”How long you think its been since they’ve done maintenance on this thing?” I asked nobody in particular as I peered nervously through the grated metal catwalk towards the river below—it was like walking wet plywood, giving under the weight of each step. The English guy in front of me turned and shot me a glare, ungrateful for my attempt to lighten the mood.
The bridge we were about to jump off was the Bloukrans. It stands 216m above a Garden Route valley floor, and proudly claims to be the world’s highest bungy jump. I was in route to Cape Town after a cooking weekend of surf at Jeffery’s Bay, and my South African friends, Terrance and Miles, agreed to stop and watch.
”Don’t you want to jump?”
”Not a chance in hell.”
Funny how every local I invited gave a similar response. As I left the parking lot to brave the bridge, Terrance and Miles discussed loudly how they were going to divvy up my belongings after I went kersplat on the valley floor.
I asked to be one of the first in our group to jump, since the boys were itching to get back to Cape Town. They said I could go second and told me to sit so they could prep me for the jump. Next to the edge, the reality of what I was doing sank in. I cursed myself for not setting out a clean pair of pants in the car.
A worker approached and introduced himself as John, and asked how I was feeling.
”I’m kaking myself, John”
”Don’t worry man, we do this everyday”
He wrapped some faded padding around each leg. I eyed them skeptically, the way you would a Muslim who boasted about making a mean pulled pork sandwich. My reservations proved warranted, as the Velcro of the left padding peeled off without reason.
”Not encouraging, John”
”Oh, I don’t worry about those, bru. My concern is the rope.”
Mine too. I turned and watched the girl in front of me disappear from the diving platform. My turn.
With my pads feeling like a beltless pair of size 40 jeans, John wrapped the rope around them. He explained the knot he was tying; I feigned attention and thought through the fear of slipping through the pads.
They do this everyday. Don’t think the pads feeling loose is unique to you.
Suddenly, I’m hopping towards the ledge with support from John and his accomplice. I hang ten over the edge and look down.
”You ready?”
”Ya.”
”5”
Shit, maybe not.
”4”
What if I slip out?”
”3”
Look cool for the camera.
”2”
Oh my God oh my God oh my God!
”1”
Screw it.
”Bungy!”
I puff my chest out and throw a swan dive. Five seconds never felt so long, 120 km/hr so fast. I forget what I'm doing and become lost in the sensation of the ground rushing towards me. The wind peeling back my eye lids. Then I slow and the cord snaps me back towards reality. And the bridge. I let out a ”yyyyeeeew!” of relief that the cord worked, though I keep my feet flexed—I still feel I'm going to slip out of the pads.
As I settled into my new life under the bridge (kept an eye out for bats, bums, Anthony Keidis), a man in a red jacket and a bandanna over his face descended the rope. Before I could explain that I had left my wallet back at the car and had nothing for him (South African thieves have gone to greater lengths), he attached a new harness and up-righted me. The new position felt even more precarious than before.
”So where can I safely hold on here?” I didn’t want to accidentally clutch the emergency release or something.
”No, no need, bru. Just relax and enjoy the valley view.”
”Ok.”
I let my hands dangle, trying to relax. About as relaxed as Bush doing long division. Maybe the scariest part of the whole experience.
Back on the bridge, flying from the adrenaline, I thanked the crew and rushed back to meet the boys at the car. They congratulated me and asked how it was? Amazing, so fun, yyyyeeeeewww!
Miles handed me the camera, I could hardly wait to check the jump sequence. With visions of Olympic Platform Diving 2012 seeping into my head, I turned the camera on and scrolled backwards to review my form. The swan in my dive must have had broken wing.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Taylor's Travels: South African Adreneline Fix - Dungeons (Part One of Two)
I don’t know what I expected, I mean, they don’t name a surf spot “Dungeons” for its dry-haired, carefree sessions. I knew it wasn’t going to easy. But still, the place was straight raw.
