The Plunge

by Douglas S. Sassaman

My ego has been a constant source of trouble throughout my life. Always getting me into situations I had no earthly business being in. I couldn’t give in, not to my wife of one-and-a-half years to whom I was still trying to prove that I was made of rocks and stuff so stern my manhood was beyond question. Maybe years from now, I would dribble out of bed one morning and let my true nature of a craven spineless creature be known, but that day had not yet arrived, I still had some rough roads to travel and the one I was on today was fraught with potholes the size of Volkswagens. A terrycloth towel was wrapped around our ankles, and for the first time, I saw the look of genuine fear in my wife’s eyes. It brought me a measure of satisfaction; this was after all, her doing, she was insistent that while in New Zealand bungy jumping was a must. Against the wishes of every molecule that make up my body, I agreed, and worse yet it was a bubbly enthusiastic agreement, such is the power of ego.

I was resigned to fate at this point and fear no longer held sway over me. Is this how Louis XVI felt as his head was positioned on the guillotine? I imagine so. No turning back now, my ego has me in its clutches. They attached the first bungee cord to Denise’s ankles and then proceeded to fasten mine. I watch as they connect my lifeline with keen interest. Velcro is to be my savior. It works on sneakers and ski gloves, but does it work at stopping a body in motion at the rate of 160 feet per second? I voiced my concerns, but instead of an explanation the rough hewn guy strapping me in said only, “Ah, no worries mate.” I couldn’t think of a situation that could possibly warrant more worrying, but resignation washed over me again and I was once again in fate’s hands. They finish the job by lashing our ankles together in preparation for our tandem jump.

We’re perched high above the Kawarau River gorge hanging off a wooden platform designed to launch bungy jumpers, which in turn is hanging off the Kawarau Suspension Bridge. Walking across the rather narrow suspension bridge alone raises adrenaline levels and from our vantage my adrenal gland is experiencing terrific spasms. The Kawarau River originates from the glaciers in the mighty Southern Alps of New Zealand, the mineral rich water is so blue it looks like a river of Windex. Over untold eons the river carved out the deep gorge that we were now going to plunge into. On any other day the view before me would make for a fond recollection, but the picturesque scene is carved into my memory with a buck knife and feelings of desperation and dread will forever be attached to it.

This is where it all started; AJ Hackett, a man of considerable talents for the extreme, conceived of the idea and helped develop the first bungy cord. He began the world’s first commercial bungy jumping operation from the Kawarau Bridge in 1988. Other sites around the world were soon to follow. I find a frayed strand of reassurance in the fact that AJ Hackett and his company have logged over a million jumps at their combined sites, as yet no fatalities.

They help us to a standing position with our feet now tightly bound, and the guy with a bandanna wrapped around his head instructs us to hop to the edge of the platform. I look back at the guy and my imagination conjures up a patch on his left eye, a striped red and white shirt, and a sword in his hand, ‘On with ye, out to the ocean blue, the sharks are sprightly this morning,’ I imagine he says.

So we hop. Our hops occur in increments too small to be physically measured. The pirate tires of our charade and aides us in our quest for the edge by semi-lifting and placing us there. And so we stand there, toes curled over the edge, wavering on the boundary between sense and insanity, beyond panic, beyond words, just waiting for the world below to claim us. Denise has her right arm around me, and her left hand is grasping the metal railing, she’s looking straight ahead, not venturing a look into the abyss. I, of course, look down at the river and ants that are people far below and a blast of feral terror surges through me, every nerve, every fiber screams. They instruct us to look straight ahead and not down. Woops.

On a count of five we are to jump. We were told previously that if you don’t go the first time it only gets worse for subsequent countdowns and the odds of backing out increase substantially. I may be a pitiful specimen at heart, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to come this far and not go all the way. They pluck Denise’s fingers off the metal railing, she’s gripping with such force I wouldn’t be surprised if the metal is furrowed between her fingers. The countdown begins.

“Alright mates are you ready,” asked the pirate, a feeble nod from us. “Okay, I’m going to countdown from five and then when I say Bungy just lean forward and go.” It feels like I have a rotten lemon lodged in my throat. The countdown begins, “Five… Four… Three… Two… One… BUNGY!”

I don’t know who went first, but went we did. Within a quarter of a heartbeat we were at terminal velocity, cliff sides were screaming by and the creek below was taking on river-sized proportions. I fall for longer then my body has ever known and a brain scan at that precise moment would scorch the paper it’s printed on. I managed to get out at least four ‘oh my God’s’ before the first and most welcome tug on my ankle. The tug turns into a pull, a yank, and then a leg-stretching wrench of such proportions a medieval torturer would have delighted. The river is at arms reach and my head must look like a tomato. Every blood cell, molecule, and bits of my breakfast bar are compressed into my noggin and I feel it may pop, and then just as suddenly we’re high up in the air again on the recoil, and now the fun begins. The worst is over, we scream, we hoot, we holler. We have survived. We bounce back and forth several more times until we come to rest hanging above the river upside down. We’re lowered into an inflatable raft and brought on board like a couple of marlins.

If ever there was a time for me to take over the world, this was it. The moment after doing something as profoundly stupid as bungy jumping is characterized by giddiness, immortality, and an incredible sense of unlimited power. On-lookers regard you with awe and you view them as you would peasants collecting dung. ‘Outta my way you hapless ninnies, I pity you and your hollow lives,’ I wanted to bellow, but instead I played the role of hero for the moment and answered their pithy questions and retold my tale of valor, at least until the next person jumped off the bridge and then my rousing band of supporters left me in a rush and it was also in a rush that my mortality returned. My ego is still intact, but just barely.

Next up, river surfing…

Douglas Sassaman is a freelance writer, aspiring novelist, and self-described humorist (who some think should be self-committed). He writes an online column called, 'Life in the Cosmic-Burp' at http://CosmicBurp.com. Join the FREE direct to e-mail column and add zip your water-cooler conversations every other Friday by sending a blank e-mail to: CosmicBurp-Subscribe@listbot.com. You can e-mail Doug at Doug-Sassaman@CosmicBurp.com

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