| confessions of a bungy jumper | |||||
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Time and space began to compress somewhere between the ride from Queenstown, and the bustle of signing release of liability forms and weighing in. For a while, I was too preoccupied with the embarassment of having my weight written in red magic marker on the back of my hand to worry about the jump. Then, suddenly, I was ready, and I wandered catatonic out to the jumping platform in the middle of the bridge.
I had decided not to look over the edge that morning, lest I lose what shred of courage I had left. Praying I could go quickly, I joined the silent cluster of folks waiting near the platform, all of us stiff-faced with fear. The rowdy bungy hands were hooting it up as they swung around, pulling on straps and ropes. They were good looking fellahs, Venice Beach types, in shades and holey sweatshirts. Blaring rock music, they joshed with the ready-to-jump and hollered gratuitous encouragement to folks in mid-air. "Yeah! Good One!" The panic level was rising exponentially as my turn came and I shakily sat down for the staff to wrap a white towel around my ankles, followed by a strap which bound it all together. Then they clipped in the long bungy cord, and I was, reluctantly, ready to go. I balked for a moment when the guys said to hop out a couple of feet to the edge of the platform, "toes over the edge." You had to let go for a nauseating moment from the wooden frame of the bridge and hop precariously toward the pole at the edge. "Wait!" I was thinking, "To hop out there, I have to look down, or I might hop prematurely over the edge, and if I have to LOOK DOWN..." But I hopped, though even trying my damndest not to I did--oh god--look DOWN, into woozy space. The fear started spreading like wildfire at that point, and I lost all semblance of control. I interrupted the guy explaining how I should jump, stuttering from fear: "WAIT...I..uh...want...to...to...go...but.....maybe......I...can't...j-j-jump...so...would you...push me, please....if I.....if I c-c-can't?"
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