A Perfectly Good Airplane

Our first skydiving weekend was a bust. I guess that goes without saying, since if it had gone well, there would be no "first" and "second" skydiving weekends. Cathy the Communist, Paula, some other dude who's name I can't remember (we'll call him Ringo), and I were planning to celebrate Cathy's 24th birthday all the way from 10,000 feet in the air. To do this, we had to drive way out in the middle of fuck-nowhere to a strange land called Cushing, Oklahoma. There's a Subway there, and also a locksmith/barber shop (yes, you read that right). That's about it.

Oh, and there was the Cushing airport, which you could easily pass without noticing. What makes airports noticeable is the huge amount of space that contrasts strikingly with the urban surroundings. When there's nothing BUT space around, though, you could pass by DFW without seeing it, I'm sure. The Cushing airport consisted of a bunch of small hangars, a teensy little runway, and a building marked "Skydiving Center." It was a great place to jump out of an airplane, because there was absolutely NOTHING for 50 square miles that you could hit upon landing except maybe a cow and a locksmith/barber shop (I swear to God, I saw it with my own eyes).

Our instructor was one of those short guys who feels like he needs to work out all the time and bulk up to make up for the fact that he's short. If any of those guys are reading this, I'm here to tell you: don't bother. It really does not help--just find a short girl, there are plenty of them. The main instructor and all of the other instructors were very intense, and they asked questions of you constantly to make sure you knew not to try to do somersaults in the air or something. A lot of them answered their own questions, which made the classes fairly easy.

"And why do we want to check our rip cord three times before we pull it?"

"Becau-"

"Because we want to know exactly where it is, that's right."

Before we had learned a single thing, however, we had to sign what can only be described as the most terrifying document I have ever read in my life. Since they don't give you a copy of the document, I'll summarize it for you here:

1. You know that skydiving is dangerous and you might die. Here's a list of all the horrible things that might happen to you.
2. It's not our fault if you die.
3. You can't sue is if you die.
4. You can't even sue us if you get injured.
5. Even if WE fuck up by punching holes in your parachute, planting mines in your landing field, or pushing you of the airplane with nothing but Dumbo's magic feather, you STILL can't sue us.
6. If you really want to sue us if you end up paralyzed, okay, but you have to give us $500 in advance for that privilege.

You had to initial every fucking paragraph. You had to sign three or four times in the presence of witnesses. You had to burn the symbol of a parachute into your right temple while bathing in a tub filled with menstrual blood collected from fifty black-haired virgins on the night of the winter solstice. It was like a prenuptial agreement; it may have been necessary, but it was a real bummer to sign right before you commit to something serious.

And then we couldn't go that day, because the winds were too high. I drove back to Texas dreading the next day when I would have to endure everyone in my office asking, "So! How was it?"

But we didn't give up. A full month later, we were back in Cushing. Ringo couldn't come, because he was a chickenshit or something like that. We took the certification test, we did some last-minute training and refreshing, and then...we waited. I think they make you wait a couple of hours so that by the time you actually get on the plane, you're so worked up that your adrenaline rush is optimized for the fall.

And what a fall it would be. The type of classes we took were for the "Accelerated Free Fall." Accelerated free fall is where you fly up to 10,000 feet, jump out, and fall for about 30 seconds before you open your parachute. It's a lot more badass than jumping out with someone strapped to your back, or jumping out from only 4,000 feet with a parachute that opens about one second after you leave the plane. Boooo-ring. We wanted the real thrill, and we were willing to pay the extra cost and take the extra hours to get it.

I was the first to go. I had planned to meet my parents for dinner in Cushing after the jump, but they showed up about 30 minutes before I went. At this point, my heart was slowly rising to the bottom of my throat and I had gone to the bathroom five times in one hour, so I was not in the best state of mind to see my parents. My terror-addled brain told me, "Your parents are coming because you're going to die, and God wants your parents to be able to have one last moment with you that they can always treasure." I seriously almost called them back and told them not to come until I was finished. Besides the irrational fear, I was also hoping to get a welcome-back-to-the-ground kiss from Cathy the Communist, and having my parents around would make any sort of lesbo lip lock very difficult.

But they came, and hugged me, and told me I wasn't going to die, and that I was insane, and Cathy hugged me, and told me I wasn't going to die, and then it was time to get into my yellow jumpsuit and cool black parachute backpack. I told everyone how glad I was the suit was yellow, because it wouldn't be noticeable while I was pissing myself between 8,000 and 6,500 feet (that's about 5 seconds worth of peeing, for you laymen). I strapped on my helmet and walked bravely toward the tiny plane that looked like it had been put together with tin can scraps and bread-ties. The pilot, my two jumpmasters, and some random dude who was training to be a jumpmaster piled in. It was crowded and hot, and the ride up was nauseating from start to finish. In fact, by the time we got to 10,000 feet (which takes a long fucking time), I was so sweaty and cramped that I couldn't wait to jump out of the plane.

