So, my first assignment for my summer english class is to write about a life experience. Hmmm...wonder what would make a good story...a first jump, maybe? :-) People who have read it have enjoyed thinking back to their first jumps, so figured I'd share it with you. Steve ________________________________________________ Sometimes I find the most joy from putting a harness on my student, and trying to explain what is to follow. Sometimes it's the walk to the airplane that is the most fun, when they turn to me and say, "I've never flown in an airplane before." Most of the time, it is when we have reached 13,000 feet and the door opens, when this great idea that they had the night before in their drunken stupor becomes a reality. It never seems to be quite as good of an idea when one is staring out the open door of an airplane for the first time with the intention of jumping, and that's where I come in...that added incentive, that little push past one of the widest thresholds imaginable. None of us can ever do something for the first time after we have done it even once before. That's part of the beauty of a "first time". It's the entry into the unknown, the steps never taken before, and the reward that is to follow. In this case, freefall is the reward, the feeling of complete and total freedom from the reality that we have come to know with our feet planted firmly par terre. It's the feeling of wind blowing in your face at 120 miles per hour, knowing that you are trusting your life to a big piece of nylon that you may or may not be thoroughly convinced will truly look like a wing when it is thrown into the airstream. Every jump is fun, every one is exciting, but none will ever be the same as that first leap. Today, I walk with students to a plane that holds 23 skydivers. I can't begin to count the number of people who have told me that it is the smallest plane that they have ever been in, but each time they do, I turn back and tell them about the glorified tin can that was my first ride to altitude. Four years ago, the first week in April, 1998, suited up for the occasion, I took my first walk towards an airplane in which I would ascend, but did not plan to land. I think this was more comforting than thinking of remaining in the craft for touchdown, though, in more ways than one. Not only did it look like it would scream and fall apart at the first sign of trouble, but the sputtering engines didn't really give me that warm fuzzy feeling that I would have much preferred. For some reason, I had the impression that it wouldn't even try to survive through a crash, it would just crumple itself into a heap of aluminum and give up before an ordeal even began. I laugh at my students who look out of the plane at 5,000 feet and exclaim, "This is high enough!!! Can we go now???" I try to calmly, without making them feel ridiculous, explain that anything over 20 or so feet will hurt pretty bad, and probably kill them if something goes wrong...the higher we go, the more time we have to deal with any mishaps that might occur. "Altitude is our friend," I tell them with a smile. I say that now, but when I was in that plane for the first time, I remember thinking many times to myself, "Ok, I think this is high enough!" 11,000 feet was the altitude at which we would be leaving the plane, a fact known to me from the classroom the day before. Each time I thought that we were getting close to our time to jump, I looked at my altimeter, saw 2,500 feet, then 5,000 feet, and I could do nothing but shake my head in disbelief of what I was about to do. I was glad, though, to have my instructors there with me, as well as the man who would record the entire stupidity on video tape. It was nice to have him there to talk about photography and what-not, just to take my mind off of anything else that might try to creep in and make me remember what the hell was going on. I had done a pretty good job of distracting myself...a little too good, maybe. Before I knew it, we were preparing to open the door and do the unthinkable. It had always been said in my household that I would never be allowed to skydive, and at this point, I was sort of wishing that my mom had stuck to that rule and not conceded to let me try it "just this once". At least then I would have had an excuse, and may have been able to save face with my friend for declining his invitation to be completely insane for a day. I don't really remember the point where the clear lexan door was lifted open, but I do remember the image of a big gaping hole in the side of the plane that was all that stood between me and god knows what. "I'm kind of scared!" I told my instructor, over the static like sound of 80 miles per hour of wind. "Good!" was his only response. It's amazing to me how quickly one can forget the simplest things when presented with stress. I don't even remember where exactly my focus was, but I know it wasn't on what I was supposed to be doing. My favorite phrases at the time were two, a calmly muttered, "holy shit...", followed by an equally calm and slightly more drawn out, "oh...my...god...". Somehow, through this sort of mantra, I managed to get my legs dangled out the open door, into what was not just slightly more than a breeze. I didn't mean to tell my instructors I was ready, because as far as I was concerned, I was far from it. Nodding, though, has this icky way of showing approval and acknowledgement...that is SO not what I meant. "OK!" was my first instructor's response, at which time my chanting started to gain in speed and intensity. Turning my head to the right, I received a resounding "OK!" from that side, and the game had begun. I believe that I was taught "Ready, Set, Go", I don't remember a backflip after that in class, but hey, if it works, it works. Regardless of what was supposed to happen, or what did happen, this was now, and I had just exited an aircraft in flight. Flailing, I think, is a good word to describe what I was doing. Anyone who now sees my first video has trouble believing that I would ever have been able to get that lanky, spastic body under control. But again, if it works, it works. That first few seconds of freefall was, and still is, a blur. The first thing that I really remember is the sight of the cameraman crossing into my field of view from the left, seemingly floating in front of us. Floating, to me, is not a word that I would choose to infer intensity, yet here was one of the most intense feelings that I had ever had, and in front of me was what I considered to be a complete and total contradiction. At that moment was when I knew there was more to this that I had to see and experience...it was then that I said simply to myself, "I'm going to be doing this for a long, long time." Continuing to flail, as I fondly remember it, I saw that we were getting to the altitude at which I was to open my parachute. Looking back, the opening was hard and fast. At the time, though, anything that stopped my plummet was perfect. The noise ceased, and a feeling of elation ensued. I was waiting for the sense of accomplishment to overwhelm me, but it never did. Although I knew that I was proud of what I had done, I knew too, that my relationship with the air was only beginning. Skydiving was not to be part of the story of my life, but would shape the whole thing. I had to tie a little string around my finger to remind myself to make sure that the author of my biography would understand the importance of the event...birth was a minor detail that would be mentioned in the first paragraph of the first chapter. Paragraph two, though, would jump forward to that Sunday morning, and mark the beginning of life. Upon my not so perfect landing, as my feet (and subsequently my ass) touched the ground, I yearned for my next jump. I couldn't wait to feel that feeling again, that feeling of seeing the love of your life only in passing, one minute at a time. Up to that point, my family's biggest fear for me was that I would never find something that would become my passion, that I would pass by life, just like I had done with so many hobbies in the past. It's been four years now since that incredible day, and I have made almost 1,700 jumps. As I land and detach my students from the front of my harness, I give them a handshake or a hug, and feel a sense of happiness for us both. The happiness for them is because they have taken an incredible step in their lives, and for me, because I was able to have just a small taste of that experience that neither of us will ever have in its entirety again. Often times I wonder what my life would be like, had I not started skydiving. More times than not, that wondering is accompanied by a disbelief that this is actually what I do, and that my job title is "Professional Skydiver". Some days I jump once, and some days 10 or 15 times. Regardless, though, I always like to have time at the end of a work day to go out and jump for fun, just to get out of the plane and relax. It is then, when I don't have to worry about anyone's enjoyment but my own, that I can hang in the open air, at the mercy of gravity, and think to myself, "I love my life!"
