It’s a natural thing to do — jumping
off a bridge, people often try it,
though few survive to count the cost.
On the coach from Queenstown
they reassure, give you the stats:
no customers lost, the only death
a member of staff who took
a last jump at the end of the day,
only to find half-way down the bungee
had already been untethered,
was following him down.
There is a reluctance to jump,
dive into the void, and they use
the fear of shame to spur the leap,
relying on the reaction, the embarrassment
you feel for those before you
who pull away, or get counted down
and refuse three times to jump.
Your turn and when the countdown
reaches zero, you slowly propel yourself
off the platform, diving head down.
And suddenly you are falling free,
towards the river, heart racing
and then, an almost imperceptible tug
at your ankles and you begin to slow,
the river rising to meet you
at a decelerating pace, you stretch
your arm, hand, fingers, straining
to touch the water, and then you halt,
suspended for an eternity
with it just out of reach,
the elastic band expanded,
fully extended.
The gentle tug at your ankles is now
an urgent heft, pulling you up,
upside down but becoming
gradually upright, arms spread wide
at the highest point forming a cross
in the sky and you feel the exhilaration
of heart in mouth, chest a balloon,
lighter than air. Then down
you plunge again, return upright,
each progressive bounce smaller until,
they come to an end, hanging half-way down,
upside down and they lower you
from the bridge onto a large pouf
in the centre of a boat let out
from the bank, led by the current,
and when secure draw you back to shore.
No detached retinas, but the vessels
in your eyes are red with blood
and a grin splits your face.