Christmas Eve 2014 in Queenstown, New Zealand.
Emily told me to go jump off a bridge, so I did.
43 metres above the glistening blue waters of the Kawarau river I perched on a wooden ledge – a towel tied around my ankles with a flexible cord dangling from it and a guy stood behind me telling me to jump. This wasn’t some sick nightmare, I’d actually paid to be here. And despite what my stomach was telling me, I was about to jump.
I took my last look down, the water looked so inviting, but I’m sure there were better ways to go for a dip in it. Nethertheless, I jumped. I had wanted to scream “YIPPIE KAI YAY” or yell out a manly roar, but in the moment all I did was fall – which came very naturally, I might add.
The water was hitting my hands before I knew it, cold and refreshing, but most importantly – I’d made it. I swung back up again, being tossed around by physics like a rag doll in a washing machine – and I loved every second of it. The smiles were all real.
I finally got into the support boat, and it was to be another 5 minutes before my heartbeat would return to its resting pace. Another New Zealand memory I won’t forget in a hurry.