FIRST FLIGHT

BEFORE I BEGIN TO NARRATE all my daredevilry in New Zealand, it is pertinent to rewind the clock to 2016 and enter the waiting room of a local hospital in Stockholm, Sweden.

My right hand rested on the left one like a sleeping baby. Around me, there were patients with broken legs, jaws, and arms. It was Christmas cheer of a different sort. “Swedish doctors are known to be great bone setters, for there are so many people who›injure themselves in snow activities,” Lotta Anderson, my local contact in the city, said, trying to pacify me. When it was my turn to see the doctor, I had nothing to brag about—no skiing, ice skating, or dog-sledding expedition. I had fallen flat on my face while posing for a picture by the light installations in the city square, where snow had solidified into an