Yeah, I’ve done a few of those “midnight crane‑bungee” runs. Last winter, I convinced a group of friends that we could strap a rope to an old bridge crane, jump at 3 am, and land in the lake that, between the fog and the light from the town’s streetlamps, looked like it was floating in a dream. We rigged the rope with a few extra safety knots because, you know, my stubborn side says “why not?” The crane’s boom creaked like a nervous cat, the wind was louder than a storm, and we were all counting down: one… two… three. I dove, feeling every ounce of adrenaline and the sheer absurdity of it. The rope snapped back, pulling me up like a catapult, and I landed in the lake with a splash that was more ridiculous than terrifying. We all burst out laughing—half in relief, half because we’d just pulled off something that would make our grandkids think we were insane. The best part? The lake was a perfect mirror of the night sky, so the whole scene felt like a prank from the universe, and we left the crane in better shape than when we’d found it, which, honestly, felt like a win.