Fuzzy Bus

“There’s no way I’m jumping off this. Just no way.” We were standing on the Bloukrantz bridge, the highest bungee jumping bridge in the world, and a couple chaps were about to hook me up to the big bungee and heave me over. I looked down at the South African ravine, more like a canyon, and felt woozy just looking. Amy, however, was as nonchalant as an astronaut, and, as it turned out, righteous as a fist.  The blokes at any of the luxury hotels Cape Town will suggest this bridge with a certain glee, and as we ate ice cream back at Cape, Amy the Daredevil talked me into it. I had met her sea kayaking in Alaska six months ago when she was on break from the Women’s Professional Demolition Derby circuit (I didn’t believe it either) and looked about ready to wrestle one of the killer whale that came up to our kayaks thirty miles from Valdez. She’s gotten me to skydive for the first time and to eat raw oysters, but this was going a bit far.  I just couldn’t see jumping off a perfectly good bridge with a rubber band around my legs. The whole thought made me blanch.

Then with a mighty cry of Geronimo! (I didn’t think any one ever said that any more) off she went, blond hair streaming back like a maned lioness, as she positively dove off the lip of the bridge to the wild green and mottle brown yonder of the spanned crevice. Later in Cape Town with a bottle of African red and a springbok steak, I had to admit I admired her fortitude, but sitting her on the terrace with my love was more my speed. I’ll leave the diving to others.

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