We finally set the date and drove out to rural Virginia to redeem our ticket. It gets REALLY country REALLY fast outside of DC, and we were in some serious farmland by the time we got to the dirt road leading to the address. I was a bit miffed- in my mind I was definitely expecting an air strip, but as we followed the spray-painted signs on scraps of corrugated tin that said "skydiving", I realized I was not in for such luxuries.
I'm sure the guys who we skydived with were professionals, they had something like 6,000 jumps each to their names, but nothing about this place made you feel like you were in good hands. It was a certifiable redneck operation. Packs of random dogs ran around the yard, there were little kids clattering around in a go-kart, and the woman who put me in my harness was absolutely chain smoking and wearing pajama pants. The random barn where they kept the plane was adorned with an enormous confederate flag, and the plane itself reminded me a little bit of my dad's old 1988 Bronco II (in size and quality.)
As if I weren't nervous enough, this pack of characters who I was trusting my life to would not stop messing with us. I guess it's how they get through their boring skydiving work days. For example, they'd be like "oh man, they put you in THAT harness? I thought we grounded that harness yesterday. Oh well, it's probably fine..." or "Skydiving is really a lot better after you take some E, don't you think, man?" Against all logic, and probably driven by the sensible thought process of not wanting to look like a wuss, I got into the plane. After rumbling down the field we were off, and up into the air.
At 11,000 feet they start a 3 minute countdown. I have to say- it was sunset when we went, and it was like being in a cartoon of heaven. The sky was full of fluffy cotton-boll clouds, rimmed in gold, and below the farmland was bright green. It calmed me-- just a little-- and then they whip open the door. There is a blast of icy, sharp air, and suddenly, your feet are out of the plane on a little ledge. There's no way to describe that "looking down" moment. I know there's no way I could have jumped on my own- but thankfully, I had a push, and then you're falling, falling, falling...
This must be what shock feels like. You fall at a rate of 120 mph and your face and whole body is consumed by freezing, penetrating wind. I thought I'd scream, or flail, or something- but I was totally and utterly without reaction. I was mentally blank. I just watched the ground get closer and closer and let myself feel the burn of the cold on my face. Then- without warning- you are snapped from your stupor and jerked suddenly upright with the opening of the parachute. My guy did some tricks with me, swirling it in fast circles and letting me "steer". In about 5 minutes time from plane to ground, we landed. Brian hit the field a few seconds after me. All we could do was stagger around and say, "Whoah. Oh my god. That was...that was so cool."
Processing 15 gallons of adrenaline does something to you. I was not hungry for the rest of the day, and Brian and I were in a state of semi-shock the whole way home. We hardly talked about anything and parted ways. I crashed asleep pretty early and days later was still trying to process the feeling of the free fall.
Now the million dollar question: Would I do it again? Nope. Not any time soon. It was wild and crazy and shocking and unreal. And for me, that's a one-time feeling. When I think back to that moment where I looked out of the open door of the plane, I still get chills. It was cool, but also utterly terrifying. I feel no need to go rushing back. Never say never, I suppose- I'm sure someone will peer pressure me into it again one day! And besides, maybe it would be different if it was any kind of operation that at least took your picture as you leaped from the plane. At least I have Brian as my witness that I did it!
Now, off to sleep after a work trip to NYC. That deserves its own blog, which I'll try to get to later this week. Peace and Love!
No comments:
Post a Comment