The Feeling Of Jumping From A Perfectly Good Airplane

Tonight, I’ll tell you about the feeling of jumping from a perfectly good airplane. Here’s how it happened for me…

“Wanna see a video of my friend and me skydiving?” he asks.

You watch.

“I wanna go!” you say.

Wait. Really?

Maybe.

No way.

Okay, yes.

A few months later, you’re on a flight to Vegas because skydiving is better when you don’t jump in Colorado, where you’re a mile above sea level and free falls are shorter. Things you learn before jumping from a perfectly good airplane.

You’re in Vegas. You’re jumping out of an airplane. In the morning.

What in the everlasting F&#@ were you thinking?

“You don’t have to go,” your bones whisper.

“Yes, you do,” bravery answers.

“Nope.” you decide. It’s not like anybody’s making you. You’re allowed to change your mind about free falling at terminal velocity.

“Terminal velocity?” you think. “The word ‘terminal’ is in there for a reason. It probably means it’s fast enough that your heart stops or whatever.”

In skydiving, you fall at something like 120 miles per hour.

As in, double the speed limit on a freeway.

You only sleep because you’ve changed your mind. People die skydiving. Skydiving is crazy! Who in the heck jumps from an airplane that isn’t on fire?

You wake, eat breakfast knowing you’re wise because there’s so much to do in Vegas besides stupid adrenaline-junkie things like skydiving.

“You ready?”

“Yes,” you say, while inside you’re fighting to not collapse from panic.

You imagine what your body would look like, collapsed from panic. A semi-deflated balloon, probably.

You drive to the skydiving place. It’s in the middle of nowhere. Since you’re pretty sure you’ll die today, this feels appropriate.

You get to the skydiving place. Sign waivers saying you won’t sue if you break your ankles break your life.

You put on the jumpsuit.

The guy shows you how you’re going to jump out of the door. He’ll be strapped to your back, and has done this more times than he can count.

That doesn’t change the fact you’ve done this zero times.

You’ve always wanted to do this.

“Shut up,” you say to your bones that imagine themselves shattering to more pieces than the doctor will admit when he calls your parents saying you’re a splatter in the Nevada desert, but signed a waiver.

“So sorry,” he says.

“What in the everlasting F&#@ was she thinking?” your parents ask.

You get in the plane. You’re glad you have a parachute strapped to your back because the plane isn’t much larger than a bathroom and it’s made from Coke cans.

The plane ascends. It’s loud.

You’ll soon know the feeling of jumping from a perfectly good airplane.

You’re sitting behind a pilot next to some dude you met five minutes ago who’s going to pull the cord that’ll save your life.

“So, um, has anybody ever changed their mind, like now?” you ask. Yelling, because flying in the tin can is loud.

“Almost all,” he replies. “But most end up jumping.”

“Stupid,” you think but don’t say.

You get to 14,000 feet. You’re fine.

You’re doing this.

You want to do this!

Then, they open the door. And you look down. You’re so high up that the ground looks fake.

The guy straps you to him.

Your body is nudged and tightened but you’re just looking out the door. Wondering why anybody jumps from a perfectly good airplane.

He asks whether you remember to hold your arms out. Legs together, bent at the knee, between his.

You hesitate.

What in the everlasting F&#@ were you thinking?!?!?!

Your hands grip the door. Your heart jumps out of your chest and into the ugly suit you’re wearing.

You’re basically almost dead.

“Hey,” the guy says. “I wanna go skydiving. Do you wanna go skydiving?”

“YES!”

And you jump. From a perfectly good airplane.

 

You’re falling. Panic.

Zero thoughts.

Adrenaline rush.

There’s no thinking when you’re falling to the earth at 120 miles per hour.

Breathing’s hard. Air rushes in too fast.

Everything’s too fast.

You put your hands out.

Your knees and legs are doing the right things even though you don’t remember telling them to do anything.

You see the ground. It’s far away.

“This is awesome,” you think.

You laugh. Yell something at the guy but he doesn’t hear.

You could do this all day.

You’re a bird.

You’re Supergirl.

You’re brave and this is better than anything.

You fly for a while. You could crush kryptonite.

He pulls the cord and it feels like being ripped up into space.

You’re not being ripped into space. You’ve only slowed down.

He says words to you.

You say words back.

You like this.

He points out Hoover Dam.

“I’m a bird,” you say.

“Yes,” he replies.

You can do anything!

Then you get to about 400 feet. It felt like you were floating but now the ground is rushing at you and you realize again why you’d changed your mind earlier. You’re gonna die.

He must feel you breathing or something because he says “That’s called ‘ground rush.’ Just look straight ahead.”

You’re falling fast.

You’re falling hard.

Your legs will disintegrate upon landing.

Your poor parents.

Your poor future.

But then you land, and your legs remember to go out and your butt remembers to go down.

You’re not dead.

You’re shaking.

You’re laughing.

You can do anything.

You just defied death.

“I wanna go again,” you say.

And you do.

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post. Each week, Kenya of Sporadically Yours and I give you a prompt and a theme. This week’s theme is simply to share a photo and the story behind it (I found the photo of me on the ground but then had to include others).