Risks and Rewards - nonfiction by Anna Hynes

From October of 2011 to November of 2017, 259 people died taking selfies. 72.5% of the deceased were males and 27.5% were females. India reports the most selfie-related deaths, followed by Russia, the United States, and Pakistan. Selfie posers died from falls, drownings, electrocutions, and more. The most common location for death by selfie to occur? Railroad tracks.

On June 3, 2017, a man named Alex Honnold made history by successfully free soloing El Capitan, one of the most treacherous natural climbs. He woke in the early morning, nervous but determined to follow through. He made his typical breakfast—oats, flax, chia seeds, and blueberries—before saying goodbye to his girlfriend and driving to El Capitan meadow. Honnold wore no ropes or harnesses, but he survived the fateful climb to the peak.

At my seventh-grade recital, the metal folding chair feels uncomfortably cold underneath me. "Branson's biology teacher brutally informed him he doesn't understand cellular respiration," a shrill voice complains behind me. "He's going to be a doctor for god's sake!" Parent scolds child, wife scolds husband, brother scolds sister. My throat feels hot, thick, swollen, as though it knows I need to sing and wants to stop me. I look down to find my leg bouncing up and down. Forcefully, I place my hand on top of it, attempting to at least appear calm. I try the breathing method my mother claims helped her before flute recitals. Four seconds in. Hold. Four seconds out. Hold. Repeat. It fails. The old woman behind me reeks of lavender perfume, a scent that should relax me, but that, for some reason, makes me want to puke.

Researchers classified selfie-related deaths in one of two categories: risky behavior or non-risky behavior. Unsurprisingly, the risky behavior category far outweighs the non-risky behavior category.

El Capitan, or El Cap, as many climbers have dubbed it, is a three-thousand-foot vertical sheet of mostly granite, with minimal cracks and crevices. When looking at a photograph, it is impossible to imagine a man dangling from one of the tiny ledges with nothing but air between him and a long fall to death. The site itself is beautiful, with a cluster of emerald pine trees at the base; their prickly branches cover a small fraction of the enormous formation. From far away, the trees look like small children gaping up at a much taller adult.

According to a German study, tall people are more likely to take risks than short people. Women take fewer risks. Young people take more risks than older people.

The various parents and family members in attendance are oblivious to the crushing pressure of the evening. "How have you been?" is asked so often it echoes around the small room, eliciting, "Well, the company is great" and "Margeaux received all-conference" and "Nathaniel started his internship today." To them, this event is only an insignificant recital, an hour-long blip in their days. They will go home to make dinner, to watch television, to stress about bitchy bosses and expensive mistakes. They will not think about their performance or replay it in their minds or agonize over each small misstep and waver in their voices. They have no stress, no fear, no nagging feeling that their B-flat tiptoed toward an A.

Against all odds, Honnold survived his climb, making it to the top of El Cap in just under four hours. As he stood at the summit, his fatigued limbs drenched in sweat, he felt a swell of immense pride. He had done it. He accomplished what no one else could. He willingly put his life on the line, and the universe repaid him.

The Scottish rock band Stone the Crows was minutes away from a performance in Swansea. The band members were riding a high. They had just started taking off in Europe, and Led Zeppelin's manager picked them up. It had been a long road for the musicians, as they previously experienced numerous problems with consistency and professionalism. Finally, things were looking up for them.

Leslie Harvey, the lead guitarist and most musically respected member of the band, walked out from the wings to address a small delay to the fans. As he strode onto the stage, the audience erupted in cheers and support.

"There's a technical hitch," one of the band members recalls Harvey saying as he headed toward the center of the stage. He reached for his guitar and microphone. The moment he made contact with the instruments, a visible bolt of white-hot electricity appeared between his hands, electrocuting him. He died instantly. The date was May 3, 1972, exactly forty-five years before I took the stage for my vocal performance.

Honnold's wife recently gave birth to a daughter. The couple named her June. When asked whether he would continue to free solo, his wife said yes. "He's cranky when he doesn't get to climb," she noted.

In 2017, thirty-eight people suffered from climbing-related deaths in North America.

Maria Salgado Lopez, a fifty-nine-year-old woman from Scottsdale, Arizona, took a trip to the Grand Canyon with her family. She planned on snapping a family photo for their annual holiday card. The family took a risk, leaving the designated path to find a better backdrop. Lopez was taking photos of her family members when she lost her footing close to the edge. She stepped back to get a wider angle, but she ended up stepping off the ledge, falling one hundred feet and dying instantly.

In the German study, the subjects were instructed to imagine they had won a lottery worth 100,000 euros. The researchers told them they had the option to invest part of the sum in a bank, and there was a fifty percent chance they would double what they invested in two years. There was also a fifty percent chance they would lose half the invested sum.

Female selfie deaths are far less likely to be in the risky behavior category. Conversely, male selfie deaths are three times more likely to occur due to risky behavior.

Honnold starred in a highly acclaimed documentary about his journey to climbing El Cap; his gamble, most would say, paid off. He is now rumored to be worth over two million dollars and has gained more fame than any other climber in history.

The piano player, a man whose name constantly slips my mind, warms up at the front of the room. His wrinkled fingers dance across the keys, plucking out an eerie melody that matches my frayed nerves. He has been honing this skill, this talent, for most of his life. His mastery shows—even his warm-up seethes with emotion, each key he presses adding to his wordless story. He pauses, glancing around the room, his tired green eyes darting like a cornered animal to take in each spectator's face. I watch as a bead of sweat drips from his hairline toward his cheekbone, its path occasionally hindered by the many lines on his face. I notice his leg bouncing in tandem with mine.

One of the study's conclusions was that risk-takers, or the subjects who invested their money, are more content and satisfied than non-risk-takers. This result left the researchers with an enigmatic question: are risk-takers happier because they take risks, or do they take risks because they're happy?

Either way, those who take risks are more likely to get rewarded.

I turn to face the front again. My palms are clammy, my stomach churns, my mouth tastes bitter. I scan the room, assessing the likelihood of an escape. The walls seem closer than they were when I walked in. A bead of sweat drips down my back. I hope no one sees it. Why did I do this? Why put myself through the stress, the crippling anxiety? Why does it feel like an inordinately large elephant is perched on my diaphragm? I have no answers. I have only my fear, and the knowledge that, no matter what, I will be singing tonight.