“This,” said Barb Sligl, grimacing and shaking, “is bat-shit crazy.”

Barb, like myself and the other travel writers on this press trip to Wales, has experienced a myriad of crazy traveling moments. So her pronouncement is a qualified response to the situation at hand.

How else do you describe donning a wet-suit, helmet and buoyancy vest and flinging yourself off the perfectly good westernmost shore of Holy Island into the roiling Irish Sea? Matt Shaw, mountaineer, first-aid attendant and coasteering crazy man is our guide. He works for Surflines, a multi-sport adventure company in Northern Wales. To suggest that Matt is keen about the art of this ocean-going lunacy called coasteering, is akin to suggesting a seal might enjoy leaping for a fresh fish.

“K, guys,” he says as we stand at the wind-swept shore, “let’s all jump in now, right?” With that, he bounds in to the water as if it’s not a) cold as shit outside, and b) the surf is not pounding against the black rocks, and finally c), as if this is within the parameters of normal behaviour.

Remember when your mom would admonish you with the old ‘just because everyone else is jumping of the bridge, doesn’t mean you have to be that stupid?’

Well. FYI. That doesn’t apply quite so much on a press trip. If throwing yourself off a cliff or into the ocean is on the itinerary…then, usually, that’s what I do.

But as my already wind-numbed feet hit the water, I gasp. I catch Barb’s eye, which is when she utters her ‘bat-shit crazy’ comment. I’m not hearing her too well over my own continuous muttering of colourfully-connected cussing. I had no idea I could render such glorious new combinations of expletives.

Meanwhile, my fingers curl into frozen claws.

“K, guys,” Mr. Enthusiastic says, “we need to practice swimming with our feet in front of us so that we can get up on the rocks without bashing ourselves.”

Silly me. I had thought smashing around in the waves would be good enough to tick this coasteering thing off the agenda. I was wrong. We, Matt informed us, would be spending the next two (!!) hours doing this mad sport. Scrambling up jagged rock cliffs, jumping off those same rock faces into the surging sea and swimming against waves that could easily drown several large horses and a stagecoach.

“Timing is key, guys!”  Matt’s words fly toward us on a gust of wind. Key indeed. The idea about having one’s feet out in front is great except for one minor detail; the swells shove me toward the rocks and just as suddenly suck me away with a vehemence that feels malevolent. Suddenly, that tired old phrase, so near and yet so far is fraught with new relevance.

Finally, I’m out of the water, clinging to the side of a rock face, unable to find my next toe-hold. The sea bashes away, determined to kill me. Matt is there, “Right. You’re doing great, here’s a great spot,” he points to a miniscule rocky outcropping, “just keep going guys!”

Somehow he magically appears for everyone at once, inspiring confidence, pushing and cajoling and infusing us with his exuberance. He is coach, teacher, leader and inspiration wrapped up in one incredibly-fit uber-enthusiastic man.

Surprisingly, my hands warmed up as we bobbed in the swells; perhaps because my heart pounded harder and faster after every jump off the rocks.  My grin too, increased in magnitude…in spite of the crazy amounts of ingested seawater.

Two hours, time that I had been sure would stretch interminably in front of me, was over too fast.

“This is the last bit guys. Don’t coast now. Stay focused.” We scramble our way to the top of the cliff. I flop into the purple heather and twisted yellow grass and hang my head over the edge to watch the frothing waters rush the black and gold rocks.

I can’t remember the last time I have felt so alive and connected to the elements. Or as Matt would say, “Atmospheric, guys!”

If you ever get a chance to go to Wales. Take it. Find Matt. Go coasteering. It’s guaranteed bat-shit crazy fun.