Skiing is as close as I'll ever come to flying. It's about grace and speed. The g-forces that push you into your boots on a sweeping GS turn on a steep run also push your heart up into your throat as the trees flash by. Your turns find themselves, sweeping wide, one moment, narrowing quickly into tight little arcs--when the terrain plummets steeply or rising moguls put you on your edges as you ride the tops, avoiding the trough--the next moment. Your quads burn in the tight turns, until you release the tension in them in the sweepers. You hit the long run-out to the chairlift in a straight, full-on dive. Damn.
Scuba is not like that (well, diving in the Galapagos Islands with hundreds of hammer head sharks, might come close.) Motorcycling is not like that (well.... Ahem, there was that fast run across the Oklahoma panhandle, one summer.) Sex comes close. Very close. Acting has it's moments.
(My brother, Mike, does get closer to flying than I do. He not only sky dives, but--I don't know what it's called--sky dives with one of those body suits with built-in wings, which allow him to glide over miles and miles of terrain before he has to open his suit. Trust me, I don't have the balls for that!)