I’m standing on the highest point of a sheer cliff wall that towers precariously over the black, black waters of Lake Muskoka, way below me. A tiny breeze rustles through the fir trees behind me, and gently, almost imperceptibly, pushes me towards the edge. The water below laps against the rope that, years ago, someone thoughtfully attached to a strong tree halfway up the almost-vertical incline. The rope moves gently in the swell.

Left... right... left... right... like the movements of an impatient grandfather clock desperate to see me smashed to bits. There’s no way out.

Bobbing far below me are four or five speedboats packed with bloodthirsty spectators come to see the latest idiot test his machismo against the lake. Failure is not an option. On one of the boats are my own two sweet children, perhaps wondering why they have been made to sit on a small boat and watch their overweight father totter in terror high above them. This being Canada, I happen to know exactly how high above them I am. Someone has helpfully painted the exact height right on the edge of the abyss: 56ft is the drop. It feels like 200ft.

As I peek over for yet another last time, a boy appears from the trees behind me. He can’t be more than 14. He stares at me quizzically and I try to pretend that I’m all very relaxed about jumping, and indicate that he can go before me if he wants to, it’s no big deal. Without hesitation, the youth hurls himself off the ledge, managing to do a neat little double somersault in the air before he’s sucked deep into the mouth of the lake.

After 10 seconds or so, he reappears above water and the bay resounds to the sounds of whoops and cheers from the floating audience. I can’t go back now. I take a final look down and feel a little nauseous. I take two steps back and launch myself forward. What if I slip at the crucial last moment?

I don’t. I’m in the air, all hope of doing something graceful abandoned as my arms flail about wildly and all the air in my body is expelled in a panicky death-gasp of fear. Photos will later show that I expand to almost double size as I relinquish all body control apart from that crucial portion of my brain dealing with absolute panic. I can feel myself starting to lurch awkwardly to the side, but can’t really do anything about it.

I can see my daughter, Parker, cheering wildly at her daddy, her hero who knows no fear. I know that when you drown, you’re supposed to see your life flashing before you, but I haven’t even hit the water yet and I’m getting towards the end of the depressingly short feature. I wonder whether this really is it? My death to be shown endlessly on World’s Dumbest Idiots on the Bravo Channel. I can see the glint of at least five lenses straining to capture the moment of death.

And then I hit. With a resounding slap, I go under at a crooked angle that allows my tail bone to take the biggest hit. I manage to surface, bruised and broken. I can hear the smattering of applause turn to shouts, as there is a general realisation that I’m not going to make it to the boat on my own. My watch is gone, ripped off my arm by the pressure of the entry and no doubt sitting 30ft below, on top of a treasure trove of similarly lost booty. As I’m pulled back onto my own boat, Parker gives me a big kiss and tells me that I can fly. I smile weakly and am forced to stand as the boat heads back home.

I wonder whether I’ll ever sit down again, and why I insist on repeating this pathetic attempt at proving my machismo every single year?

EVERY SUMMER, I take a break from the intensive work involved in maintaining my status as a minor celebrity and go cottaging in Canada. Sorry, I’ll rephrase that. Every year, I rent a cottage in Canada. On Lake Muskoka, three hours north of Toronto, to be specific. My wife, Stacey, is Canadian and, having visited her relatives a couple of times at Christmas, when all of Toronto lives underground and soft drinks freeze in your car, I insisted on future visits being made in the summer. It turned out to be one of my ever-so-rare great decisions. It’s utter heaven.

I love telling British friends that I’m off to Canada for my summer holidays. Everyone assumes that it will be freezing, and that I’m off for a bit of glacier-skiing. I nod and pretend that it will indeed be a torturous affair, but emphasise that sometimes it’s important that you don’t just think of yourself and do something for your wife and her family.

As I bask in their praise, I think of my speedboat bobbing in my dock and the hot Canadian sun glinting off the enticing waters of the lake to form happy, dancing patterns on the hull. I think of days spent pleasantly lost on the lake, trying to find my way back home through the labyrinth of little islands, and then of coming across another gorgeous little hidden cove, where I drop anchor and swim and sunbathe and read a book by F Scott Fitzgerald, and begin to understand what he was on about.

Continued on page 2

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