I was 14 when I met Shane. We were both skiing, the only people out on the slopes on a windy day. He was 10 years older than me and starting to make a name for himself as a skier; he told me he was a pro-skier and I knew that was what I wanted to do. The next time we bumped into each other, a month or so later, he suggested we went skiing behind the ropes, on the "illegal" side of the designated skiing area. I thought, "If he's going to do it, I want to do it, too."
Over the years, Shane went from being my idol, to mentor, to best friend. I was 22 when he introduced me to base jumping – when you jump from a fixed object, using a parachute to land.
One of the things Shane and I became known for was ski-base jumping, where we'd ski off the edge of a cliff and use a parachute on the way down. There's a video clip of us from five years ago, which was seen all over the world, of Shane and me skiing off a mountain. We're both wearing wingsuits – nylon suits with material that extends from wrist to hip and between both legs. It gives you lift, and enables you to fly before you open your parachute.
We did talk about death – we knew it was a possible consequence of what we did. Sometimes we'd refer to it in a matter-of-fact way, often it was just part of our humour. When I first got into base jumping, Shane showed me a list of all the people who had died doing it, and told me to read every description of what had gone wrong. You can see patterns and learn from other people's mistakes.
The day of Shane's accident three years ago, we were in the Dolomites in Italy and had decided to do a jump from a cliff of about 1,300ft. It took us a while to get all our gear on – the combination of a wingsuit, winter clothes, skis and boots is cumbersome. We both planned to do a double back-flip, release the skis, fly a little and then open the parachute to land. I went first. As I was opening the parachute, I realised I was really low and that the ground was approaching fast, but I managed to land safely.
As I was walking down to the road a few minutes later, I wondered where Shane was. If he had jumped, I thought I would have seen him, so even when I saw a helicopter overhead I didn't think much of it. Then one of our camera guys came down to me and broke the news. Shane had skied off the edge 30 seconds to a minute after I had, done a double back-flip but couldn't release one of his skis. To make matters worse, the one he had released became entangled with the other; the free ski was whipping around in the wind making him spin. He had to get those skis off, but a moment after he did so he hit the ground and died instantly – it all happened in just 11 seconds. The emergency team in the helicopter were quick: they realised what they were dealing with, there was no attempt at resuscitation. I know all this because I watched the footage later – Shane's helmet camera was running all the time.
I didn't believe Shane had died until our cameraman showed me what had happened through the viewfinder. I watched it one time and one time only. I felt like I'd been stabbed in the stomach. It was a mixture of grief and shock, anger and sadness. Only a short time before, we'd been having a blast. I don't remember much in the days that followed. I cried a bit on my own, but the tears would come unexpectedly throughout the next six months.
I kept rerunning it over in my mind, every single variable, but there was nothing I could have done. It was a perfect storm of bad luck. I thought long and hard about quitting base jumping after the accident. There was a degree of survivor's guilt, but I realised I couldn't keep blaming myself. I'm very close to his wife and daughter, and I think of Shane all the time.
I don't base jump quite as often as I used to. Just before I jump, I often think of friends lost, and I think of my family and what would happen if I died. It focuses me; it's the last moment for me to ask myself, "Is this a reasonable risk to take?" If I don't think it is, I walk away.