Tucked away on Sydney's eastern shores, there's a wall of rock that juts out about 11 metres above the harbour. It's hard to wrap one's mind around what 11 vertical metres looks like from above, exactly, but if one were to drop a book into the water, it would take a moment to spot it again.
The reason I am familiar with this cliff is because, a decade ago, I tried, and failed, to jump off it. In 2009, I was invited to a literary festival in Melbourne, and since I was not about to fly to Australia for a weekend, I tacked on Sydney. During that first trip, I was sitting alone at a bar, reading a book, when I was befriended by a woman named Bec. Bec grew up in rural Queensland. One of her One summer, after university, after she'd moved to Sydney, Bec and her friends stumbled upon the cliff and dared one another to jump. As she told me this, I put away my book and thought: I should definitely make this woman take me to a ledge and push me off it. After all, why are we on this planet if not to bring ourselves to its edges?
