All I Could Do Was WOOOO

I frequently find myself asking, how did I get here? This exact moment in time, about to do something really stupid? In this case it was definitely peer pressure. I was about to jump out of a plane in Namibia.

Sitting on the ground in the airplane hangar, our safety briefing consisted of two simple instructions; how to jump out of the plane, and where to put your arms. We sat amongst the parachutes as they were packed and were told not to touch them. When asked what happens if the chute doesn’t open, the answer was “You die. Sorry.”

We all laughed nervously.

The ascent wasn’t so bad. A 20-minute spiral upward on a clear day. Out the side of the plane, where a door should have been you could see the Namib desert stretching endlessly to the horizon, and the ocean, shrouded in clouds that looked like they were waves themselves. The view, in all its surreal majesty made me forget momentarily what I was about to do.

My friend who was next to me stayed silent for most of the flight. At one point he grabbed my hand. I looked over at him to see what I can only describe as sheer terror on his face, and then he was gone. Out the open door. The reality of the situation immediately became clear. I was next.

My tandem partner, who had already jumped out of a plane nine times that day, suddenly grabbed my harness and connected us. I questioned the strength of the carabiners that were about to keep me from plunging to my death. My heart began to race but there was no time to hesitate. He pushed me to the edge of the plane and my foot stepped onto the landing gear, the distant golden ground below me. 10,000ft almost creates the illusion of safety, like the ground is too far away to be a threat. Almost. Then I fell face first out of the plane.

My arms were forced wide and I felt like I was flying. For a full 30 seconds. I had always wondered if it was difficult to breathe, plummeting face first toward the ground, but in truth, it was all I could do. The rushing air inflated my lungs to every capillary, to the point that I felt like I would never need to breathe again. I felt naked. Just me, the air, and my deafening heartbeat. Me and the world. It felt like how I wish I could describe freedom to someone who has never been free. Nothing between me and the earth except that which I need to live. In that 30 seconds all my small worries peeled away like old paint in a stiff wind. I could almost see them float off over the clouded ocean. I understood immediately why people love adrenaline. Why they become junkies. That feeling, that rush, strips away everything that isn’t necessary. Because really, what else do you need besides oxygen?

Then as if waking from a dream of falling, my tandem partner pulled the parachute cord, and we were jolted upwards. My stomach took up residence in my throat. “I hope you like rollercoasters,” my partner said as we floated downward, looping and swirling. The earth slowly got bigger, but my feet still looked huge compared to the ground. I tried to step on buildings with my giant foot, but then we’d do another bank turn and my body would again succumb to the crushing g-force. Screaming “WOOOO” was all I was capable of. I tried in vain to appreciate the absolute beauty of the view, the ability to see the curve of the earth, and the shimmering, undulating dunes against the deep blue of the sky, but all I could do was “WOOOO.”

My landing was awkward. My legs were a wobbly mess, and two men had to catch me as I crashed and almost took my partner down with me. Dusting off my knees I leapt from the harness and ran over to my friend, who had also survived. After a lot of hugs and high-fives, I was having an adrenaline-fueled fast-acting gin and tonic, reveling in the joy that comes from surviving stupidity.