It is ninety-two degrees and humid; she could be forgiven a bit of sweat.
But she’s dry as dust.
This isn’t the tourist-friendly zip-lining she tried a couple of years ago in Puerto Vallarta and found wanting, with its half a dozen stations hovering over maybe two hundred feet of drop, tourists holding an ergonomic omega-shaped bar as smiling guides shout encouragement in English while maintaining full control over the mechanism as arrival at each new tree is heralded by praise and ice-cold lemonade.
This is a hardcore Costa Rican zip-lining, where the local surfers claim the sport originated. A meant-to-be-bowel-churning “canopy experience” buried in the lushness of that beautiful little country’s Pacific coast.
The setup is anything but casual and touristy: twenty wooden platforms nailed to some of the rain forest’s tallest trees, some of the planks warping and showing their age, some even cracked and revealing an eyeful of infinity.
Getting to many of the stations requires serious hikes on dirt ribbons barely wide enough for a fashion model or bounces on rope bridges that appear designed to fail.
That many segments means over two consecutive hours on the wire, if no one runs into significant difficulties.
The nerve center of the operation is a shack set deep enough in the forest that GPS cannot locate it. Tiny, gorgeous poisonous tree frogs scamper fearlessly, their jewel-like bodies hued coral red and lime green and royal blue, all of the above pied with ink-black spots so perfectly round they look fake.
The staff consists of half a dozen drowsy surfers of various ethnicities, all of whom are resentful about having to work for money. Empty bottles of tequila, vodka, and mescal abound in the “office.” The comprehensive medical history consists of a single question. “Are you okay?”
No one in Grace’s group, even those who’ve approached the day with obvious anxiety, admits to not being okay. There are four people besides her: two young guys — a bit overly boisterous, which probably means they’re jumpy — and a married couple in their fifties who’ve failed to reach consensus about what they are about to do.
She: (smiling) Isn’t this going to be fun?
He: (scowling) Depends on your definition.
Training consists of showing everyone the thick leather gloves they’ll need to wear as they position both arms awkwardly behind their heads cupping the wire but not touching it. The only way to slow down or brake is to grip the wire and without gloves, that would sever a hand as if it were lunch meat.
It’s all a matter of pressure, explains the surfer-in-charge, an African with heavy eyelids and a beautiful British accent.
Too “delicate” and you’ll mess up your wrists and keep going anyway.
Too “clamping” and you’ll come to a halt prematurely and get stuck dangling half a mile up with no one able to reach you. Should that occur, the only remedy is self-help: reversing the position of your hands, which will spin you in the opposite direction and leave you with your back to your destination.
Then: laboriously, hand over hand, moving blindly, you will haul yourself to safety and hope for the best. Should you grow fatigued?
The African winks and shrugs.
Grace hangs back and waits until the other four have begun, then approaches another surfer, a Latino with stoned glazed eyes.
“I want to do it alone.”
“Senorita—”
“How much?”
“We don’t do that?”
Grace repeats the questions. The surfer’s brows knit. He consults two other surfers, cites an outrageous price.
Grace laughs and names her price.
The surfers react with feigned outrage.
Ninety seconds later, an agreement is reached.
She waits until the message comes down the line: The group has completed ten stations, slowed a bit by several instances of “self-help.”
The African says, “Okay,” and he and Grace set out.
Everything goes smoothly until on her final ride, heading toward the twentieth station where tequila and champagne await, she grips the wire hard midway through her hurtle.
She dangles.
Doesn’t move.
Silence wafts through the jungle. Then: birdcalls. Then a distant prop plane.
Finally, the African behind her yells, “What?”
Grace doesn’t answer.
His voice rises. So does that of the blond surfer, probably a Scandinavian, waiting for her at the other end.
She dangles.
Both men are shouting.
Grace hears the word “crazy.”
She laughs.
Now the Swede or whatever he is stands near the lip of the twentieth platform and points at her beseechingly.
“Change the hands.”
Grace kicks her legs ever so slightly. The wire hums. She moves back and forth, kicking some more, like a kid on a swing. Playing the wire, setting off a musical note.
The surfers scream.
The music blocks out everything.
She thinks of red rooms, many red rooms, a scarlet labyrinth.
A small black convertible speeding up a road that turns red.
Looking up, she examines the clasps that hold her to the harness that connects to the wire.
How easy it would be...
The African screams.
The Swede screams.
Only when remnants of reality have been blotted out does Grace act.
Closing her eyes, she shifts hands.
Rotates.
What if she did unbuckle a clip?
What would falling that far and that fast feel like?
Would anyone care?
No matter, she would.
Smiling, every muscle functioning precisely the way it was intended, she pulls herself to safety.