Monday, October 1, 2012

Falling out of Planes on Purpose


Las Vegas Sky Diving
(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

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