No, seriously, they were taking part in a competition to see who could leap from a platform on the building's 73rd floor and hit a target circle on the ground. If I was going to leap from 73 floors up, there had better be a reward more interesting than a circle on the ground waiting for me, like, a job as Chief Suntan Oil Applier at the Playboy Mansion.
This believe it or not is a sport called BASE jumping, leaping from man made structures for points (BASE being an acronym for Be A Squished Eggplant.) As the article noted, "Strong wind gusts blew many of the skydivers off course, pushing them away from the target circle on the ground, a situation that would cost them points."
I would think that at the moment someone is voluntarily hurtling toward unforgiving concrete at the speed of sound, he should give less thought to points and more thought to locating a nice, safe padded condo.
One jumper, a 29-year-old Norwegian woman, said she'd wanted to jump from the buildings since she saw them featured in the 1999 movie "Entrapment." The only jump that movie made me want to take is headfirst onto sexy Catherine Zeta-Jones, but another senior citizen, Sean Connery, beat me to it.
Maybe at 47 I just don't remember the times when I did things for thrills. I certainly never jumped from tall buildings, but I WAS once young and reckless, meaning, stupid.
One time in junior high we all went up to a mountain for a ski trip. At night we were sitting around a fire recovering from bruises from tumbling end over end down the hill all day like lifeless stumps nailed to boards. Our chaperone, Mr. Ebby, the football coach rushed up to us and asked, "Anybody want to do a flare run?"
Now, when you're young and stupid and someone asks you do to something you don't really stop to ask what it is. You do it for the sake of doing it (which I guess is a good excuse for BASE jumpers and Bill Clinton.)
I soon found myself with my buddies on top of the mountain in pitch blackness wearing skis on which I was as comfortable on as if I was wearing cinderblocks. Then the friendly ski patrolman took our poles and handed us flares for each hand.
"Now, off you go!" he said. "This will look SUPER to the people in the lodge!"
There I was in the pitch black, a roman candle shooting flames in each hand. I hurtled down the mountain in line with everyone else, praying that I wouldn't ignite my flammable nylon ski coat and turn into a swooshing cherries jubilee.
I remember the feeling of terror, but also, the adrenaline pumping through me. I made it to the bottom, where they pulled the flares out of my death grip and carried me back to the fireplace.
Now my biggest thrill is driving all the way to the dry cleaner to drop off a shirt without putting on my seat belt. Or, letting the battery run down in my cell phone until there is just a tiny spark left so I may not be able to book that manicurist appointment after all.
Today I don't need to push myself close to death to get a thrill. And if man was meant to jump off tall buildings, he would be wearing a cape and an S on his chest.
So, please, help yourself, jump off a tower. I'll be inside with a nice cold beer enjoying the view.
Dan Sherman is a nationally syndicated columnist. His website is www.danshermanonline.com.
Print
