(Disclaimer, this is not a picture of me.)
While not
characterized entirely by this trait, I have been known to be (at times) a bit
impulsive. I'm not sure if this latest
episode of adrenaline overdose is indicative of that or more a product of
premeditated madness. Either way, I
spent my Saturday morning doing something regarded by some as a maniac's
pastime - falling out of a plane on purpose.
(Marketing reps tend to call it skydiving.)
It started when I
got a best friend who liked adventure as much if not more than I do. We'd talked about jumping out of a plane
sometime on purpose together as a fun thing to do. With me going away to college and Australia
and her traipsing around France and various African countries in the
summertime, we couldn't seem to find the right time. Enter Brave Dave (Zanna's also adventurous
bf). Because he is both a good boyfriend
and adventurous, he bought her skydiving for her birthday and made it an open
invite to whomever wanted to come.
I jumped in (and out
of the plane) with both feet. We picked
a day, and I was instantly mentally committed.
It was nuts, and I knew it. I
also knew that if I didn't do it now, well, I'd probably do it in the next five
years. Anyway, I figured I'd carpe the diem
and sign up. I opened the invite up to
my small group, but only one friend was game enough to come with.
5:25 comes early on
Saturday, somehow earlier than on a Monday-Friday. Anyway, I rolled out of bed, pried open my
eyeballs and shrugged on a t-shirt from working at Compass Wilderness (I
thought it might bring a little cotton courage to have "rafting, climbing,
hiking" on my shirt), and brushed my teeth - I think. I made it to Zanna's house where I met up
with Brave Dave and Jordan the Adventurous.
We jumped in Brave Dave's truck and set off for sky diving HQ.
Once we got there,
they showed us a video that, in sum, reminded us repeatedly that what we were
about to do was statistically safe but that we could still die. We initialed six pages of releasing ourselves
to death by stupidity before paying at the window. After that, I met my lifeline, whose name was
Sam. He was an old hippie with a
goatee. The way he acted, skydiving
wasn't any great feat, so I felt better about my decision to fall out of a
plane on purpose.
I stepped into a
full body harness and Sam coached me through an elaborate set of instructions…
squat, head back, feet together. That
was about the extent of our prep session.
We climbed into a tiny little plane that had been gutted and refitted
with two benches and set of seat belts along the sides. Despite the seat belt, I didn't feel exactly
safe when they decided to OPEN THE DOOR after we took off for
"ventilation". It took a few
minutes to reach 13,000 feet. Yes,
ladies and gents, 13,000 smackaroonies.
Those highways were looking mighty small from those plane windows.
I was about halfway
down the bench, with a group of pros and Dave and Zanna on my left and Jordan
on my right. Before I knew it,
lickety-split, the group of pros had linked together and were out the door in
what looked like an atomic formation from high school chemistry. I sure wasn't thinking about chemistry at
that moment because suddenly everyone was scooting down the bench TOWARDS the
gaping open door. Oh dear. Oh dear.
Oh dear. Dave was out the door,
then Zanna. I thought about
balking. Every neuron in my brain was
resisting to this strange form of voluntary certain death. Somehow I was on the edge of the gaping hole
and before another thought could zip down the pipeline, Sam and I were out the
door.
Terror turned to
ecstasy. I was flying! And screaming bloody murder! The freefall lasted about 50 seconds. Let me tell you, it was an awesome 50
seconds. If you turn your hands like
rudders, you spin on your belly as you're plummeting toward earth. That's fun.
Sam had told me that most people think they can't breathe, so just to
scream and that would help. I'm not sure
I needed a reason to scream. I wasn't
conscious of the distance to the ground, just that I was flying, but it was
safe because somewhere in my prefrontal cortex was resting the thought that Sam
had a parachute and this was statistically quite survivable.
All of a sudden, Sam
pulled the cord and there was a tug and we were floating like a feather on the wind. That's when I realized how high we
were. Sam let me pull on the handles that
steered the parachute. We spiraled like
a colorful tornado, first one way, then the other. I felt pretty sick, but I didn't mind. We floated some more and then came in for
landing on a large, grassy landing strip.
No broken ankle, no broken neck, I had survived.
Was it worth
it? Absolutely. Would I do it again right now as I sit typing
this in my living room? Absolutely.
Questioning her
chemical dependence on adrenaline,
Little Miss Sunshine
Bet it was awesome!
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