Taking the plunge on Verrückt, the world’s tallest water slide

This is the first installment of I Will Dare, a regular column in which writer Angela Lutz accepts random death-defying challenges.

After climbing 264 stairs to the top of Schlitterbahn Waterpark’s Verrückt, the world’s tallest water slide, there are two ways down. One, of course, is to rocket to the bottom on a rubber raft at nearly 65 miles per hour, outrunning your own common sense, eyes wide, breath gone, tightly clutching rope handles that, honestly, will not save you should anything go awry.

The other way: Take the unofficial “chicken exit” and descend the stairs, past the rubberneckers and straight to a tamer ride — say, the lazy river of shame.

When I reached Verrückt’s summit on a steamy Sunday afternoon, I wasn’t sure which route I should take. The structure is an architectural wonder. At 168 feet and 7 inches, it’s taller than the Statue of Liberty or Niagara Falls — and up close, it’s even more intimidating than the pictures and videos online have made it seem. It’s like seeing a pro-football player in person for the first time and realizing that he could crush your head like a tomato, and then finding out that he’s unhappy to see you.

It’s no mistake that the slide’s name is German for “insane.” I began to wonder: Does German, a succinct language, have a word for “I hope I don’t poop my bathing suit in public?”

My friends definitely thought that I was crazy for wanting to ride Verrückt. They sent texts, e-mails and Facebook messages trying to talk me out of it. My mom warned that the speed could literally — literally, she said! — rip my clothes off. I was not deterred. Not even rumors of test dummies going airborne or reports about repeated delays of the water slide’s opening date (originally scheduled for Memorial Day) could change my mind. Now, here I was, trying not to throw up the chili-cheese hot dog I’d eaten for lunch.

Fear wouldn’t stop me, but the line nearly did. The ride itself lasts only 18 seconds, but you get considerable time ahead of that to think it over. The weight requirement for each three-person raft is between 400 and 550 pounds, and every group’s number is triple-checked with a giant scale. You must listen to a lengthy safety spiel, read by a hoarse woman, reminding you that, yes, this shit is risky. And then there’s that giant staircase, which takes the average person nearly four minutes to climb.

To simplify the experience, you’re allowed to make reservations for the ride when you get to Schlitterbahn. When I was there, the first group of the day had traveled from London to Florida and then driven to Kansas City, arriving the night before. Unfortunately, by the time I arrived at 10:30 a.m., all of the spots were full.

“You’re welcome to try the walk-up line,” a harried employee said. “Right now, the wait is about two hours.”

“Fuck that,” my boyfriend said. But I was on a mission. I told him to take care of the cats if I didn’t make it, and then I took my place at the back of the line. Almost immediately, I got lucky: A young couple from Nebraska needed a third rider for their raft. I ran up and joined them on the scale, and we were assigned a 2 p.m. ride time.

Three hours later, the walk-up line had barely moved. Looking dehydrated and deflated, a group of 20-somethings whined that they’d been there for four hours. When another group scheduled for 2 p.m. needed a third rider, two little boys from the line both ran up to nab the spot, and they decided their respective fates with a match of rock-paper-scissors. Jumping up and down, the winning boy joined us in the march up the stairs.

But when we got to the top, the kid started to look pale. Then he began to cry. “I’m scared of heights,” he said. Embarrassed, he decided to take the chicken exit. One of the adults in his group, a middle-aged firefighter, wasn’t having it. He ran after the boy and talked him into coming back up. When the kid re-emerged on the platform, having learned at least two life lessons before even taking his place in the raft, we all clapped for him.

“You made the right decision,” one employee said. “I’ve ridden it 26 times, and it never gets any less awesome.”

When it was my group’s turn, I sat at the front of the raft. I fastened my seatbelt and clung to the rope handles (which really did make me feel better, physics be damned). “Are you ready?” the employee asked. “Fuck yes,” I responded. He pressed a button. We were heading straight down.

I kept my eyes open. We were going so fast that I couldn’t yell, couldn’t catch enough breath to make a sound. I felt weightless.

When we reached the bottom, I threw my hands in the air, despite specific instructions not to, and let out a triumphant scream. My swimsuit top and my dignity had made it to the bottom with me, both intact. When we came to a stop, I high-fived my raft mates and decided to stress-eat a funnel cake.

My legs were shaking as I ran across the hot sidewalk to meet my boyfriend, who looked sleepy and sunburned. “How was it?” he asked. Still high on pure adrenaline, I jumped up and down and said it was amazing.

We made tentative plans to return so that he could give it a try, but considering that a ride down Verrückt is never guaranteed on any given day, we decided to wait until next month, or next year. Part of me hopes that my boyfriend will forget about Verrückt by next summer — but the other, crazier part wants to ride it 25 more times.