Adventures in skydiving

Note: I wrote this after jumping out of an airplane over the summer.

I can't breathe. I'm having a heart attack. I'm going to die. I can't believe I got pushed out of a plane by an Australian. Curse you Crocodile Dundee.
Wait ... this is actually fun. I'm flying. I'm skydiving.
Why isn't the ground getting closer? Am I even moving?
Uh oh, can't breathe again.
Just don't look down. Head up, legs up, just like the guy told me.
Whoa, my face is coming off. Is that even possible? Skin don't fail me now.
Holy $%&#! I'm flying! Don't pull the parachute Mr. Dundee, I'm having fun.

I always figured skydiving to be a fool's practice, clumped in the same category as sword swallowing and Marco Polo in a shark tank.

Skydivers are crazy, I thought, and obviously don't have much regard for life.
It certainly wasn't an activity for a rational man like myself.

Yet there I was last summer, soaring 13,000 feet above New Jersey with a man named Kiwi strapped to my back.

I had almost escaped this scenario a few hours earlier. I was in my car, key in the ignition, ready to go home with my limbs happily in place.

But my girlfriend took a shot at my masculinity — or lack thereof. So I caved, not just to my girlfriend's attack, but to the handful of experienced jumpers who told me "It was so much fun."

"Maybe to you suicidal psychos," I thought.

First thing they did was shove an eight-page waiver in my face with big red words on the cover that read: "Warning, Skydiving is extremely dangerous and can result to serious injury and/or death."

Nice, not to mention it required a witness.

I didn't bother reading the rest. I just initialed my life away in about 25 different spots, figuring they were covering all technicalities like my parachute getting caught in the plane engine.

Then I went on a mission to find my personal skydiving god who would be attached to my back.

My girlfriend found her spotter first -- a big confident Frenchman named Sebastian. He got rave reviews from the regulars, particularly from Suzanne, a woman I befriended.

Suzanne told me Sebastian took her youngest son for his first jump. Everything went smoothly.

I envisioned my spotter like Sebastian -- a strong, tough leader who could defy gravity. So I was disappointed when I discovered my guy’s name was Kiwi. All I could imagine was the soft and sweet fruit.

There are times I enjoy surprises. My birthday. Christmas. Kiwi did not fit in that category.

Suzanne knew everybody working at Skydive Sussex. She didn't know Kiwi.

"Who is Kiwi?" she asked her son.

"I don't know," he replied.

"Great," I thought.

Kiwi was small and too busy for small talk. His "Skydiver" tattoo and Australian accent eased my fears a bit, but I couldn't get over that Suzanne didn't know him.

I'd later learn that Kiwi had been an instructor for only 13 days, and was making just his 60th tandem jump. That’s sinful in skydiver world. These guys carry around jump-numbers like a rite of passage. They all know the exact number, and introduce themselves with "Hi, my name is Joe and I've jumped 3,456 times."

One guy was nearing 10,000, another was over 5,000.

Kiwi had 60.

I discovered this the same time I learned Kiwi was from New Zealand, not Australia. Meanwhile, another first-time jumper was making me more nervous. He was worried that we were on unlucky flight No. 13, and that his spotter's name was Pancake.

I could have told him a pancake would make a better skydive than a kiwi, but I kept that to myself. I was dealing with my own demons.

Despite efforts to appear manly, my fright must have been transparent. Suzanne was so concerned, she rescheduled her flight. It was a nice gesture, but kind words couldn't help me in the air.

Sebastian tried to lighten the mood in the plane with a joke. It was something about a nun getting pregnant. I couldn't understand the punch line, which was muffled by his French accent. I was also struggling to find the humor in the pilot's joke.

"This is my first time flying," he said.

As we neared the drop point, everybody started giving each other high-fives and hugs. It helped to imagine I was in a war movie, but that momentary comfort was cut short when I could no longer see the ground.

Then the door swung open and wind was everywhere. Kiwi and I jumped last, so I watched everybody disappear into the clouds.

Good-bye Suzanne.

Good-bye girlfriend.

Good-bye Pancake.

Thirteen-thousand feet looks exactly like it sounds — far. But I didn't have time to reconsider. Kiwi lifted up my neck and pushed me out of the plane.

The exit, which everybody warned me to be the scariest part, seemed rushed. I didn't get a chance to soil myself like I expected. I wonder if I would have jumped on my own accord.

Probably not.

We dropped 8,000 feet in a minute, perhaps the only time my skin felt removed from my body. I screamed out of excitement, not fear. Falling 120 mph was more fun than expected.

Kiwi opened our parachute at 5,000 feet and we slowed to a peaceful pace. I'm not a guy for gushy stuff, but the mountains were beautiful and everything seemed perfect. The rush I got plunging turned to relaxation.

But my serenity was short-lived. Kiwi was having equipment issues.

"All right mate, I'm just going to pull this rip chord deployment off you right now," he said. "It's stuck, I can't seem to get it."

"What is that?" I asked.

No answer.

"Is that important?"

"Don't worry about it, mate," he said.

OK, my feet are dangling 5,000 feet above ground and he's asking me not to worry.

My thoughts wander to the press conference hours before my jump, when a woman bragged that only 27 people died last year while skyjumping. Only 27!?!? Seemed like a lot at the time, but it seemed like even more with Kiwi fiddling around with my equipment. If 27 people died on a roller coaster, I would go on the Ferris wheel.

"What does that thing do?" I shouted.

"Got it," he said, and took some black strap off my shoulder.

I felt better. A whole lot better.

Kiwi gave me controls to the parachute and I proceeded to spin us in circles.

Our landing wasn't exactly graceful. We were supposed to finish on our feet, but we slid through the grass on our behinds. We were coming in so fast that people ran over to catch us. They were too late.

It didn't hurt, which was all that really mattered.

When it was over, and the straps around my groin were finally loosened, I felt like a new man.

Seriously, I did. Still do.

Through all my paranoia leading up to the jump, I thought my only emotion afterwards would be relief. But it was more about adrenaline, and the feeling of true accomplishment.
I also feel mysteriously close to everybody in that cramped plane, from the pilot down to Suzanne, like they were all a part of something special.

All my preconceived notions about skydivers' foolishness and shaky mental state were thrown out the window. These guys aren't stupid, they're cool. This wasn't foolish, it was fun.

Enough fun to jump out a plane.

Comments

[bud]

What is this here for?

[P. Plants]

Very well written, I enjoyed the read.

[wgg]

is this a new h.s. sport???