skydive, bitch
So for my 27th birthday last month, on Aug. 9, I decided what better way to bring in the year than to jump out of a plane strapped to a stranger at 13,500 feet. It's called a tandem jump and is recommended to all newbies. Prior to the jump, I devoured every piece of skydiving material I could get my hands on, many of which gave it the highest praise in terms of exhilaration and sheer adrenaline. These books, pamphlets and videos also had something else in common: disclaimers that every jump, no matter how experienced the parachuter, could be the last. Crashing into Earth at terminal velocity (roughly 120 mph) is not joke indeed. The fatality rate for first-time jumpers is roughly 1 in 100,000. With those odds and a belief that I truly am a lucky soul, someone with a star on my arm, I leapt.
After much trepidation, my girlfriend Keren accompanied me. And I must say, up until she boarded that single-engine Cessna to jump strapped to a just married, good ole Southern boy, I had my doubts. But to her credit, she did not waver and just went. I love you, my little daredevil.
In short, we were both amazed by the experience. After a 10-15 minute flight stuffed in a cabin roughly the size of a horizontal bedroom closet, the instructor tapped me on the shoulder, when, as we discussed below, I was to open the plane's thin plastic door and step onto a metal 2 x 4 plank. After an instant to readjust himself, my instructor, a young South African with more than 5,000 jumps, joined me on that plank and then stepped off.
We were now diving through the air, joined at the shoulders and hip, spiraling and rotating like plummeting birds. Contrary to what you might expect, there is no rush to the stomach like you'd experience in a roller coaster. No, this is a different feel, my friend. Quite simply, you feel like you're flying, complete with a raging yet serene soundtrack provided by the rushing air and your own cries of exultation (Yeaaahh! Fuck yeaaahhh!) and an immediate sense that it's a moment you'll remember forever.
I want to go again, this time at night. I'm told without being able to see the ground below at higher elevations, say 18,000 feet, there is an even greater sense of flying because you don't see the endzone.
Who's coming with me?
After much trepidation, my girlfriend Keren accompanied me. And I must say, up until she boarded that single-engine Cessna to jump strapped to a just married, good ole Southern boy, I had my doubts. But to her credit, she did not waver and just went. I love you, my little daredevil.
In short, we were both amazed by the experience. After a 10-15 minute flight stuffed in a cabin roughly the size of a horizontal bedroom closet, the instructor tapped me on the shoulder, when, as we discussed below, I was to open the plane's thin plastic door and step onto a metal 2 x 4 plank. After an instant to readjust himself, my instructor, a young South African with more than 5,000 jumps, joined me on that plank and then stepped off.
We were now diving through the air, joined at the shoulders and hip, spiraling and rotating like plummeting birds. Contrary to what you might expect, there is no rush to the stomach like you'd experience in a roller coaster. No, this is a different feel, my friend. Quite simply, you feel like you're flying, complete with a raging yet serene soundtrack provided by the rushing air and your own cries of exultation (Yeaaahh! Fuck yeaaahhh!) and an immediate sense that it's a moment you'll remember forever.
I want to go again, this time at night. I'm told without being able to see the ground below at higher elevations, say 18,000 feet, there is an even greater sense of flying because you don't see the endzone.
Who's coming with me?
posted by Joshua Rhett Miller at 10:29 AM
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