The 31-year-old is tall and wiry and has a steely, searching look in his eyes.

Watching him climb is absorbing, the inherent danger of the act strangely alluring.

He crawls up the rock with painstaking care, his feet and hands digging for grip at each new bolt.

Every now and then he pauses, dipping his hand into a small pouch on his back filled with chalk.

‘‘You have to enjoy pushing your limits. You’re against the rock; it’s a battle.’’

After reaching the top, Boorman is more subdued than one might have guessed, but a wide grin unveils his contentment.

‘‘It’s not like a ‘woop woop’ go-around-cheering type of thing. It’s just a feeling inside that you get,’’ he explains.

‘‘The reason I climb is the adrenaline rush, the feeling of completing the climb. You get that overwhelming sense of adrenaline. It beats any drug.’’

elton speed demon Adam Raverty is another trying to find that natural high.

His ‘‘pride and joy’’, a gleaming one-of-a-kind custom built stinger that races as Jackhammer, sits wedged between cars at the back of his auto repair shop.

The 33-year-old was introduced to the sport two years ago by his brother-in-law when he was lumped with playing navigator.

‘‘I’d never been to a race before and just jumped into a superboat,’’ Raverty laughs.

‘‘At the first corner I didn’t think it was going to make it. I shit my pants.’’

V8 Superboats can move from zero to 140km/h in under two seconds from a standing start.

Likened to rally driving on water, boats handle 180-degree corners pulling six G-forces similar to those found in a F-111 fighter jet.

Raverty has since turned driver and is joined in the boat by wife Kavalyn, his right hand man, or woman in this case.

‘‘She calms me down. If I go the wrong way she reassures me and tells me where to go to get back on track. I trust her.’’

A self-confessed adrenaline junkie, Raverty says he loves ‘‘things that go fast’’ and superboats satisfy the urge.

‘‘Once the flag drops you don’t think about anything else but going fast and getting around the track and not trying to hit anything. Crashing is the last thing on your mind.’’

Except, of course, when it happens, like the time Raverty stacked in the opening round of the 2009 world jetsprint championships at Temora, in NSW’s Riverina.

‘‘The first lap was OK, but the second lap I went out there and clipped a bank and double-barrelled. It rolled through the air and landed upside down against the fence. We got it back to the pits and got back out there.’’

ut not everyone is after thrills and spills.

In a suburban park in Hoppers Crossing, Kingston Eldridge practices his ground handling skills.

A red, green, and yellow paraglider wing lies crumpled on the grass, flat and dormant.

Eldridge then builds up enough steam to spring it to life, like a majestic bird flapping its wings upon flight.

The 40-year-old father took up paragliding two years ago and was instantly hooked.

‘‘Extreme sport — there’s a question mark over that,’’ he says. ‘‘Old man sitting in a comfy seat enjoying the view more likely.

‘‘There are some people who will go in it for the thrills, but they’ll be doing acrobatics and that sort of thing.’’

A father of four, Eldridge initially wanted to tackle hang gliding but got into paragliding because it was a cheaper alternative.

Pilots sit in a harness suspended below a fabric wing, whose shape is formed by its suspension lines and the pressure of air entering vents in the front of the wing.

‘‘You’re already running before you get to the edge and if you’re not you’re in trouble,’’ Eldridge says.

‘‘At first, it’s just a sigh of relief that you’re off the ground and it’s working and then there’s just this amazing feeling that you’re doing this all by yourself.’’

Eldridge now flies as often as he can, at idyllic spots like Bright and Torquay.

His family tentatively supported his new hobby, until he broke his leg during an accident in 2009 when he was flying in Flowerdale and ran into a mountain. It didn’t deter him.

‘‘I wanted to get back up there and try and learn from my mistake. It wasn’t a particularly scary situation. I remember at the time lying there just being angry with myself because I wouldn’t be able to fly for the rest of the day.’’

unbury brothers Matt and Jesse Inglis are still learning the snowboarding caper but are already carving a name in the sport.

They began lessons with Transitionist Snowboard Camp two years ago after visiting Mt Hotham.

Now snowboarding is their life.

‘‘I like it because it’s just a bit more individual than traditional sports,’’ Jesse says. ‘‘I’m allowed to do what I want, ride what I want.’’

Younger brother Matt agrees.

‘‘Going off a jump and landing something good that you’ve been working on ... that feels good.’’

Jesse and Matt have already taken part in competitions and have aspirations of becoming professional and competing on the international stage.

The pair have already travelled to the US twice in search of better ground, or snow so to speak, undertaking training camps at Breckenridge, Colorado, which is double the size of any Victorian mountains and has international facilities.

The mountain has a 22-foot (6.7-metre) super pipe and three different parks, including one with a combination of rails and jumps ranging in size from 7.6 metres to 13.7 metres.

‘‘My dream is to get sponsored and be able to make a living out of snowboarding,’’ Matt says.

Their mother Debra says she’s proud of her boys for showing commitment to the sport and thinking big.

They’re the only snowboarders at their school, Salesian College, competing in interschool sports.

But they hope to recruit more daredevils just like them.

‘‘I’m pretty impressed with all of the kids who ride in the sport. They’re pretty dedicated to what they do,’’ Mrs Inglis says.

‘‘It is dangerous but I guess that’s where their training comes in. With the jumps you hold your breath until they land and then ... phew.

‘‘I think they’ll definitely follow through with it. It’s got into everyone’s blood really.’’