Chapter One: Redefining Limits Picture a long, steeply sloped slide of stone shaped like a lightning bolt, resting in the rain forests of British Columbia. Sloped at roughly a sixty-degree angle, it nestles at its upper end against the island''s snow-covered hills. Its bottom section is washed by salty waves. In springtime, a shallow chute of water rushes down the top of this wall from snowmelt to sea. The moment I saw this natural waterslide while cruising western Canada''s rugged coast in a Zodiac, I knew that when spring next hit and fed a more substantial tongue of water down it, I would be back. Why? Because I live for pushing limits. I''m a professional whitewater kayaker known for first descents of waterfalls and difficult sections of river. I hold three world records for this, including one of the two Guinness recognized waterfall descents at 98.

4 feet. I''ve also done more than fifty first descents of steep, boulder-choked rivers and have been a Pre-Worlds champion for freestyle whitewater kayaking. So when I first saw this mind-blowing natural rockslide, I knew I had to kayak it. Kayaking waterfalls and rivers all over the world is an unusual way to make a living, I admit. But even if NBC and Sports Illustrated hadn''t been willing to rent a helicopter and jet boats to station two dozen camera operators, producers, and assistants, plus a sports host, around the drop the day I tackled it, I would still have returned to this site. Rationally, I know it doesn''t make sense to put my life on the line for my chosen sport, but I can''t help it. It''s what I love; it''s a sort of addiction I don''t want to kick. And there''s got to be a reason I''ve never injured myself in fifteen years of pushing the envelope.

It''s more than luck. It''s setting goals that may look impossible to others and training so hard that I''m measuring risks from a different realm than those shaking their heads in dismay or disapproval. It''s honing my instincts until they are trained reactions and surrounding myself with talented help. The rock wall I''ve just described is called Lacy Falls, and it''s roughly an hour''s boat ride from the nearest town on Vancouver Island. As I stand on it three hundred feet up from the water--my kayak resting on my shoulder, my neoprene boots seeking solid footing--I breathe in the smell of pine trees and salt water. At the base of the falls, men hip-deep in the water are moving barnacle-covered rocks out of my intended water landing zone. Camera operators and still photographers are stationing themselves all around the rain forest-choked wall. Also at the falls'' base, three large boats and a helicopter hover.

I spot the doctor that the television network insisted on sending, perched on a rock beside my landing pool just in case things don''t go well. Before focusing on the descent, I reflect on how fortunate I am to get paid to be doing exactly what I like to do. Lacy Falls is a solid slab of granite about fifty feet wide. It has flakes of rock embedded along its top. Unlike at water park slides, the water dashing down its surface is seasonal. The hill on which the wall is set accumulates only a small cap of snow in winter. So even in a record snowfall year, the snowmelt sends no more than a shallow stream down the falls'' length, and then for only a few weeks before it slows to a trickle. By summer, the waterslide is dry.

Then there''s the beach waiting to greet this water spill. The moon''s pull dictates when the sea beneath the falls is less than two feet deep and when it reaches a depth of ten feet. Meanwhile, the surges of water that batter the shore have their own strange timing for tossing ice-cold water at the cliff base. So for me, getting down this stony zigzag alive is all about timing. I want the maximum flow of water down its spine to cover the surface''s rock flakes, which could otherwise spin me sideways, then onto my head. Or they could turn me into a human barrel rolling painfully down the face of the falls. And I want the maximum amount of water waiting for me at the bottom to soften the impact of hitting it at an estimated fifty miles per hour and to cover those barnacle-covered rocks, which could cause death or an unpleasant facial makeover if I land upside down. I''ve also calculated that just before I go airborne above the steepest section--the wall''s slope varies from fifty to eighty degrees--I need to turn my kayak sideways in order to ensure that I land in the ocean on my side, preventing me from plunging too deeply into my three-foot-deep landing pool.