You feel so small out there. Cape Town’s mountains dwarf everything around them and block the rising sun’s light (and warmth) from reaching the water. And the water is no bathtub. It has an eerie blackness to it and the temperature lingers in the low 50’s, quite unsuitable for humans, but perfect for the sea life we saw out there: bull kelp as thick as my arm, jellyfish, leaping seals (I wonder what’s chasing them?), and Sunfish (whose fins stick out of the water and make them look like…uh…the “S” word). There were also penguins, which for me lightened the mood a bit cause as far as I’m concerned, nothing can go wrong with cute little penguins cruising the lineup.
The penguin security blanket was of course to take my mind off of the larger animal I never saw but always thought of. Whitie, Johnny, the Man in the Grey Suit—I’m talking sharks. Never surfed a wave that felt so sharky. Every wave that broke whistled the Jaws tune. Every shadow was the landlord of the sea coming to collect.
Scared yet? I was. And I haven’t even gotten to the waves. Big, powerful, and unpredictable. It was like surfing a beach break with 20-30 foot faced waves detonating all around. That the wave breaks with little rhyme or reason distinguishes Dungeons from other big waves like Mavericks or Todos Santos, which break consistently in the same spot. The first time I got caught inside I felt silly (and short of breath), like I was kooking it by not reading the wave correctly. By the fifth or sixth time I realized it wasn’t just me; Dungeons has a personality all its own, and is quite obviously schizophrenic.
I was feeling fairly brave at this point, surfing at such a gnarly place. Wanna hear something funny though? With all of the uninviting stuff I just mentioned, it was unanimously agreed by the locals that, with the sun shining and little wind, the day was as inviting as Dungeons gets. Just a sec, while my ego deflates. Psshshhhhhh…
There we go.
Even with the realization that I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was, the day was still a blast. The locals helped make it so. Usually with a tight knit group of surfers, outsiders get a healthy dose of stink eye and drop-ins. Not the case at Dungeons. I guess they know the waves will keep people away, so who needs localism? Everyone paddled up to me, the sole unfamiliar face in the lineup, and introduced themselves. They welcomed me and offered advice that I was eager to accept. And like most big wave crews, there were plenty of characters among them.
When I met Frank Solomon in the dark parking lot that morning, he was noticeably hobbling around. I didn’t think much of it, I had other things to worry about. I hitched a ride out on his “rubber ducky” boat and paddled out with him. He then explained that he’d just had six stitches in his foot and it was killing him. He wasn’t about to miss opening day though, and proceeded to throw himself over the ledge of any bomb that came his way.
Then there was Andrew Marr. A bushy-faced big wave charger whose positive energy was so contagious it was almost overwhelming. We’re talking seven year old on December 25 happy. With every giant wave he (or anyone else, for that matter) caught you’d hear boisterous hooting and giggles coming from Andrew. Regarding riding big waves he said, “It just makes you feel good in your heart.” Now, I like to think of myself as a happy guy, but next to Andrew you may as well put me on suicide watch. He’s that stoked.
And as always, where you find big waves, you find Greg Long. The southern California nice guy is one of, and many would rightfully argue the, best big wave surfer in the world right now. He arrived a couple of days before the swell to spend his eighth consecutive winter in Cape Town. I flew in the day after him. He picked me up from the airport, lined up lodging, equipment, and a ride out to Dungeons, going out of his way and acting like he had nothing better to do than hold my hand through the whole process. Once in the water though, he let go of my hand. Then he paddled 30 yards deeper than me and everyone else and caught only the biggest waves that came through. It’s what he does.
We surfed for five hours. I caught seven waves, got spanked on two of them, and was caught inside more than I’d like to remember. But there were no injuries, no boards broken, and no sharks spotted—a successful day of surfing big waves. Everyone was buzzing.
That afternoon, Greg and I sat outside a café in Hout Bay, we ate a big plate of ribs and sipped two well deserved beers. Absorbing the hot fall sun on our faces, we recalled the day’s waves. My heart never felt so good.
