In my twenties I once got so drunk I woke up in a bathtub wearing someone else's clothing. That's when I gave up drinking and took up skydiving. I thought it would be safer.
As a friend said: "The helmet must have been thinking 'thank god this idiot is underneath me'."
I enjoyed skydiving. The one time I did it.
I endured three days of training - every night after a long day at the newspaper - and learnt to "fly" by running around on the ground.
The group of about 14 resembled some strange sped up movie from the 1920s - you know the kind where everyone moved really FAST. I have no idea what I was doing, but followed the rest running in a circle with our arms outstretched, looking up at the invisible parachute above my heard, pulling on invisible "toggles" and counting and counting and counting some more.
Finally, after being postponed for several days due to bad weather, there was a break in the clouds and up we went.
And up and up and up.
I'm not talking about a gradual climb to 6,000 feet (or whatever the height was), but circling up and up like some zombie-drunk ride at Universal Studios. To make matters worse I was sitting facing the back of the plane with about eight other people - in a plane that usually carried six, but because they had ripped the seats out - we were shoved in there like tampons.
I had visions of a bloody, horrible death. My parents being called to the airport to identify the splat on the tarmac, but I soon forgot all that when the adrenalin kicked in. Around about the time the "jump master" said "get out!".
No problem - I think - I can do this. I've trained for this. I've run around in circles and pretended to be 6,000 feet in the air. I can do this no problem!
I climb out of the plane. One foot inside the door which has been removed, the other perched precariously on the wheel as I hang onto the bar joining the wing to the plane. "What the fuck was I thinking?"
I'm swearing now and God ceased to exist somewhere between the first time the wheel turned under my right foot and the second I felt myself falling. I start off like some hamster on steroids running on a wheel with one foot trying to stay close to the plane and the next I'm spit out into the sky and falling to my impending death. Yeah right!
Our instructor said there would be a moment when you could almost reach out and touch the face of God. Fuck that. There's no time for touching nobody's nothing. You are falling and suddenly, what seems like forever after you ran on that airplane wheel, your parachute jerks open and the safety strap across your chest is suddenly caught under your chin.
My helmet reverberated and my teeth slammed shut like some mouse trap. That training paid off because I found myself looking up and checking that the lines weren't tangled, that the parachute actually opened and that I was in fact not going to die.
And then it happens. A quiet peace descends on you. It's unlike anything I'd ever felt before - or since.
I was one with the sky. I was falling faster than I would care to know, but I wasn't moving. Time stood still as the earth lay beautiful and green far beneath me. I saw the city. I saw the airport and the large X marking the landing spot. I pulled on a toggle and did a cute little turn.
I was laughing. I was crying. It was the one moment in time which made me realise one thing - what it means to live.
Of course there was the ground-rush which meant I pulled my toggles too late and instead of landing gracefully on God's green earth. I ploughed a vegetable garden and the sound of crushing bones and the snapping of muscle filled my head.
My helmet was happy to be on solid ground though.
Despite the pain and the weeks on crutches. It was worth it. I would do it again and I can see how people get addicted to that feeling.
Sometimes we need a reminder of what it means to be alive and if jumping out of a perfectly normal aircraft does the trick - then I say go for it!
If not - well then so much for skydiving.
The cottage is situated along the North Shore with beautiful views over the water of this quiet bay.
