No room for fear

When my dad, David ‘Cannonball’ Smith Senior decided to give up his career in academics and join the circus, he didn’t know what heights his career would take him to – quite literally!

Our family business began three decades  ago when one of my father’s friends asked  if he wanted to be a catcher in a trapeze act for the circus.
He was a good gymnast in college and couldn’t resist the temptation of giving up his humdrum job as a math’s teacher. That’s where he met his wife – my mother – Jean. As part of the ‘Rock Smith Flyers’ they excelled at their art and won the Circus World Championship in London in 1976.

Five years into his new job, my dad realised it wasn’t for him. You see, if the catcher grabs the trapeze artist mid-air as he should, the artist is wildly applauded. If the catcher doesn’t grab the artist, it’s considered the catcher’s fault. In other words, being a catcher is a catch-22. He wanted to do something that would earn him the applause of the audience. So he tried building  a cannon (he was a maths teacher,  after all) and it seemed to work.
For a year he stayed awake late most nights designing the human cannon. When their trapeze-touring schedule ended for the winter, he put his plans into action and built the first Smith cannon. The challenges were endless in learning how a cannon works and how it could be safely fired. But he learnt and improved with each performance and the show travelled far and wide. To date he has designed nine cannons.
He had thousands of successful performances and we stood by him throughout this career and his travels.

I began my cannonball career almost out of necessity.
Dad had hurt his back and needed some recovery time. I remember  that conversation so well. He said. “Son, I need you in Madison, Wisconsin, two days from now. We will give you a practice shot in the morning and your first live show will be that evening!” It was not really an option for me to say no to his request. I was terrified, nervous and yet very excited.

The first performance was  a cannonball shot 75 feet. 
Over the next six months, I continued cannonball practice under my dad’s guidance. We were in a different city almost every day. The show schedule at that time consisted of two shows per day over three months. After every performance, dad passed something on to me. Most days, the cannon shots were a little farther than the day before. These times were some of the scariest, most physically painful, yet wonderful times of my life. The adrenaline, the excitement, the applause and the smile on dad’s face. These things made it all worth it!

Accidents can happen; I learnt that the hard way.
I took the cannon on tour in the second year of my career. In this, my rookie season, my focus was mainly on perfecting the set up of the landing net and learning exactly how to aim the cannon for different size shots and conditions.

As my confidence and abilities grew, so did the size of the cannonball shots. I was shooting over and under some crazy obstacles. My goal was to do the biggest cannon shot possible at each event.

A combination of the danger and my own inexperience caught up with me during a show in the Madison Coliseum. The cannon fired. I flew within six feet of the ceiling and scoreboard. Upon landing, the force of impact in the netting rolled my body over my right leg, breaking it instantly. I climbed out of the netting, acknowledged the crowd, and limped out of the arena.

My first stop after that was the pay phone. I called my father to tell him the news. When I tried calling him again fifteen minutes later, he was already on his way to the airport. He made the next scheduled performance after flying all night. “The show must go on,” he always said.

I became known as David ‘The Bullet’ Smith when I set a Guinness world record.

They approached my dad and I about breaking the world record which would be filmed live on prime time television. We responded by performing what was billed as the Duelling Cannonballs Record Attempts.

Two cannons, two cannonballs – father and son – blasting their way into the record books! That day we both broke world records. I fired 181 feet 4 inches breaking the old record of 180 feet. Dad followed at 184 feet 10 inches. Currently, he holds the record for the furthest shot at 201 feet; I hold it for the highest shot. As long as the records stay in the family, I’m happy. But if somebody outside of our family came up with a 202-footer, I’d go for it the next day.

The biggest thrill is the unknown.
When MTV challenged me to participate in their programme Senseless Acts of Video, I shot over part of the Grand Canyon. We spent weeks preparing. We conducted site surveys with helicopters together with a team of rock climbers, local guides and show producers. We had to figure how to set the netting and how to keep the cannon from rolling down the cliff. We also had to take into account the incredibly strong winds and cold weather, which were the biggest challenges. But, we did it! The clip was featured in the programme’s premier.

I consider the cannon to be my office.
Sitting on the end of that barrel can be pretty nerve-racking. To put it simply: there’s enough power in the cannon to turn you into peanut butter! But this is the way I chose to earn a living and keep my family tradition alive. I get different reactions from people when I tell them what I do. Some think it’s the greatest thing in the world; others think I’m nuts.

The work isn’t simple; there are extreme risks involved.
For the act, I stand on a platform inside the gun, air pressure is applied behind the platform and I fly forward with acceleration equal to nine times the force of gravity! You need to be prepared both physically and mentally. I spent many years training on the flying trapeze and as a high diver. Your body’s got to be able to take the hit coming out of that cannon. If you make a mistake, it could be all over. You’ve only got one shot at it!