I am not a daredevil. I don't even consider myself athletic. There are, however, episodes in my past, which could easily have had a most unfavourable outcome. I cleanse my soul by sharing these moments with you.
My earliest recollection is climbing a parked bulldozer against my mother's injunctions. I slipped, hit my face on the corner of the blade. Fifty-four years later I sport a scar at the corner of my eye. Another three millimetres and I would have been blind in one eye.
In the third grade, I was rolling a marble around in my mouth. I was seized by a cough, tilted my head forward, and the marble lodged itself in my throat. I swallowed, and miraculously was able to ingest the marble. I did not see it egress.
I went to high school in downtown Montreal when Place Ville Marie was being built. The work site was unguarded. During lunch hour, it was a simple matter to ride the construction elevator 33 stories to the top, and launch snowballs upon the traffic and pedestrians below. I recall stepping to the edge of the roof, and peering over the edge. One gust of wind could have easily pushed me forward.
I spent most of my summers at various camps. They all featured activities like archery, dodge ball, hiking, canoeing, and rifle shooting. The rifle was typically a single-shot, bolt-action .22. At one particular camp, a row of inmates would lie on the ground, aim, and fire their single round at a target. A second row would stand behind them, ready to take their position. On one particular occasion, the counsellor had issued a round to the standing row, in advance of the boys needing it. The fellow behind me had inserted the round in the chamber, and cocked the bolt. It was my turn to lie down and shoot. I felt a dull thump in the ground near my leg. The idiot had accidentally fired the shot while his rifle was pointing downwards. I missed a shattered tibia by inches.
At camp Kinkora, near Ste-Agathe, we had siesta after lunch. We were supposed to stay in our two-tier bunk beds. Disobedient as usual, I was up and wandering in another part of our hut when the metal frame of the bunk I was supposed to be in, came apart. The bed above me came crashing down, a metal bar struck where my head would have been.
I joined CUSO (Canada's answer to the Peace Corps) and taught physics in a Bolivian High School. I hiked in the surrounding countryside on my days off. We visited a mountain called Moela del Diablo (Devil's Tooth). There was a narrow escarpment around the back of the peak, overlooking a 300-ft drop. For some reason I had to see the back of the mountain. With no ropes or safety equipment whatsoever, I inched along the path to the back. One slip and I would have been doomed. Hardly worth it.
A few months later, a friend persuaded me to visit the World's tallest ski resort: Chacaltaya. At 17,000 ft, it's not the Andes' highest, but would have required oxygen if I had not already been living in La Paz (12,000 ft) for six months. We traveled on an old school bus that slowly climbed the hair pin curves. At one point, the driver lost momentum, and stopped. As he released the brake and slowly let in the clutch, the bus started inching downwards, its tail-end hanging over a thousand-foot precipice. The usually complacent Bolivians started screaming "¡Pare! Pare!" (Stop). The clutch finally bit, and the bus agonizingly crawled forward. I had never before experienced cold sweat.
I worked as a programmer for Univac in Calgary in the 70's. Our boss rewarded our hard work with a yearly 'quota' trip. The computer salesmen who made quota would go to exotic locations like Paris, Rome or Hawaii. We went to Revelstoke, B.C., or Kalispell, Montana, and got seriously impaired. I once wandered out of our hotel, and came upon a railroad track where a freight train was slowly rumbling by. For a moment, I considered hopping on the train, and jumping across to the other side to get to my destination. Luckily, better sense prevailed and I just waited. No doubt this is the last decision many a rail-riding hobo ever made.
I took my wife to the Yucatan for our honeymoon. We visited beautiful Maya ruins. At Chichen Itza, I crawled along the narrow edge of a temple to - yes, you guessed it - see what was on the other side. Fifty-foot drop.
Mensa? Sheesh!