|
This Is Not Happening to Me
Sensible people—and the sun—were still asleep when training started. After signing a release that detailed two dozen ways I might meet my demise, I got in line for a climbing harness. Large didn't fit. Extra large didn't fit. The kind volunteer finally produced something that looked like the seat belt from Santa's sleigh. It fit.
This is not happening to me.
Trussed in nylon straps, I watched as John Howard, probably the world's greatest adventure racer, showed me the basics of attaching myself to a rappelling cord. I tried repeating his motions and wound up with a square knot in one hand and a pile of hardware in the other. I was beginning to understand why they'd had me sign a release.
This is not happening to me.
 New scene: a beach in Sausalito. Still hyperventilating from a five-minute jog, I slithered into the stern of a two-person kayak. Within seconds, my feet slipped off the foot pedals meant to control the rudder. The boat moved in aimless, despairing circles while my partner's nasal refrain grew louder: "Are we okay? Do you know what you're doing?" I eyed the metal blade on my paddle and wondered how cleanly it would cut through her neck.
This is not happening to me.
NEXT: Cold Water, Cold Choice
|
.gif){kind=small}