Look After You Leap

“Are you going to give me instructions?” I asked.

“Yes, of course! But the less you know, the better!” he replied.

I suppose there is some truth in that.  It’s best not to think about all the things that could go wrong when you leap from an airplane with 4000 metres of nothingness between you and planet Earth.

Here are the things no one told me before I signed the 14 waivers required to make the jump:

1. You will not have your own parachute.  You know, in case something happens to the guy you’re attached to.  A heart attack, for instance, or a malfunction with his own equipment.  There would be no “if all else fails, pull this string and all will be well” clause.  You kind of expect there to be a back-up plan of some sort.  Nope.  None.
2. You will not have a helmet.  You will have only a silly little hat with no apparent purpose other than to keep your hair in place.  “Then why does he get a helmet?” I asked.  “If you wear a helmet, it would get in his way,” they said.  “You don’t want to be knocking out the guy you’re attached to.”  Good point.  Still…
3. There will be three exceedingly large men snuggled up to you in a very small aircraft.  Like, each of us straddling someone else, in ways that would otherwise be considered overly romantic.  No wonder there was a “no farting” sign on the wall.
4. The aircraft would have no door.  Let me repeat that.  The aircraft would have no door.  Just a vinyl curtain held in place by a few velcro straps.  One expects a door on an airplane.  Something to open before the moment of jumping out.
5. There would be no seatbelts attaching us to anything at all, in case the vinyl curtain was sucked somehow into the stratosphere.  Unless you consider the legs of three very large men some sort of tethering device.  Which would not be entirely inaccurate.
6. All of the sudden, one of the very large men will just hop out.  With a little nod to the other two large men.  Gone.  Just like that.  Poof.  Now you see him, now you don’t.  Good-bye.
7. When the second very large man immediately follows, you will suddenly have much more room in the aircraft.  And a little more fear.  Your slick powers of deduction inform you that you will be next, as there is no one else left.  There is no waiting around to a) change your mind, or b) savour that delicious moment on the edge.  I think I would have liked a few more seconds on the edge.  Really, that’s the experience.  It’s not the falling that makes it a big deal.
8. You’re supposed to close your eyes at the prescribed moment.  Now where’s the fun in that? And what is the reasoning? Is it to prevent cardiac arrest? I would have liked to have taken the risk.  Participated fully in my own demise.  See myself saying good-bye.
9. The 60-Euro photo package you paid for would turn out to be a bit of an annoyance.  The cad with the go-pro would keep bugging you to smile and wave and blow kisses at the camera.  Really? Is that why I’m doing this? I can do that at home, with a selfie-stick.  Leave me alone.  I’m trying to have an experience here.
10. The things you will think are nothing like the things you thought you would think.  For instance: My face is unnaturally cold.  The rest of me is okay, thanks to this fancy sky-diving suit.  But my face: wow.  It’s super-cold.  Also, my nose.  If it starts to bleed, where will the blood end up? Will that be embarrassing? Or just kind of normal?  Also, my face again.  What is happening to my cheeks right now? Surely they’re all stretched out, and likely permanently disfigured.  I am happy for the flimsy plastic goggles (which will leave their imprint on my face for the next twelve hours).  But a full face visor would have been nice.  You know, to go with the helmet.
11. Your ears.  You will endure excruciating aural pain, and there will be nothing you can do.  You will stick your fingers in them (easy, because you have no helmet).  You will swallow funny, and twist your distorted face around, and try to yawn without opening your mouth.  But you will feel like your brain is being sucked out through your ear canals.  You will think things like, “Surely this can’t be normal.  If it were, no one would ever do this.  Are my ears abnormally sensitive? Or are theirs permanently damaged? Will my ears now be permanently damaged? I am a musician.  I need my ears.  Youch.  Make it stop.”
12. And then, as you fortify yourself and your overly sensitive ears, and attempt to find out what it feels like to be free-falling at incredible speeds – bump.  You are suddenly jolted into what feels like a complete stop.  Already? That was a surprise.  Oh, right.  The parachute.  I guess it worked.  Will my ears stop hurting now?
13. The guy you’re attached to will give you the reins to the parachute and encourage you to pull them in various nausea-inducing ways.  The minute you pull one a quarter of a centimetre, you feel a need to vomit. “What’s wrong?” the guy will ask.  “Have some fun!”  “My stomach,” you will answer, and you will feel the disappointment emanating from his macho-sky-diving psyche.  How dull, he must be thinking.  What a waste.
14. Then you will grab your legs, as all good sky-divers do, for the not entirely dramatic landing.  You slide on your butt on the ground, and you realize that that’s why the two very large men had stains on their butts all along.  You now have a stained butt as well, but for all the right reasons.  You have just executed a perfect landing.  It didn’t even hurt.
15. Afterwards, the guy you’re attached to will gaze at you with giddy anticipation and say, “So???? How was it????”  And the only word you will find to describe your state will be “cold.”  You will shake a little, and then take pictures of the sunset that you just fell out of.  Someone will hand you a diploma, and promise you 250 photos and video footage of the entire experience.  “For the memory.”

You know, there are some things in life that you do just to be able to say that you’ve done them.  You expect some big thrill, some enormous sensation of freedom or fear or enlightenment.  But mostly it’s just sore ears and a floppy face.  The fun is in telling people that you did it.  In believing yourself to be courageous.  In placing a checkmark in the appropriate box on your list of unusual life achievements.

“Skydiving,” said the instructor, “is all about waiting, waiting, waiting, for that one minute of joy.  And then waiting, waiting, waiting, to do it again.”

No, I disagree.  Skydiving is not about joy.  It’s about proving yourself.  It’s about flirting with your own extremes.  It’s about knowing what it feels like to do something you’ve only ever heard about.  What that feeling is, be it mid-air euphoria or simply sore ears, is more or less irrelevant.  You know.  You know, and you don’t need to wonder any more.  It’s time to find another thing to do.

BEFORE:

ASCENT:

ON THE EDGE:

DESCENT:

UNDER THE PARACHUTE:

LANDING:

AFTER:

Maybe you!