My Contiki bus pulled out of Arrowtown, New Zealand, about 11am on a sunny January day. The group had had a mid morning stop at the town to look around, but it was sold to us by our guide as a chance to stock up on some dutch courage - on tap at the local bar, open this time of the morning probably only to serve this demand. Years later I'd find out that most dutch people were completely unaware that we made jest of them in this way in the southern hemisphere. Never the less, I stayed away from the beers that morning, certainly not because it was before midday, but because I was sure it would only make what I was about to do that much more messier.I was headed to a bridge between Arrowtown and Queenstown - a small but famous bridge: the home of the bungy jump. Only to "look" of course... my parents had forbade me to jump off that bridge in the weeks leading up to the trip. But I was 22, and over 2500kms away from their influence here in New Zealand. Of course I wasn't bloody here to look.
Checking in at a building nearby, I paid my dues and walked myself down to the orderly queue stretching to the centre of the bridge. I reviewed the score card I'd been given when I weighed in; 73.5kgs, clothed. Yep, I was still a beanpole. Leaning up against the rail, I followed the screams echoing up from the canyon down to a body dangling above the river surface below. Yep, I was still going to do this.
It takes a while to properly strap someone to a bungy cord, cross check, get them to the edge and coax them to jump. Not everyone is so keen when they're standing on the edge looking down. That's where the challenge of bungy differs so much from other experiences with height - no one is going to push you over that edge, you have to decide to jump. A girl further up the line got all the way to that edge before she decided it just wasn't for her, and the crew dutifully brought her back from the brink, unstrapped her, and sent her back to the office for a refund. The waiting line of people smiled sympathetically as the queue shortened this way. Some don't make it even that far: sometimes being at the head of the queue and watching someone disappear right in front of you is enough to send you on the walk.
My turn at the head of the queue was spent with my fellow travelers trying to lend what encouragement we could to our friend who was struggling to reconcile her pact with gravity. Shaking, she stood at the edge for a long time, convinced she couldn't do it. Scared of death or permanent injury, the crew did their best to reassure her that she'd still be alive in another 30 seconds. A few tense minutes and she'd managed to roll her self over the edge. We all knew she was okay, because the screaming went on much longer than the fall could possibly have taken.
I clipped into a safety harness and stepped beyond the rail. Sitting down on a small platform perched just below the level of the bridge, I handed over my weight card. The guy running the show then asked me: "Would you like to get wet". I heard this question asked many times in the preceding 20mins, so far no one had taken him up on the offer. For most people it's enough to just get yourself over the bridge. I replied to him, "I'd like to keep my shoes dry". A wry smile came across his face - one that I've gotten to know well in businesses like this. The "game on!" smile.
A towel wraps around my legs before a carefully selected rope comes close to cheaply amputating both my feet at the ankles. All the while I'm receiving my crash course in bungy: "Now, to hit the water, you don't want to jump out, you want to just roll over the edge.", "Put your hands forward into a dive to break the surface tension of the water", "and most importantly, chin to chest when you hit the water. We don't want any snapped necks today". Two of the crew held me steady while I lifted my legs up to the edge of the platform. They released me from their grip, and I was now standing out there; just me, the fresh mountain air and the river. As directed, I looked up to the camera perched on top of the canyon wall over to my left, struck a pose, then returned my undivided attention to the Kawarau river below. It flowed at a moderate pace, small eddies of current giving the moment shape as it bubbled downstream. I took a deep breathe and let myself roll forward into its arms.
For that split second where motion doesn't exist, my body was held immersed in New Zealand's finest yet-to-be bottled - up to about my waist.
But as fast as I came to be here, I was wrenched back out again - flying halfway back up to the deck above, only to become weightless again. With outstretched arms, I brush my hands across the surface of the water when i reach full stretch this time. Bouncing upside down less and less, my weight comes into a slow swing ten or so meters from the water.
Dripping with icy water, I let my arms hang towards the water as I took the experience in - semi aware of the inflatable boat that was now approaching with the flow from up stream. Two sets of hands guided me to a safe head first landing as the rope lowered me down to the craft. The pressure on my ankles was released before the boat was winched back against the current to the launching point. "How was it?" I'm asked by the crew. Bloody amazing.Full of adrenaline, I took the stairs two at a time back up the canyon to my girlfriend, who carried both a towel and an expression of mock disapproval. She'd been worried for a time, but had quickly come around. It would take the folks much longer to forgive me, but luckily this being at the beginning of the trip, telling them immediately allowed them this time while I was off doing other stupid things.
No, you don't let disapproval stop you. You just plan for it.
