What It Feels Like....

....To Jump From A Plane

When I was…? Must’ve been shortly after I turned 26, so that was 1991…In 1991, I jumped out of a plane 7 times. Why 7 times? Did I suddenly wise up? No, I had to do it at least 7 times because up until the 6th time I was on a static line and on the 7th time I got to pull my own ripcord and decide how long I wanted to free fall all by myself. Sitting here now in my overstuffed chair, the reason this was important to me escapes me, but at the time, it was a pressing issue.

A group of us somehow came to the conclusion that skydiving was just the ticket for us! We needed a good adrenaline rush, right? Why not, right? Hey, none of us had kids yet, right? Like that’s the one weighty factor in deciding whether to hurl oneself out of an airplane or not. “Don’t have kids? Might as well…” One thing led to another, somebody found a place (Rome Airport), somebody else made the reservations, and the next thing you know, we were all zooming up I-75 to pay for the privilege of taking our lives into our hands.

We had to take a class that lasted all day long. It was a real buzz killer too because were all hopped up for days before hand and the waiting was torture. Having to sit through the tedious details like learning how to deploy your backup chute or how to untangle your chute if necessary was just like standing there asking us repeatedly, “Are you sure? Are you SURE NOW?” We didn’t get into a plane until sometime around 5pm. It was November, so light was an issue at that point, but we were adamant that we get our jump in THAT DAY (“I already planned suicide for today; really I can’t work anything in tomorrow”).

So, up we went in a rickety little 4 seater, with a pilot, a jump instructor, and four jumpers all crammed in. They taught us that the heaviest goes out first. The plane rocked when he let go. I went next to last, thankyouverymuch. Ching (his nickname, I can’t even remember my pal’s real name) was one of those suuuuuuper skinny guys whose waist was like…27 inches, so he weighed less than me and got to go last. When you go up in the little plane, everyone sits on the floor except the pilot ( did I mention they have taken the seats out?). T he door is open the entire time and it’s really noisy and the floor shakes, well, the whole plane shakes, and it feels like you’re getting blown all over the sky. We jumpers had to wear, what else? Jumpsuits. Goggles. An altimeter on our wrists. And a helmet so that after you slammed yourself into the earth you could still have an open casket. No, just kidding. Skydiving is just ripe for the picking in the area of sarcastic remarks. I’m sure it was veeerrry safe. As safe as it could be anyway.

The plan was that you, the jumper, get into position by the open door, facing the front. There’s a jump instructor there facing you and you have to maintain eye contact with him AT ALL TIMES (do the little “my eyes to your eyes” army type sign). This guy was a real maniac, really just live. You could see the whites all around the iris' of his eyes. You’re up there; the jump instructor is watching the earth below to wait until just the right moment when the plane is over the appropriate jump zone to get you started. Once you’re in the right spot in the air with this giant field that’s behind the airport right under the plane, you are supposed to climb out on the wheel well, and place your hands on the strut on top of the day-glo orange spray-painted hands (this tells you you are in the exact right spot to LET GO).

Of course, you haven’t broken eye contact with Crazed Intense Guy yet. When he gives you “the sign” which was a macho, slingshot-style point straight at you, you’re supposed to let go. Your line is hooked in the plane, so after about 10 seconds, your ripcord is pulled and you float on down. First guy goes. SUCCESS! We all leaned over to watch his descent out the open door (my stomach was so wrenched at this point, I could’ve yakked right into mid-air) and the little tricks he did with his parachute like spiraling or closing it for a faster ride….cool. He lived. Next.

I was third. I did not let go on the first pass. We were “only” up about 3,500 feet, but it was far enough for me to not see things on the ground unless they were moving. Little cars were inching by over on the highway very far below me. I got out on the wheel well. I put my hands on the hands. I kept eye contact “my eyes/your eyes/my eyes.” I got the signal, “GO!”

And I stood there.

I was crazy-glued to that plane I tell you. Nothing on God’s green earth had prepared me to voluntarily fly through space. Especially not the 7 hour class and Mr. Wild Eyes over there. The Crazed One stuck his neck out and widened his eyes at me, “You’re not serious, right?” I cringed at him, “Sorry?” I had to stand out there while they made another pass at the field.

Okay, I’m ready, I WANT to do this, I WILL do this. I stepped back off the wheel well and now my feet were literally flying behind me in midair. I was actually hanging off of an airplane. He gave me the go sign again and I paused. It was his next facial expression that forced me off that wing.

So, there I went, like a sky-born starfish and I’m sure my mouth was in a silent “O.” Then, yank, stop, float. It all went as planned. I spiraled a few times. I “flared” a time or two…that made it go super fast and made me, impossibly, more scared. I actually finally got a little bored. That’s quite a combination, to be simultaneously bored and terrified at the same time. Down, down, down, away from the highway over there, center, center….try to get closer to the hangar so I won’t have so far to carry this giant billow of slippery cloth so far….FLARE…and…ahhh. Good landing.

It was ridiculously thrilling and I felt like I had 3 extra pints of blood whooshing all around inside me. It was weird to land all alone. You want to turn to someone right away and squeeze the innards out of them, but you have to gather up the whole giant production of cloth and slog across the field to where everyone else is waiting. THEN, it was a huge celebration.

We waited for all 98 pounds of Ching to drift out of the sky and then assaulted the first steak place we saw on our way home. I think it was a Golden Corral. Good times. Oh yeah, did that 6 more times, then pulled my own ripcord from almost 10,000 feet, got REALLY bored on that ride down, logged it in my little book and QUIT! Crossed it off the list.