”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.
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