We arrived at noon – nervous, but excited – in a state of disbelief about what we were about to do.
My legs felt stiff as I opened the car door and stepped out onto the gravel drive. I moved slowly toward the hangar, squinting my eyes in the summer haze and feeling anxiously bewildered by my surroundings.
The inside of the hangar was like a beehive – buzzing with activity. Dozens of people sprawled across the floor, twisting, tucking and folding large heaps of nylon into tight little parcels. Others darted back and forth across the large room, barking orders in their bare feet.
We made our way to the unmarked registration desk, which was manned by a slight but athletic-looking woman.
“You guys here for tandems?” she chirped.
We nodded timidly.
“Cool. I just started a video. Come on back.”
She grabbed a stack of papers and quickly weaved her way across the gear-strewn floor. We hopped along behind her, taking care not to step on any fingers, toes or important looking cords.
“Just fill out this paperwork,” she said, ushering us into a dusty classroom. “And bring it back up front when you’re finished.”
She was gone before I could even think about asking any questions.
I sat down gingerly, as I would in a strange doctor’s office, and looked around the room for some sort of reassurance.
No such luck.
The video, which was narrated by a man with dark skin and a long, woolen beard, was a tad too reminiscent of an Al Qaeda communiqué for my comfort, and the “paperwork” turned out to be a 20-page legal disclaimer stating (and restating) that what we were about to do was “inherently dangerous” and could result in serious injury or death.
I soon realized that all the other people in the classroom were scribbling their initials all over the same death contract I gripped in my sweaty little palm. They seemed to be ignoring the possibility that the skydiving experience could turn out to be anything but fun.
Reluctantly, I followed their lead, and signed my life away in a matter of minutes. I then scuttled as quickly as possible back to the registration desk and practically threw my wad of cash at the girl behind the counter. I knew that as soon as I forked over my $250, I would be mentally and physically committed.
We were eventually summoned to a brief training session led by a wry fellow who told us there were two things we absolutely had to do during our sky dive: keep an arch in our backs throughout the entire free fall, and tell our instructors immediately if we felt the urge to vomit.
Simple enough.
Then we waited, watching as one group after another suited up, boarded the plane and, minutes later, emerged from the clouds above us like a flock of Rainbow Brite-infused birds.
The first few landings I witnessed made me cringe. The solo divers came in hard and fast, as if sliding into home plate for a game-winning run. Some of them soared in with such uncontrolled momentum that I thought they might take out a building – or at least one of their buddies – on the way.
But watching the tandem jumpers land was much more comforting. They came in softly, smoothly and with the utmost control. And each time I saw a smiling face come bobbing back from the landing strip, the butterflies in my stomach fluttered a little less violently.
By the time it was finally our turn to gear up, I was so tired of waiting that I probably would have been willing to jump out of a plane with anyone who offered to take me. So when I met my instructor and discovered he was a Navy man, I felt as confident as I ever would about risking my life for a fleeting adrenaline rush.
“Now,” said my instructor once I had donned my diving harness. “Do you remember the most important thing you have to do during your jump?”
“Yes,” I said emphatically. “Arch my back.”
“Nope,” he shook his head. “Afraid that’s not it. Who told you that?”
My stomach did a flip flop.
“Um… I …I don’t remember his name, but…”
“The most important thing – in fact, the only thing you have to do once you exit that plane,” he said, “is to have fun.”
I smiled.
“I think I can do that,” I said.
Within a few minutes, we were packed like sardines in a tin can of an airplane, watching as the altimeters on our wrists measured 10,000 feet … 12,000 feet … and, finally, 13,500 feet.
As I pulled my goggles down over my eyes, I felt my instructor tug the harness to make sure we were securely fastened to one another.
Then the door at the rear of the plane slid open and four experienced jumpers shimmied out one by one, clinging to the side of the airplane like oversized tree frogs.
I blinked, and they were gone.
A blast of cold air swept across my face as we approached the back of the plane. I saw clouds and open air, and felt suddenly vulnerable.
From then on, I was aware of what was happening, but felt like I was experiencing it from a distance. My instructor’s voice faded to a dim murmur and everything became blurry through my goggles.
In an instant, I felt my body torque and plummet head-first into spiraling white space. Then there was nothing but the deafening roar of free fall.
I had expected a jolt, or at least a falling sensation, but the movement was surprisingly smooth. My body was hurtling toward the earth at several hundred miles per hour, but somehow I wasn’t scared. I didn’t even feel the need to scream.
I just kept my mouth shut and focused on breathing, which was no easy task.
Then, with the yank of a cord, I was plunged into a tranquil, floating silence. My body trembled and my ears rang, but my mind was calm.
I removed my goggles and admired the expanse of lush, green farmland below. As I drifted through the air, with my legs dangling in the breeze, I felt an overwhelming sense of peace.
It has since occurred to me that skydiving probably isn’t so different from any other risk you take in life. Whether you are getting married, starting a new job, having a child or jumping out of a plane, what may at first seem terrifying – especially when you consider all that could possibly go wrong – usually turns out to be instinctive, comfortable ... even fun.
Once you cross the initial hurdle of committing yourself to a challenge and accepting its inherent risks, you are three fourths of the way there. Then, all it takes is a few encouraging smiles and a firm but gentle nudge from someone you trust, and, before you know it, you are soaring through the open air, with the wind in your face and adrenaline coursing through your veins, and – surprisingly enough – you realize you are enjoying it.
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