You know that big rock at Waimea Bay? The one where you can climb up, after reading the sign about how you're not supposed to climb up, and then jump down, into the ocean?

Personally, I've always found that rock a little terrifying. Maybe I'm just a coward, but the few times I've ever done that jump, I had to force myself to start counting down from five. And when I got to zero, that was when I knew I had to jump.

It's kind of like an orchestra audition. When you go out there on stage for an audition, alone, behind a screen that keeps you anonymous from the jury (sounds a little like witness protection, doesn't it?), you know that you have to start playing sometime. It's hard to decide exactly when. Sometimes, you just have to force yourself.

Alisa Weilerstein is in town tonight to perform with the Honolulu Symphony. She'll be playing Samuel Barber's Cello Concerto — a really difficult but beautiful piece.

The last time Ally was here, a few of us took her to the North Shore. Of course, we ended up at Waimea Bay. I remember watching her jump off the rock there, and I don't remember her having any courage problems doing it. I guess she's used to doing courageous things. Like, you know, playing difficult solos in front of big crowds of people, and stuff like that.

I've always been jealous, in a certain way, of cellists. The violin is, let's face it, an awkward instrument to hold. The cello is very natural. And when violinists shift to high notes, our hands get closer to our faces. We contract. It's kind of counterintuitive. When cellists shift to high notes, their hands get further away, moving downward, expanding.

On the other hand, cellists do have to travel much bigger distances to get to their high notes. I imagine they don't necessarily always know that they'll come out of it OK. That probably makes them afraid to start sometimes.

I'm not worried about Ally, though. I'm pretty sure, having watched her in Waimea, that she'll know just when to make the leap.