1. CARSON

I’m standing at the edge of a cliff, looking down at the 1,500-foot drop just beyond my toes and thinking very hard about jumping off.

Under other circumstances, it would be breathtaking: the Italian Alps positioned against a clear azure sky, the dappled surface of Lake Garda in the distance, the red tile roofs of the villas in the town. If I had binoculars, I’d be able to make out the jagged fingers of granite pointing up from the valley floor below me. As it is, I have to imagine them. I’ll be seeing them up close soon enough.

It’s not a situation your average thirty-year-old billionaire playboy finds himself in, I’ll admit. One might well ask why a guy with more money than he could ever spend, more women than he could ever sleep with, and less body fat than most men could ever hope for, is standing here, of all places, contemplating what I’m contemplating.

The answer is simple: I’m bored out of my fucking mind.

The wind caresses my cheeks and I turn my face up to the diamond-hard summer sun. I’m starting to sweat under this outfit, which is kind of gross. No point in putting this off any longer.

I fill my lungs with clear mountain air and leap off the cliff. I have to make sure I clear the outcropping right below me—wouldn’t want to clip it and end up going ass-over-teakettle all the way down. That would make for an incredibly ugly corpse.

As I fall, my body naturally tilts forward into a dive position. I travel about forty feet in an instant, then I spread my arms and legs wide. Time to embrace the inevitable.

The motion allows the billowing fabric under my arms and between my legs to catch the ambient air, slowing my descent velocity by about eighty percent and pushing me forward, away from the mountainside and toward the lake. The so-called “wingsuit” carries me on natural air currents at a 2.5:1 angle of descent. That means that for every meter I drop, I gain two and a half meters moving forward. That’s important math, because I’m going to attempt something ridiculously dangerous, and I’d really prefer to live through it.

As I glide over the rooftops of Sirmione, the town on the south shore of Garda, I lower my arms several inches to reduce my angle. Easy? Hell no – it’s tougher than it sounds when you have several thousand pounds of air rushing up at you.

In the distance I can see Isola del Garda, the island where St. Francis of Assisi founded a monastery in the thirteenth century. I doubt old Frankie would approve of my current lifestyle, but I’ve got more important things to worry about.

The surface of the lake is rapidly filling my field of vision, but my goggles are polarized to keep the reflected light from blinding me. I need every sense on high alert right now to make sure that I don’t come in at the wrong angle. Too steep and I risk smashing head-first into the immense stopping power of the water. Too shallow and I’ll come in too hot, which means I might not be able to slow myself down before I hit the side of the boat like a bug on a windshield.

Timing here is everything.

Still, it would be a hell of a way to go, wouldn’t it?

The coolness of the water kisses my face as I draw parallel with the surface of the lake. Raising my arms again lowers me closer to the skin of the lake. If it wouldn’t completely fuck up my trajectory, I’d reach down and run my fingers through the cool wetness.

I feel like Superman.

In the distance, my target comes into view: a catamaran anchored about a mile off shore. As I draw closer, and lower to the lake, I finally make out silhouettes of people on the deck – still tiny, like ants.

According to the incredibly detailed math that went into my computer simulation, that’s my cue to drop one last time. I silently thank every crunch and sit-up as my abs strafe the surface of the water, providing the friction I need to slow my forward momentum and begin my long stop.

After several seconds, I lower my legs and arms, and the water pulling against the fabric yanks me backwards, hard.

My teeth grind as the bow of the catamaran fills my field of vision, growing until I can see Maksim Orlov grab his head in his hands and hear him shout “Look out, you idiot!”

The stress on my joints is painful, but I can handle it.

Just.

I don’t spend hours a day in my gym with a giant Swedish personal trainer just to rock a tank top and dance to Europop. That’s just a side benefit. No, I’m all about functional strength. And really, what could be more functional than wingsuiting off a thousand-foot cliff?

I come to a full stop no more than ten feet from the boat. I release the handles on my arm wings to keep them from dragging me down into the depths and pull my goggles up onto my helmet.

My breathing is already starting to slow and I can feel the adrenaline ebbing out of me, leaving me faintly cold, even in the Italian summer heat. I grasp the rungs of the ladder and pull myself up, knowing that within minutes, the thrill of the experience will be all but gone. As usual.

It seems the further I push myself, the more I have to keep pushing to maintain the excitement.

“You are the crazy son of my bitch!” Maksim hoots as he clasps my hand and pulls me onto the deck. As always, his comical Russian accent and mangled English make me grin. And, as always, he’s surrounded by girls.

The latest additions to his posse are bikini-clad British tourists we met at a club last night, looking to act decidedly un-British for a couple of weeks. They swarm me, wide-eyed, passing me around in a hug train.

“That’s the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen,” says Joanna, a statuesque blonde who’s straining the confines of her bathing suit. She’s a little unsteady on her feet, thanks to the cosmopolitan in her hand and the baking afternoon heat.

“The most incredible thing so far,” I correct her as I shrug out of the wingsuit. Underneath is a Speedo and nothing else. “Wait until later tonight.”

Her eyes run down my body and widen as they reach the bulge under my suit. She smiles.

On to the next thrill.

Sigh.