Earlier this week I fell out of a plane flying at 8500 feet. 30 seconds of free fall, 90 seconds of floating and then all too soon the ants looked like people and my ass was kissing the ground.
How do I even begin to explain the thoughts and feelings I experienced as I scooted toward the hole in the wall of the plane and looked over the edge? It all went through my consciousness in split seconds: nervousness, fear, incredulity, impatience, but never once a second thought. Sonja (my lifeline) started rocking and we fell out. I do believe I saw "OH SHIT" on my mind's marquee for a millisecond before I was grinning like an idiot (who does that as they fall to their possible death) looking at the fast approaching landscape.
Just as I was getting used to hurtling through the air, I felt a wrenching jerk and for a moment in my heightened state (no pun intended) I thought we had hit something. But how? What? Oh. Sonja opened the parachute.
And then we were floating. We spun around in circles and half circles, dipped and turned. Marvelous! I ignored the nausea I was feeling because I was enjoying myself WAY too much. And who wants to race their vomit to the ground?
We got closer and closer to our landing point and the disappointment I felt that it was almost over grew exponentially. Actually touching ground was the only anticlimactic portion of the entire experience. Where was the cheering and the ticker tape? Sonja unclipped me from the parachute we shared and the grin was back in full force. Wow! I hugged people, I danced a jig or two...
So. If you need someone to go with you skydiving think of me. I'll go. And I have coupons.
