The X Games have nothing on coasteering

“I SAY,” THE GUIDE exhorts me as he gestures impatiently toward the precipice, “I’m afraid we really must move on.”

“OK, OK, OK,” I plead while trying to steady my balance and my nerves and contemplate the potentially fatal leap into the seething indigo sea far below. My ankles throb, my body trembles and my ocean-sprayed face is burned raw. What unnerves me, though, isn’t that I might perish the next few minutes, but that I am being told to leap into oblivion by a John Cleese impersonator.

Not helping matters are the six Welsh rowdies on the opposite cliff inferring that I may be substantially shortchanged in the manhood department.

“ ‘Tis now or never, son,” the guide urges.

How had I gotten into this predicament? It all started when I had the crazy idea to spend a week as a Welshman.

I knew little about the country other than Tom Jones is Welsh, you don’t want to play them in rugby and some of their outdoor activities make the X Games look wimpy. Would I measure up to the hardy Welsh way of life?

The next thing I knew I was in a pub surrounded by what looked like bearded pirates reeking of ale. A heavy arm leaned on my shoulder and a voice said, “So, will it be coasteering or bog snorkeling, lad?”

Coasteering, I learned, is a particularly nasty activity invented by the Welsh that combines swimming, rock-climbing and cliff-jumping while traversing a rugged coastline at sea level. In short, everything you were told never to do as a child.

The next day, outfitted in a wetsuit, life jacket, rock-climber’s helmet and pair of oversized sneakers, I joined six other adventurers and a guide and trekked across a wildflower-dotted meadow toward a steep bluff near the coastal town of St. David’s in southwest Wales.

We peered over the cliff. I stared weak-kneed at precipitous cliffs, sheer promontories, strewn boulders and foaming breakers. The Pembrokeshire Coast. Catalina on steroids.

We clambered over boulders, edged across ledges and squeezed through narrow crevices toward the waves below. We inched our way to the water line.

The thundering impacts were deafening. The ocean rose and came for us. With a monstrous heave, it plunged against the rocks at our feet, booming with rage at such bold trespass.

“Time to jump, mates!” our guide shouted.

Everyone leaped into the swirling tide like lemmings -- except me. Something held me back. An alarm sounded in my head. What was it?

When I hit the foam, I felt a searing smack of polar shock. Hello, hypothermia. Oh, yes, now I remembered. Wales is really, really close to the North Pole.

Gasping for breath, I swam to the nearest boulder outcrop and shot out like a penguin, wetsuit laden with frosted slush. If someone had a cocktail glass, I would have poured myself into a daiquiri.

Two hours later, after a half-dozen more plunks into the frigid Atlantic, I stared glassy-eyed at the day’s final obstacle -- a 40-foot plummet into a roiling, arctic abyss. The other jumps were little hops in comparison. In L.A.-speak, this was Grand Canyon meets Big Sur. Monterey does Malibu.

Welsh catcalls echoed across the yawning chasm. This was one of those male moments when you either accept the challenge or admit you’re a wuss.

My confidence ebbed and flowed as Cleese reminded me: “At this height, timing is rather important. To ensure you land when the next wave is coming in, you must jump when the previous one is receding.”

Right. That goes with all my instincts. I took a deep breath. A wave pounded the cove. The thought struck me that a Welsh rallying cry at this moment couldn’t hurt. As the swell drew back out, I shouted “Delilah!” and pushed off as hard as I could.

As I limped to our taxi afterward, I wondered who dreams up such maniacal sports. Would coasteering ever catch on in Southern California? I can see the ads now: “You’ve sky-surfed and street-luged. You’ve microlighted and canopied. Yeah, you’re a stud. But have you coasteered?”

“So what do you think, lad?” the guide asked as I bid him farewell. “Could you make a go of it as a Welshman now?”

I stared at him hollow-eyed. “You’re a rugged lot,” I started to concede, then thought better of it. “So what’s this I hear about bog snorkeling?”