mitch Albom—it’s like a late-night chat with someone who’s seen it all, nailing how fleeting moments teach us to hold tight.