For photos from the day, copy and paste the links below.
http://www.surfline.com/surf-news/dungeons-awakens_27201/1/
http://www.zigzag.co.za/site/awdep.asp&depnum=27636_47_11_A151
You feel so small out there. Cape Town’s mountains dwarf everything around them and block the rising sun’s light (and warmth) from reaching the water. And the water is no bathtub. It has an eerie blackness to it and the temperature lingers in the low 50’s, quite unsuitable for humans, but perfect for the sea life we saw out there: bull kelp as thick as my arm, jellyfish, leaping seals (I wonder what’s chasing them?), and Sunfish (whose fins stick out of the water and make them look like…uh…the “S” word). There were also penguins, which for me lightened the mood a bit cause as far as I’m concerned, nothing can go wrong with cute little penguins cruising the lineup.
The penguin security blanket was of course to take my mind off of the larger animal I never saw but always thought of. Whitie, Johnny, the Man in the Grey Suit—I’m talking sharks. Never surfed a wave that felt so sharky. Every wave that broke whistled the Jaws tune. Every shadow was the landlord of the sea coming to collect.
Scared yet? I was. And I haven’t even gotten to the waves. Big, powerful, and unpredictable. It was like surfing a beach break with 20-30 foot faced waves detonating all around. That the wave breaks with little rhyme or reason distinguishes Dungeons from other big waves like Mavericks or Todos Santos, which break consistently in the same spot. The first time I got caught inside I felt silly (and short of breath), like I was kooking it by not reading the wave correctly. By the fifth or sixth time I realized it wasn’t just me; Dungeons has a personality all its own, and is quite obviously schizophrenic.
I was feeling fairly brave at this point, surfing at such a gnarly place. Wanna hear something funny though? With all of the uninviting stuff I just mentioned, it was unanimously agreed by the locals that, with the sun shining and little wind, the day was as inviting as Dungeons gets. Just a sec, while my ego deflates. Psshshhhhhh…
There we go.
Even with the realization that I wasn’t as cool as I thought I was, the day was still a blast. The locals helped make it so. Usually with a tight knit group of surfers, outsiders get a healthy dose of stink eye and drop-ins. Not the case at Dungeons. I guess they know the waves will keep people away, so who needs localism? Everyone paddled up to me, the sole unfamiliar face in the lineup, and introduced themselves. They welcomed me and offered advice that I was eager to accept. And like most big wave crews, there were plenty of characters among them.
When I met Frank Solomon in the dark parking lot that morning, he was noticeably hobbling around. I didn’t think much of it, I had other things to worry about. I hitched a ride out on his “rubber ducky” boat and paddled out with him. He then explained that he’d just had six stitches in his foot and it was killing him. He wasn’t about to miss opening day though, and proceeded to throw himself over the ledge of any bomb that came his way.
Then there was Andrew Marr. A bushy-faced big wave charger whose positive energy was so contagious it was almost overwhelming. We’re talking seven year old on December 25 happy. With every giant wave he (or anyone else, for that matter) caught you’d hear boisterous hooting and giggles coming from Andrew. Regarding riding big waves he said, “It just makes you feel good in your heart.” Now, I like to think of myself as a happy guy, but next to Andrew you may as well put me on suicide watch. He’s that stoked.
And as always, where you find big waves, you find Greg Long. The southern California nice guy is one of, and many would rightfully argue the, best big wave surfer in the world right now. He arrived a couple of days before the swell to spend his eighth consecutive winter in Cape Town. I flew in the day after him. He picked me up from the airport, lined up lodging, equipment, and a ride out to Dungeons, going out of his way and acting like he had nothing better to do than hold my hand through the whole process. Once in the water though, he let go of my hand. Then he paddled 30 yards deeper than me and everyone else and caught only the biggest waves that came through. It’s what he does.
We surfed for five hours. I caught seven waves, got spanked on two of them, and was caught inside more than I’d like to remember. But there were no injuries, no boards broken, and no sharks spotted—a successful day of surfing big waves. Everyone was buzzing.
That afternoon, Greg and I sat outside a café in Hout Bay, we ate a big plate of ribs and sipped two well deserved beers. Absorbing the hot fall sun on our faces, we recalled the day’s waves. My heart never felt so good.
For photos from the day, copy and paste the links below.
http://www.surfline.com/surf-news/dungeons-awakens_27201/1/
http://www.zigzag.co.za/site/awdep.asp&depnum=27636_47_11_A151
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