Years ago when I was young(er) and… brave… and a little stupid, I suppose, I got into skydiving.
Really.
At about $120 a jump, it was an expensive hobby for a 20-something college grad who was waiting for her big break professionally– but it was SO worth it. I loved the rush, I loved the people, I loved the feeling of accomplishment when I reached the ground safely. Nothing in life seemed so hard after jumping out of a plane.
The first time I jumped, I went with a group of people to an obscure place in central Florida. We all took the class, got slotted into various flights throughout the day and met our tandem masters–the coaches who would guide us before and during the tandem jump. We were given flotation devices to strap around our waists in case of a water landing (followed by a few jokes about what to do if we should encounter an alligator–or its angry mother). At some point, I was told I’d be going up with a group of experienced divers… which meant a bigger plane and a higher altitude. I thought they were joking. They weren’t. I’d be jumping from about 14,000 feet. That’s 4,000 feet higher than expected. Cool… right?
When it was my turn at last, I was nervous, but exicited as I boarded the plane. We sat on the floor with everyone else and waited patiently as the loud aircraft gained altitude. Skydivers are, by definitition, a little crazy and that plane was filled with a definite nuttiness. We reached 14,000 feet and one by one, the divers tumbled out of the plane. But when it came time for me to jump, my tandem master and I–buckled together in 5 different places–shuffled to the front of the plane. I approached the door hesitantly–which is pretty funny if you think about it. Was I afraid I’d fall or what? Kinda the point, right? There was a steel bar that ran across the open door and I instinctively grabbed it as we approached the exit. But before I could wrap my fingers around it, however, the tandem master karate-chopped my wrists, forcing me to let go. He quickly counted to three and we leapt from the plane. Even now I get butterflies thinking about the feeling of the free fall (the higher altitude meant a longer free fall).
He told me later that the karate-chop was necessary because he’d seen too many first-time jumpers grab hold of that bar and refuse to let go. Fear has a way of giving one superhuman strength, he said, which isn’t always a good thing when you’ve paid $120 to jump from the plane.
I landed safely that day. And went on to jump several more times. Sadly, however, so many years later… I find myself holding on to that steel bar right now. Hesitant. This is no plane either. It’s life. Am I afraid I’m going to fall or what? Kinda the point isn’t it? And this time, it’s up me to me to give myself the old karate chop and just jump.
P.S. I have a video of that first jump. They edited it to two Queen songs. I get a steely confidence whenever I hear the songs to this day. The first (played during the flight to altitude): “One Vision.” An excerpt:
One man one goal one mission,
One heart one soul just one solution,
One flash of light yeah one god one vision
The second song (played as I soared through the sky): “I Want It All.”
Enough said.