Random dude bailed out at about 5,000 feet, and then it was just the three of us jumpers and the pilot. We hit 10,000 feet and Jumpmaster 1 opened the door, which let in a staggering rush of the coldest air I have ever felt in my life. He climbed out on the strut so casually it might have been a diving board over a pool filled with marshmallows. Then it was my turn. I stepped out below the right wing and held on tight until Jumpmaster 2 appeared in the doorway to my left and grinned at me. I had expected at this point that I would need to stay on the strut for a while coming to grips with my own mortality. However, they make you practice your moves so much during training that when you get up there, your body just starts going through the motions even though your brain is screaming, "What the fuck are you doing to us??!!"

Look at Jumpmaster 1 to the right: "CHECK IN!!" Thumbs up.

Look at Jumpmaster 2 in the plane: "CHECK OUT!!" Thumbs up.

Forward, up, down, BACK! We all leapt off the plane at the exact same time. I have to say leaping backwards off the wing and seeing the airplane in the air in front of me was one of the most surreal moments of my life. The airplane disappeared from sight after a nanosecond, however, and we had to arch our backs and face the ground. Each of them had a hand on my suit to keep me balanced, but other than that I was on my own. The air was freezing and rushing past our bodies at 120 miles per hour. I had to keep checking my altimeter and looking from side to side to get more thumbs up from the jumpmasters. At 6500 feet, I wasn't supposed to look away from the altimeter, because at 5500 feet, I had to signal to the jumpmasters and pull my rip cord. Once I pulled it, they immediately let go and floated away.

As I said before, you fall at a rate of about 120 miles per hour. Once your parachute opens, your speed changes to about 10 miles an hour. The roar of the wind is immediately replaced with silence, and you are hanging gently in the air like a windchime. Let me tell you, folks, my stomach did NOT like the transition from 120 to 10. As soon as my parachute opened, a wave of nausea like I have never known swept through my entire body. It immobilized me so severely that for several seconds I was unable to do the things you're supposed to do to make sure that your parachute is working properly. Once I finally did them, my arms were so weak that I could barely pull the toggles down to my hip. I looked out at the beautiful view, registered the fact that I hadn't died, and then thought "This is horrible. I will never, ever do this again. All I want to is to get to the ground, even if I break my fucking leg getting there."

Those of you who know me well know that I would rather scrub the walls of my rectum with sandpaper for five hours than experience even 5 minutes of nausea. I cannot STAND being nauseated; it makes me so miserable that I would stab my own grandmother to death if that would make it stop. Also, when we had trained for the parachute ride, they suspended us in the parachute gear from the ceiling of the hangar with straps that cut into our thighs so severely that everyone was begging for it to end. They told us that it sucked we had to train this way, but the real ride wasn't uncomfortable at all and the straps would suspend us perfectly. BULLSHIT. It hurt just as bad if not worse during the real ride down, and this time I couldn't cheat by extending my legs and touching my tippy-toes to the concrete.

I just kept praying for the ground to come closer so that I could land, fall to my knees, and vomit. Well, I didn't make it that far. At about 200 feet AGL (that's "Above Ground Level" for you laymen), I vomited all over my yellow jumpsuit. So much for that kiss from Cathy, even if my parents weren't looking. My arms had grown even weaker, so I had to muster all the strength I had left to pull the toggles down so my parachute would deflate and let me touch ground. I landed sort of on my feet, but I wasn't interested in having a good landing, so I sort of let my body fall to the ground and drag for a couple of feet before I stopped. I lay there in my helmet, my goggles, and my fouled jumpsuit waiting for the folks in the hangar to realize that I wasn't okay. My stomach was coming out my ears, my head was ringing, and I couldn't hear anything. I tried to sit up, and someone on the radio yelled, "Are you okay?" I shook my head weakly and went back down for the count.

The next things I remember are the terrified faces of my loved-ones rushing out onto the field to see what I had broken. Cathy, Mom, and Dad were just behind the jumpmasters, and everyone was asking me questions, but I only answered the jumpmaster in a voice so weak and strangled it didn't sound like me.

"Are you okay?"

"I threw up on my jumpsuit."

"But are you hurt?"

"No, I'm sick. I threw up at 200 feet. I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

They pulled off my helmet and goggles and helped me sit up. Someone asked, "Was it fun?"

"No, no it was not fun."

"You didn't like it?!"

"No, I did not like it. I will never, ever do this again." My mom broke into a huge smile and said, "Good!"

They eventually loaded me into a golf cart, drove me back to the hangar, and poured me out on a couch, where I lay spinning and spinning and spinning with a saltine cracker and a cold Sprite in my hands. Cathy kept looking at me like I had just told her I was dying of cancer, but soon she had to go up for her jump and I was left with my nonchalant parents and a very sympathetic Paula to comfort me. After 30 or so minutes, I was able to speak and move like a relatively normal human being, but I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that I would never subject myself to that kind of torture again.

Now, though, I'm kind of thinking about going again. Maybe it was just a fluke, right?

I Had a Great Weekend

Even skydiving wasn't the high point. ;)