Ankles bound tightly together, I eased myself towards the end of the plank and peered downward. Far below, the Kawarau River swirled and foamed as it surged its way through the gorge.

Faced with the harsh reality of my impending plunge, I realized that no false sense of bravado could steady me. My mind raced furiously: what would Indiana Jones do to escape from a situation like this?

Alas, it was too late for any ingenious plans because fate was only seconds away. A somber voice behind me started to count down, "Five, four, three, two, one . . . BUN-GEEEEEEEEE!"

As harrowing as the experience may sound, it wasn't a matter of me projecting myself into the plot of an adventure movie. I was simply enjoying New Zealand's latest tourist phenomenon -- bungy jumping.

The principle behind bungy jumping is relatively straightforward. The participant (also known as the "suicidal maniac" or the "bungy jumper extraordinaire" depending on who you're talking to) has a giant rubber band attached to his or her ankles, then leaps head first from some terrifying height.

After bouncing around several times like a human yo-yo, the bungy-er, absolutely giddy from the adrenaline rush, is lowered into the care of handlers who patiently nod in response to the repeated exclamations of, "That was great! It was soooo great! Wow! I think that was great!"

The origins of bungy go back to an island in Vanuatu where the natives have traditionally dived off of an 80-foot tower with vines tied to their ankles.

Not only do they think that it is great, but somewhere along the line their ancestors made the unlikely connection between such "land-diving" and bountiful yam harvests. Needless to say, they've been doing it ever since.

In the late 1960s, the Oxford Dangerous Sports Club brought the concept to the civilized world (more in the interests of excitement rather than out of a concern for the yam industry). They performed various publicity stunts off of famous bridges, and subsequently coined the catchy name. "Bungy" was born.

Enter New Zealander A. J. Hackett into the picture. Through extensive research (or so he claims), Hackett evolved the bungy into its present form, a wrist-thick cord woven out of strands of latex -- each strand no wider than the average rubber band.

He then persuaded the New Zealand government to rent him the rights to restore a historic bridge just outside of Queenstown and use it as the springboard (quite literally) for his venture.

Since November 1988, A. J. Hackett Bungy, Inc. has been in continuous operation and tens of thousands of people have willingly shelled out $50 in exchange for a certificate, a T-shirt and the privilege of launching themselves toward the river.

Hackett's philosophy seems to be that anyone and everyone can bungy. As of August 1989, a 77-year-old grandmother held the age record. I personally saw two children, aged seven and 10, plummet off the bridge together, attached to the same cord.

-- -- --

When I arrived to meet my destiny at the appointed time, I signed away all liabilities, agreed to assume the risk of injury while bungy-ing and weighed in on the official bungy scale.

Venturing out to join the line of expectant jumpers, I noticed the beautiful scenery and mused that if it weren't for the screams echoing through the gorge every 10 minutes, it really would be an ideal spot for a picnic.

The bungy crew had to constantly readjust the length of the bungy cord according to each person's weight, and thus the line moved slowly. A camaraderie developed amongst us bungy wannabees as we huddled together for warmth, but the group lacked cohesiveness. People invariably just dropped out.

After two hours on the bridge, my turn finally came. As one member of the bungy crew wrapped a towel around my ankles and hooked on the bungy cord, I nonchalantly asked him how often the cords were replaced.

"Whenever they break, mate," was the reassuring reply.

Hesitation seemed to encourage hoots of derision from the spectators gathered on the observation deck so, as the countdown reached zero, I let out a barbaric yawp and dove outward with arms outstretched.

About halfway down, I noticed the river approaching me at an increasingly-alarming rate. Because it seemed like the only thing I could possibly do, I yelled, one of those lingering, falling yells, just like you hear on television.

Imagine my delight when, just before my hands touched the water, I slowed, stopped and bounced back up towards the bridge. Yet another crazy tourist had been lured to the brink of death and then yanked back again by the miracle of bungy.

The official statistics: a 143-foot drop, a three-second free-fall, 10-15 subsequent bounces and enough extra adrenaline to make my teeth tingle.

What can a person say to sum up such an experience, to describe the abrupt transition from terror to elation, to convey the sense of having achieved the ultimate rush? Let me just say . . . it was great!