Sharon runs the Wincorp adventure park in Pauanui on the North Island of New Zealand. If you’re ever passing that way (and unless you’re heading to Pauanui, there’s not much reason to pass) you should call in. Sharon is a middle-aged lady with a down to earth style who sums up a certain kiwi spirit. Bridges were made to be jumped from, rivers are for rafting down and if you don’t spend a day a week shooting at something, then you haven’t lived.
Most of her clients are sporting teams and organisations looking for bonding. To be honest, I feel tired just typing those words. So imagine how I felt when I was dragged there by my soon to be in laws on the morning before I got married.
Sharon started off by telling us that they had a good safety record. “We only had one broken leg in the past month”, she said. And that was due to a large lady not following instructions. That’s the thing about New Zealand. They tempt you into doing crazy things but if anything goes wrong, it’s your fault.
Sharon went on to explain in great detail how the unfortunate lady had come to hurt herself, which wasn’t exactly what we wanted to hear as we donned safety gear and headed off into the early morning mist. I was getting married the next day, so making sure I got home in one piece was my main priority.
Our first stop was the shotgun range. It was a bit rough and ready to be honest. I’ve done it once before and safety was the big issue. In New Zealand they hand you a gun and tell you to hit anything you see flying. Luckily there were no birds passing so I had to settle for the clay pigeons that Sharon released with a bored thug of her muscular wrist. I managed to hit three out of ten, which isn’t that impressive, but then I was always kind to animals.
The scariest moment was when my future father in law stepped up to take his turn. He turned round to face me and while he wasn’t quite pointing me the gun in my direction, I got the message. Look after his daughter or there would be trouble.
With our ears still ringing, Sharon led us towards a ladder hidden among the trees. “If you want to drop out, now is the time to do it”. But when a fifty-year woman says that to a group of guys, it’s pretty hard to admit that you are coward. I climbed up to what she described as a “rope ladder”. I had in mind the Carrick-a-Rede rope bridge in County Antrim that I once dandered across without a care in the world. This was an entirely different experience. For a start, ropes were in short supply. There was one to stand on and two to grip.
We were about 14 meters up at the top of the tree line but I wasn’t in a mood to enjoy to the view. Terror was starting to surge through my body. I have a fear of heights that stops me from standing on a chair to change a light bulb. In my old drama group in Dublin, I liked to muck in when we were putting the set up before a play. But they couldn’t get me up a ladder with a cattle prod. So even though a harness supported me, I set off across the ladder with the sort of feelings that Frodo Baggins had before he attacked the Misty Mountains.
Just before I began, Sharon mentioned that if I slipped, the harness would stop me from falling into the valley below but I’d have to drag myself back up using only my arms. And as I’m horizontally challenged, that wasn’t a happy prospect.
As soon as I stepped on the rope it wobbled like a jelly in an earthquake. But I’m a quick learner and I realised that to steady the thing you had to push the two side ropes out as far as you could. Physics kicked in at this point. The heavier you are, the more downward weight you exerted, which caused the two side ropes to squeeze inwards. So those of us who are unfit had to work harder to push the ropes out.
With as much balletic elegance as I’d could muster, I made it to the other side. Just as I was mentally patting myself on the back I noticed that I had only made it to the starting platform and a much longer ladder stretched out in front of me. I dug my elbows into the side ropes and set off. I had a couple of wobbles on the way, but made it in one piece to the platform from which the fun really started.
Sharon was there to strap me into what she called a flying fox. That turned out to be a cable car type contraption without the benefit of a car. I gripped a handle connected to a pulley and stepped off the platform. Gravity then took over and I shot down into the valley below. The trip itself was fun but the destination did pose a challenge. I landed with all the grace of a drunken elephant in high-heeled shoes.
I ended up covered in muck but the trouble was only starting. My brother came down next and he looked to be making the same sort of landing as me. So gallant sibling that I am I tried to rugby tackle him. Alas, I hit the metal handle instead and without wanting to be dramatic almost lost two fingers. There was a little blood but I was patched up and made it back to town for my last night as a single man.
Shaking hands the next day was a bit of a problem and when you get married you have to do a lot of that. But I survived to tell the tale. And that is the real Kiwi spirit.
