Feet On The Ground (part 2)

Queenstown isnt just the home of much of the Lord Of The Rings scenery (as well as the lake mentioned in Mission Impossible 3. Look it up). It's the adventure capitol of New Zealand, if not the world. The entire town's economy is based on rich idiots with suicidal fantasies, much like myself. This was going to be good.

We arrived at night, so the first order of business of course was to get totally shitted. After missing my chance in both Sydney and Auckland, I jumped on my chance to try a Minus 5 bar, a bar inside a walk-in freezer, where the walls, tables, chairs, sculptures, and even cups are made of solid ice. Once more I proved my newfound drinking prowess by staying out well later than everyone else, barhopping with strangers after my tourmates left. I got back after 5am and passed out, only to wake up at 8am.

Or, that was the plan. I actually woke up well after 9, with a splitting hangover and a realization that my hang gliding was scheduled at 9. I raced down to the shop, tired, sloppy, hungry, nauseous, and sick (I had a cold). But I begged, and they seemed to have sympathy on my haggard form. They let me fly at 10.

I was thankfully passed out for most of the drive up the mountain, and was still delirious as they set up the glider. Hell, I barely managed to zip up my flight suit. He even expected me to help him run off the side of the hill/cliff, when I could barely even stand.

Side note: You noticed a trend here? Its always an awkward one-piece, no matter if I'm 100 feet or 12,000 feet off the ground.

If there's anything I've learned from my time in New Zealand, its that hang gliding makes an excellent hangover cure. Moments after takeoff, I was wide awake and enjoying the view. Here I was, dangled by a string from a giant kite, and feeling fine. I was barely even shaken by the look back, where I realized my feet were danging over a particularly large void. I suppose the reference point helps. But it was much more relaxing than scary, to the point where I asked my pilot to dive bomb for me just to add a little adrenaline. He didnt disappoint. Hang gliding, despite being described as sub-par by our bus driver, ended up being one of the more memorable moments on the trip.

An extra side note: The hang gliding was especially pitched at the girls, as it was claimed that the instructors were particularly hot and tended to score with their clients. I'll admit this was a factor in my decision to chose hang gliding over river boarding, albeit a small one. However, I didnt find the instructors particularly hot, just average, with one good looking exception. But he barely spoke English and was particularly annoying, so he doesnt count.

Finally, we get to the Canyon Swing, generally hailed as the ultimate thrill in New Zealand. I didnt expect it to beat skydiving, but I took off my bracelet just in case. A canyon swing is not a true bungy; you're in a harness tethered at the waist, and instead of the sudden stop/bounce, you're swung in a gentle arc over the canyon. Ironically, I never got to do a true bungy in the international home of bungy jumping. Still, the swing has 60 meters of freefall, beating all but the biggest bungys. Its certainly no chickening out.

I got to enjoy one more complicated harness system and gimp suit, but atleast the boys at the canyon swing had a good sense of humor; a jump style where you fall vertically like a superhero is called "Gimp Boy Goes to Hollywood". I wanted my childhood wish fulfillment of being Superman, but rather than be tied and dropped by my feet, I needed the experience of jumping off myself. I needed to face my fear.

The fear just didnt manifest. As they suited me up, we debated whether I should go for classic two-arms-outstretched Superman, or the new, hip, one-fisted Superman. I figured the second would be flashier. I stepped to the edge, surprising myself with how willing I was to jump. 1... 2... grab! I got yanked back last second by irritatingly playful jump operators. Time and again I tried to go, but they'd keep distracting me or trying to talk to me. Eventually, I had to shove them off and just jump midsentence.

My beautiful Superman Leap... wasnt. I jumped out, and rather than making a long graceful arc, I had to obey the laws of physics (unlike my plane) and immediately drop like a large red-headed stone. Adding to my ungracefulness, I was pointlessly kicking my legs as I fell. Giving up on my pose mid-fall, I tried to do a somersault. Instead, I just ended up backwards with my legs in the air. Why do harnesses always make me look like a slut? Ah well, so I ended up more like Bizarro Superman (look it up) than the real deal. Makes for a good DVD.

The important thing here was that it just wasnt scary. Plummeting to what I shouldve felt was sudden death, I just wasnt affected. I was calm and clear of thought enough to attempt (and fail) mid-air maneuvers. I didnt even care that a shoulder strap slipped off. It didnt even dissuade me from trying an upside down swing (the Elvis Cutaway), which gives you a pretty sweet head rush and bugs out your eyes from blood pressure as your head grazes along the canyon wall. Quite awesome in its own right, but awesome because of the strange sensations, not the fear and endorphins.

And yes, despite the fact that it was an upside-down swing, my shoulder strap did slip off again. I'm not entirely sure how I didnt actually plummet to my real death. I'll just assume its centripetal acceleration.

My fear of heights, it seems, was fully dead. Climbing rocks and ladders, flying airplanes, jumping off multiple rocks and cliffs and airplanes... I just beat my fear into the ground, again and again, until it begged for mercy. I granted it none.

This brings me to Milford Sound. Towards the end of the trip, we took an overnight boat in a big fjord. I thought those were confined to Norway, but Australia and its little brother New Zealand consistently surprise me. There we got to watch playful dolphins, go kayaking, and even swimming in the sub-Antarctic water, with yet another of the seemingly endless gorgeous backdrops.

I dont know who thought it was a good idea, but people started jumping off the top deck, from a height that seemed remarkably similar to my first jump in Kakadu. Of course I had to go up. Ahead of me in line was Ruth. She stood, quaking with fear, reminding me of myself just months before. I encouraged her, goaded her, prodded her, but nothing would make her budge. Finally, my patience running low, I walked passed her and confidently stepped over the edge.

Well, maybe that's an overstatement. I stopped for half a second to assume a pindrop position and sneak a quick thought. "Shouldnt I be afraid right now?" I figured, but I didnt wait for the answer before taking the plunge.

At the bottom, those of us already in called and hooted and cheered and cajoled, and finally the fearful form took her own fateful step. As the rest started to leave the water, I pulled her aside for a minute, asking her how she couldve possibly done the Canyon Swing three times if she couldnt even jump off a boat. She admitted she lied, and completely chickened out on the swing. So, I shared with her the fundamental truth I learned: Getting over your fear of heights has nothing to do with courage. In fact, what got me to take my own jump in Kakadu wasnt balls, it was a fear of humiliation. What I needed, and what she needed, was simply a swift kick in the ass. If you do it enough times, you'll eventually find your arresting fear dulled and rusted.

I made her promise before she left the water that she would return to Queenstown and she would do the Canyon Swing. I'll probably never know if she did, but maybe she too can bury her fears this bizarre land, where jumping off a bridge is to be expected.

That only leaves one more fear to contend with...