Bridge Over Troubled Water
Some years ago I read about a bungee jumper who died because the organizers forgot to tie him onto the bungee cords. Not surprisingly， jumping off a bridge with just an elastic rope tied to my legs lost its appeal for me until years later when I felt the need to prove myself.
I was struggling to make a go of a craft business. Lack of funds and chronic inexperience were feeding self-doubts. All I could see were life’s missed opportunities： the failure to excel at school， pitiful performances on the sporting field， a series of bad career moves. I would use bungee jumping to leap away from all the negative factors in my life and into a new， confident， creative “me”.
The idea of jumping brought mixed responses from family and friends， from exhilaration at successful bungees， to “No-way， never.” I was repeatedly warned about possible damage to my back or eyes. But my mind was firm.
At a weekend gathering of women in Taupo， I found mine women who agreed to jump with me from the bungee platform over the Waikato River. We decided to do it that Saturday afternoon； I felt scared.
Somehow， on arrival， I was the first on the platform. The river was a long way down--47 meters to be precise--and my fear rose to terror. I was already crying as they tied the cords round my ankles. What had I decided to jump from？ What was I hoping to jump into？ Why， exactly， was I here？ But， as the organizer of the jumping party--and another 15 women who’d come along to cheer us on--turning back was not an option I‘d take.
I stood on the edge terrified， but sure that once I jumped it would be OK. I would jump through my fear into exhilaration， I told myself.
“1-2-3 bungee，” the team called， and I jumped. What a mistake！
The sensation of falling headfirst through the air was horrific. I would have given anything to stop. My hands shot up to cover my eyes as I screamed like a banshee. The descent seemed to go on for ever， but suddenly I felt the jerk of the bungee cord and started sweeping back up through the air.
My only thought was， Oh no， I’ll be falling as soon as this uplift is finished. And too soon I was， hands still over my eyes and still screaming and wailing. There were probably another couple of bungee bounces. But， by now， this was all there was in life and I felt it would never end.
Suddenly， I felt a sharp pain in my hand. Looking through my fingers I saw a man in the recovery boat below holding up a long pole for me to grab and lower myself down. I eventually managed to do so， then spontaneously curled into a fetal position and wept.
Up on the bridge， the support team saw me stay curled up as the boat moved towards land. They knew it had been a very bad experience.
I finally recovered enough to walk back up to the platform， where women from our group were still jumping. Many had a great jump and a few didn’t. Each jump was filmed， and we were asked if we wanted to watch the video. Here I made mistake number two. I watched my jump and felt so embarrassed， so ashamed and such a failure. I cried again and this time I couldn’t stop. Friends did their best to comfort me. They told me how brave I was even to try. That night， we partied to celebrate. It took me a long time to get up and dance.
Sleep was also hard. Every time I closed my eyes， I could feel the strong pull of gravity as if I was again falling headfirst through the air.
Over the next few days the trauma receded and I asked myself what I was trying to prove？ Was a part of me trying to show friends， family， or even God that if I was courageous I was worthy after all？
Once again， I realized， I’d tried to prove to myself that I’m someone I’m not. I have a history of doing physical things out of my comfort zone — like four years living on a ten-metre yacht even though I’m scared of water； white-water rafting， twice； traveling alone in Ethiopia， Sudan and Egypt； even living on a farm and expecting to know what to do with large， sometimes dead， cattle.
