"Awww, c'mon, mate. Here we go now — 3-2-1..."
I look 43 metres straight down at the rippling blue water.
What the heck.
I take the leap.
Three months before plunging from the bungy platform, I’m clearing out my office, leaving a job I’ve held for seventeen years. No exciting new position waits in the wings. No new business venture. This isn’t a one year sabbatical with the security of knowing I can return, refreshed and ready to resume a dependable pay cheque. There isn’t even a home to go to, because we’ve already sold that.
I have quit. Cold turkey. A year previously, my wife/colleague did the same. The job is no longer what we’d signed on for. Pouring ourselves into our work and with little return on our investment, we’re morphing into people we don’t like — tired, gossipy, bitter and withdrawn.
An ugly workplace incident is the last straw for my wife. But, I hang on. I’m not ready to go. Seventeen years in and I know nothing else. Maybe an attitude adjustment and more patience will make things better?
Yet, deep down, I know it’s now or never. I’m no longer effective, no longer my best self. I’m drowning. And there is a resolute feeling that something else beckons. Call it a knowing, an unwavering surety buried under an avalanche of apprehension. At times I lose it, like trying to find the pulse on one’s wrist. But, I know it’s there.
“Step out and put your toes right up to the edge," says my jump master.
Up onto the market our house goes. We purge our stuff, cram the remainder into storage and take a chunk of money from the house sale for plane tickets to our ultimate reset destination — New Zealand. Out on the Kiwi roads in our camper van, eating green lip mussels and drinking Marlborough whites, we’ll reshuffle the deck and forge a new path towards a fulfilling and balanced life. Kayaking the Milford Sound and hiking the Tongariro Crossing, we’ll rediscover the kind of people we wish to be. And maybe I’ll get up the nerve to take the leap at the original home of bungy — The Kawarau Bridge outside of Queenstown.
“It’s reckless,” say a few. “You’ll fall flat on your faces and be begging for your lives back.” Others say we’re courageous, which sounds like a polite alternative for, “You’re freakin’ crazy!”
And, at first, our New Zealand adventure does feel like a gloriously impetuous vacation. We are free to drink wine on Waiheke Island, clamber up the Rangitoto volcano and swim in the surf at 90 Mile Beach.
After three weeks of tootling around the New Zealand roads and hills in our tiny camper, it starts to hit. This is a major life shift, our new reality. There’s no going back now. By the time we set up camp at Cape Kidnappers in Hawke’s Bay, I’m fluctuating wildly between waves of tourist excitement and desperate terror. What were we thinking? We gave up our house, regular pay cheques and a growing pension fund. One day this adventure will end and then cold hard reality will set in.
“Tuck in your chin and keep your head down when hit the water,” says my jump master.
“Why?” I ask.
He points to one eye. “You want to avoid getting a shiner.”
It takes a mighty effort to push the despondent thoughts aside. Hiking out to the Cape’s point, we talk ourselves down off the ledge and remind ourselves why we did this. I search for that unwavering surety and detect a faint pulse. Keep going, it says. Embracing the unknown brings untold rewards if you can stick with it.
Riding the ferry to the south island, we rededicate ourselves to one day at a time in New Zealand. We open our hearts to the crashing shorelines, Maori culture and little blue penguins. We talk with dairy farmers, chatty cheese makers and campground owners, listening to their stories and sharing ours. A nation dealing with the devastating earthquakes in Christchurch, our steadfast Kiwi confidants remind us to, “Keep calm and carry on. She’ll be all good, mates.”
At the Kawarau Bridge, I sign up with some trepidation for my bungy jump. Heights do not bother me and the thought of free falling for a few seconds is thrilling. However, everyone is more than willing to share a bungy tale about detached retinas, ruined spines or something else that once went wrong.
There’s no time to reconsider. I empty my pockets, get weighed and a couple of medical questions later, I’m up on the bridge with Green Day for a soundtrack.
"Here we go now... 3... 2...”
I spot my wife on the observation deck, thrust to the front of a busload of Japanese tourists, our camera poised.
“1...”
Did they really clip the bungy cord on? I didn’t see....
“GO!”
Exhilaration shoves aside fear. Just go for it, Keir. Let it all hang out.
At first, it feels like any high dive into a pool. Until I pick up terrific speed. For three seconds, I hurtle towards earth — the very meaning of 'plummet.' Blood rushes to my head, making it very heavy.
This could be a huge mistake.
And just as I release into the fall, the bungy catches and counters my weight. My feet are yanked, the elastic cord goes taut and I feel myself slowing. Reaching for the approaching river, I get dunked up to my head and shoulders. Water goes straight up my nose.
Whoosh! I’m jolted upwards, a dripping, bouncing human yoyo. My heart thuds. I start to shout.
After our time in New Zealand, we’ll carry on traveling — to Tasmania, Sydney, Argentina and the California/Orgeon coast. Many large questions remain for us and our bank account dwindles lower each day. But, I know with enduring certainty we’re back on track. With formidable hearts and minds and a smidge of unwavering faith, we’ll get to places we never imagined we could go.
The mystery and joy of life resumes and indeed something else does beckon — an ecstatic punching the sky, clicking my heels new me.
Yes, we’re going to be just fine.
