I received an email last week from a reader who now resides in Arizona asking me if I remembered writing about a trip Jane and I took to New Zealand many years ago.

He and his family were headed there and recalled that we I had taken a camper van to explore the North and South Islands, which included a bungee jump, and wanted to know what I thought about the experience.

What a great flashback and it went down like this.

Shortly after arriving on the South Island, we set up in a caravan park in Queenstown.

The area was teeming with lunatics launching themselves off cliffs attached to kites or parasails while hoping crosswinds wouldn’t end up dumping them into the frigid waters of Lake Wakatipu.

I wasn’t into instantly turning my hair a stately white, so I chose something called The Awesome Foursome that offered a mild graying of the temples.

The package included a hell-bent ground-level helicopter ride over sudden canyon drop offs and maneuvers I hadn’t experienced since I experience some wild rides in HH-53 helicopters. That life experience saved me the embarrassment of power hurling a cheeseburger down the pilot’s neck.

Unfortunately, my fellow passengers, who were in the late teens and early 20s crowd weren’t as seasoned and ended up inadvertently sharing their lunches with each other which seemed to highly annoy our aviation host.

The ride ended abruptly on the side of a mountain cliff where the only way down to the jet boats waiting on the river was a narrow trail or a 266-foot bungee plunge off an old spanner bridge toward the distant rocks and cascading current below.

Guys, you know how you get that weird feeling in your nether regions when you look down from prominent heights? Well, it triples when you’re tipping at the edge of a plank getting ready to plummet toward a set of cataracts that, if your rubber ribbon snaps, will wash your rock-compacted butt toward a careening waterfall where you end up as digestible protein elements for various Indigenous creatures in the pool below.

The jump crew had a little weigh-in scale and before we assumed the position of imminent demise, they adjusted the jump bands according to our weights. They set mine at “Mack Truck” then wrapped towels around my ankles and secured them with something resembling a tow strap which they snapped onto the bungee cords. I was then asked to stand and tested for coherency.

Once they were satisfied that my eyes hadn’t glazed over and that I wasn’t drooling like a couple of guys who suddenly opted to take the mountain trail, they had me shuffle out to the end of the plank. I had a great valley view but my gaze kept coming back to the tiny-looking jet boat waiting for me beneath the bridge.

The crew had me wave to their camera, gave a countdown, then howled, “Go for it, Alaska!”

I sailed off that plank in a swan dive that felt like to was going to take me halfway back to Christchurch. The rocks and rapids seemed to rush up like they had been launched from an explosion. When I finally hit the end of the cords I was counting the pebbles on the river’s beach.

I was then snapped back so far up I could see the facial expressions on those waiting in line. Some were laughing while others had a rather green tinge and their pupils were rolled back.

I bounced around upside down for what felt like 15 minutes until they could position a jet boat in the rapids below me. Once set, they held a rescue pole up that I seized as they reeled me in like an inverted harpooned halibut.

I was no worse for wear other than I was an inch taller and seriously craved some ice-cold suds but the brew would have to wait. The day was only half over. Next up was an outrageous white-water jet boat ride including 360 brodies in narrow canyon cuts and finally navigating the rest of the rapids by panic paddling rafts like we had a clue as to what we were doing.

I hope the man and his family enjoy New Zealand as much as we did. The beauty of the nation and the kindness of the people was amazing.

Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com if he isn’t lurking around one of his secret fishing holes waiting for the first king to challenge him to a tug of war.