Page 37 of Whiskey Splash

“Not at all,” Desmond says, a twinkle in his eye.

The sign says,America’s Highest Zipline.

Chapter Ten

Forty minutes later, I’m outfitted with a helmet and a harness that will clip me onto a tiny metal string and shoot me an unfathomable number of feet across a volcanic canyon. The zipline hangs precariously over a lush jungle of greenery below with a dormant cinder cone off to the side. I can’t even see the other end of the zipline it’s so far away—waaaaaay down somewhere under that emerald canopy.

The view is gorgeous, I’ll admit. You can see all the way to the ocean and the day is bright and sparkling. But, the platform we stand on feels more like a rickety life raft hovering in the sky than a launch pad.

Our guide checks Desmond’s harness, reassuring me that this is safe. He goes over how the physics work, going into far too much detail on the nature of gravity and how it pulls us down the zipline at three-thousand miles an hour (perhaps a slight exaggeration on my part, but the number sounded that high). Our guide ends his tirade by exclaiming that we should hold onto our butts, because this is going to be one hell of an exhilarating ride.

I do my best to refrain from asking him how many people have fallen to their deaths, and nod at him instead, tight lipped. He can give me his upbeat little sales pitch as many times as he wants, but it’s still not going to keep down my lunch.

Desmond turns to me and loops his fingers through two of the carabiners at my waist and pulls me closer to him. “You ready for this?” He wiggles the harness, radiating excitement like a little boy on Christmas morning. I have to give him credit, it makes him extra charming.

I laugh nervously, shaking my head, all the blood drained out of my face. “I’m pretty sure I’m going to pass out in a second.”

Grinning, Desmond crooks one of his fingers under my chin and lifts it up so I’m looking at him. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, that nudge of banter in his tone. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen your face this color. It’s usually this rosy neon-pink shade.”

I pinch him in the gut, not that he has a gut, it’s more like a washboard that I can hardly get any grip on. He grabs my hand and laces our fingers together, which is oddly intimate.

“Do I need to make a cock joke before we push you off this ledge?” he teases.

“Do I need to knee you in the nads for you to understand how badly I don’t want to do this?” I shoot back, pulling my hand from his and removing the distraction of his caressing fingers.

“It builds character.”

“The kicking you in the junk part, or leaping to my death?”

Desmond laughs, motioning for our guide to come over and hook us to the line. It’s a dual zipline with two metal strings about twenty feet away from each other. This way we can fly over the canyon together, side by side into the Sweet Hereafter! Honestly, I’m a bit grateful. Flying down this line at the speed of light feels like my own personal heart attack. At least this way I’ll be able to see Desmond next to me and I won’t feel quite so panicked.

“This is a horrible idea,” I tell him again, adjusting my helmet straps as the guide locks me in. “I’m going to be covered in vomit when we get off at the other end.”

“That’s what the change of clothes is for.” Desmond winks, the guide clipping him in as well.

“Okay, you’re good to go,” the guide announces, tugging on our harnesses and making the zipline above us wobble. My stomach almost dumps itself onto the wood platform. “Please step up to the red line.”

Red for danger.

Red for don’t walk past me unless you’re looking for a painful death via dismemberment.

“Again,” the guide continues, “you hold the strap right here at the center of the harness.” He pulls on the umbilical-cord-like leash that shoots out from our navels and connects us to the metal pully device that attached to the line. The umbilical cord in the womb is a lifeline, but this one feels just as flimsy. Easy to snap. “But you don’t have to hold on,” the guide raises his arms and wiggles his fingers. “You can go hands free all you want. The bucket of the seat will hold all your weight.”

“Hands free, my ass!” I grumble. “Do you guys sell flunitrazepam in the gift store? Or maybe some chloroform? Anything to knock me out till I’m at the bottom of this torture machine?”

Desmond’s cheeks rise in amusement as I grip the umbilical rope like my life depended on it—which fancy that—it actually does!

“Fear of heights,” Desmond explains to the guide, who doesn’t react, shrugging like he sees it every day.

“Everybody sit back in your harness,” our guide continues, pushing through his spiel. “Bend your knees and get a sense of what it will be like out there.”

I slowly lower myself into a seated position, feeling my weight pull down on the zipline above. It’s not so bad. It’s kinda like teetering from a tire swing as a kid. Except, if it snaps, I’ll fall three-hundred feet onto spikey impalements.

“Okay, red line.” The guide claps his hands and signals for us to come to the edge. “When you’re ready, all you have to do is step off the platform and gravity will do the rest.”

All you have to do—ha!As if it’s that simple to walk out into nothingness.

My legs are lead.

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