"The cannon business is highly secretive, we keep the workings of the cannon a secret."
So said Brian Miser, a veteran of 20 years in the human cannonball business. Before he decided to get paid for being shot out of a cannon he was a trapeze artist for 16 years, eventually making the not-so-natural transition to the cannonball industry – one that is shrouded in mystery.
This reluctance to reveal the secrets of cannonball success is perhaps one of the contributing factors towards the sparsity of human cannonballs currently in existence. The number barely scrapes in to double digits, and while the private nature of the business may be one way to explain this, the very real danger involved in being a human cannonball is another.
Robin Valencia agrees: "There are so few cannonballs in the world because for most people it would be a terrifying way to make a living. I had one serious injury in the beginning of my career - literally the first gig. I was operated on and my surgeon made me promise to never do it again. Three weeks later I was back at it."
The real danger is landing. Once you're shot out of the cannon, the aim is to land in one piece in a safety net. However this doesn’t always happen, more than 30 human cannonballs have died during the performance of the stunt, usually when they miss the net. Despite this, people continue to clamber into cannonballs in order to entertain the crowds.
Valencia is one such thrill-seeker – and her dedication to her profession is understandable when one considers the company she keeps. Her uncle is David Smith Snr. – head of the Smith family cannonball dynasty – and her husband another human cannonball – Chachi 'The Rocketman’ Valencia.
The aforementioned Smith family today dominate the human cannonball landscape. David 'Cannonball' Smith (Snr.) and David ‘The Bullet’ Smith (Jnr.) have taken the sport to new heights through their constant innovation and desire to go higher and farther than anyone else. In fact, Smith Snr. held the world record for the longest human cannonball flight until his son broke it in 2011.
For ‘The Bullet’, his entry into cannonball performance was a sudden one when his dad fell injured and he was needed to replace him on short notice: "That was a life-altering day for me, I suppose, definitely a fork in the road. As a kid watching my dad shoot off, that’s all I ever knew. My dad was a human cannonball, you know? So I grew up in the circus and it was kind of a shoe-in that I would be a cannonball one day, but I was out doing my own thing.
“I got a phone call, I was painting a beach house with my brother-in-law and best friend in North Carolina and three days later I was a human cannonball."
For those born into the industry it's natural for them to climb into the cannon, but many consider it to be a dangerous and frankly bizarre profession – and one that must be terrifying to endure. "The mind-set from a psychological point of view is I have something that we’ve worked very hard to do and it’s very dangerous and very unique and very scary and must be done perfectly which I can do every time I do it," Smith Jnr. said.
“I have to come to terms in my head that my confidence in my math and my equipment is spot on. Then I can climb in with great faith that all I have to do is be a proper cannonball, lie flat and straighten up and fly right for five seconds and the whole thing is a victory.”
Before a launch, the cannonballs will meticulously set up the nets that will provide their only respite upon landing. These targets are usually 50 ft. by 25 ft. but will look significantly smaller to men and women flying 200 ft. through the air. They will then perform tests by firing weighted dummies out of the cannons and seeing where they land, from there they will make adjustments ready for their own flight.
But what's going through their mind right before a shoot? Miser said: "I pray one more time to keep me safe. My heart starts pounding as soon as the countdown starts. I think about squeezing every muscle in my body to take the impact of the extreme acceleration, then when the count gets to one I think here I go."
Valencia offers a similar point of view: "Right before I am launched from the cannon I have a lot of adrenalin coursing through my veins so I am at a heightened sense of awareness. I am listening attentively to the countdown from five to one.
"I have every muscle in my body tense in preparation for the impact and I have no other thoughts in my brain except for the ready position of my body required for a safe take off. I hear all of the mechanical sounds that go along with my ride. I know when they sound right or if they sound wrong. Even if they sound wrong I must stay in my position."
All this for the entertainment of the crowd.
Even though the human cannonball industry is a worldwide one, there seems to be something distinctly American about it. It has a touch of the Evel Knievel to it, that desire to go as far as humanely possible despite all the risks involved simply to entertain those in attendance.
But why do these people do it? Sociologist Gunnar Breivik has a theory: "Extreme sports represent an outlet for the need for challenges, skills and mastery. With too much control life becomes bleak and boredom is around the corner. Risk sports represent the spicy antidote to the routinized workday and the controlled leisure time in modern or postmodern societies."
However 'spicy' being a human cannonball might be, the heat is too much for most people - making the bravery of those involved all the more astounding.
