I used to think I could do anything. Starting with baby steps, of course. No roller coaster too high, no motorcycle too fast. Move to New York City, not far enough. Move to West Berlin, that’s better. How about Rio de Janeiro? Those baby steps take me to a dozen different countries and the world is my oyster!
Then there are the baby steps of my first born. Now I’m responsible for another life, and then a second and a third! I’m a wife and a mother and I no longer indulge my wanderlust or my need for speed or much else beyond making sure I can get out of bed in the morning and do the best job I can to keep these beautiful blessings healthy, strong, and wiser than me.
Soon a roller coaster makes my heart pound too fast and do I really want to get in the lake and swim with stuff I can’t see? Get a good night’s sleep, eat right, don’t drink too much, set a good example. In a couple of years I earn the title Fun Hater from my daughter and I’m proud of it!
Except my children are grown up now and my eldest thinks it would be fun for me to go skydiving. Right. Conversation forgotten until this summer when we drive to North Carolina to visit and a plan is afoot to get me to jump out of a perfectly good airplane.
I’m under the impression we’re going to a car show, and as directed I’m wearing good sneakers so I can stand around for awhile. I don’t see this coming until we drive into a parking lot in Raeford, NC, and I notice an airplane out in the field next to a sign for the “Golden Knights,” and it suddenly occurs to me I’ve been set up! My son opens up my car door and I don’t know what to say except, “You aren’t going to make me do this, are you?”
Apparently, this is to be my 60th birthday present. There is some coaxing, a bit of prodding, a couple of hours to think about it while we wait for our turn on the manifest. I am terrified. But of what? Not of getting hurt, because I really don’t think that’s going to happen. I’ve locked up some part of me in a place so small, I can’t even name what the fear is but it’s BIG! I’m scared of being scared.
Time to suit up, finally. A 24-year-old man named Jesse explains to me we will be attached to each other at four different points. This will be his 6th jump today. When we exit the plane, I should tilt my head back, keep my elbows in, and bend my knees with my heels tucked into his butt. I feel like “dead woman walking” as we board the small propeller plane along with a dozen others, all young men except my husband who has graciously agreed to accompany me for his first high altitude jump.
Inside the aircraft there’s an atmosphere of high adrenaline and excitement. We’re arranged on bench seats along the walls. I have trouble buckling my seat belt, which seems pretty silly to me. The plane ascends rather slowly, and it’s cold up here. About five minutes up a few fellows move over to the door, crank it open like a window shade, and unceremoniously exit the plane for a low-altitude jump. I’m sickened by the thought of them tumbling out the door. Am I really going to do this?
The door is closed again and we continue to ascend, higher and higher, over fourteen thousand feet up, two and a half miles above the ground. I can barely look out the window, but I know there’s no turning back now. I’ve made up my mind. I sit on Jesse’s lap and he tethers us together at the four points. The door of the aircraft is being raised again. I look back over my shoulder at my husband. Now Jesse and I are shuffling toward the exit and we’re crouched at the door and I squeeze my eyes shut. I can do this, but I can’t look.
I feel a tremendous drop in my stomach and the air is rushing around me. I open my eyes, because I’m not going to miss another second of this. The sky is huge and bright and blue and I’m part of it. Jesse taps me on my shoulder and I loosen my grip on the chest straps, open up my arms and unbend my knees. I’m flying! Looking around me I see other divers in the air but I feel wonderfully alone. Below me, Louie, who jumped out at the same time so he could video me, is descending fast, faster, until he’s a black spider against the huge white cloud below. Time feels unimportant. I know soon we’ll be passing through that cloud. What will it feel like?
Before I can imagine it, we’re through it and Jesse has pulled the chute. There’s a big uplifting movement as our speed slows and now we’re floating, tourists in the sky. The world below us is grand, fields and roads and little lakes stretching for miles. I’m in no hurry to land. I want to savor every moment of this experience. I’m chatting with Jesse about how my son is with the 82nd Airborne and dropped into Normandy in France this past D-Day. I’m mom again, but I’m someone else as well.
I can see the airport we started out from and as directed I pike at the waist, raise my legs and we land standing up. Jesse releases me to collect the chute. My son and his girlfriend are running toward me. I’m so happy, so very happy! Now my husband has landed and we gather together for a picture. My son is proud of me, and I’m feeling pretty pleased with myself as well. When I tell him I closed my eyes when we exited the aircraft, he says I had a night jump. I like that! For the next 48 hours, I’m smiling, my heart is light and I know something in me will never be the same.
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