The unthinkingness of it is obvious in retrospect, a Just Do It born of cocktail camaraderie and the next morning, we were handing over multicolored currency for the chance to die one way or another. Those green forms that look like certificates of achievement? Waivers, pal. Our guides – Pedro, Jorge, Andres, Miguel – lead and followed us up the mountain, over swinging narrow bridges strung above hearse-sized boulders. Only Amy, a plump young asthmatic, struggled more than I, got off the trail sooner, took the lower lines. As in the eighteenth hour of labor, the ninth day of travel with a couple that bickers ceaselessly, the third year of marriage when viscous silence makes it impossible to breathe, the question how in the hell did I end up in this terrible mess echoes inside each urgent gasp for more air, more air. And then we’re there, above the trees, Lake Atitlan and Panajachel far below, all of us grinning, harnessed, carabinered to a cable, heavy-gloved hands overhead, the extra-leathered right palm ready to brake when the yellow flag flaps. A half mile in 90 seconds. Go to the edge and let go. It goes by at life speed: beauty and amazement, terror and surrender.