That first step is a doozy

Three seconds earlier, I was in that plane.

Well, you can’t say it hasn’t been an interesting week.

Tuesday morning, March 26, I was awakened not by my alarm clock, but by three mini-ninjas creeping into our quite-dark bedroom and pile-driving me to the strains of “Happy Birthday.”  I was then awarded three homemade birthday cards for my trouble.  Just when I thought the surprises were over, Holly handed me a folded print-out from Living Social and announced that Friday, I would be leaping out of an airplane.  One that was, in fact, some 10,000 feet in the air.

But that wouldn’t be my first uncomfortable leap of the week.

The following day, Wednesday, I drove into work at my office at Tennessee Farmers Cooperative for the last time.  I had spent the past 10 years, two months, and 27 days working first as a communications specialist and mostly, as assistant editor of the Tennessee Cooperator magazine.  This Monday, April 1, I’ll start my new job as director of communications for the Tennessee Wildlife Federation.

It’s a very peculiar thing to leave a company on good terms after a long tenure of work, but without retiring. At TFC, it doesn’t happen very often.  Neither I nor my coworkers knew how to behave.  Conversations with people I’ve known for years were very stilted.  People were unsure if they should hug, shake hands, fist bump, or what.  Several people I passed in the hall early in the day promised they would stop in before I left, but didn’t.  I understood.  Goodbyes are no fun.  They make you cry even when you’re not particularly close to the person, and I don’t know why.  Maybe it’s the finality of it that makes us squirm.  We both assure each other we’ll “not be a stranger,” yet we know we’ll probably never see each other again.  It’s an interesting dynamic, to be sure.

The day was somewhat of a blur.  Down was up, up was down, and although my surroundings were familiar, everything seemed to be off.  Yet when I drove through the security gate and off the property, I felt a breathless exhilaration and anticipation for what lie ahead.

As a matter of fact, it was much like jumping out of an airplane, I would soon learn.

This morning, Friday, March 28, my family and I arrived at Chattanooga Skydiving Company at around 12 noon.  It was overcast and uncomfortably cool.  The five of us walked into the hanger with no idea what to expect, but the kids quickly discovered two friendly “house” dogs who submitted to their petting frenzy. They were in good shape.

The first 30 minutes involved signing my life away, literally.  You would think that the first “I promise not to sue you if I end up as a greasy spot” would do the trick, but apparently, this must be worded 48 different ways to satisfy a lawyer.  It also doesn’t exactly help the confidence level of the jumpee, I might add.

After the paperwork mercifully ended, we moved on to the pre-jump briefing.  The seven of us, all jumping in tandem with an instructor, were told how to sit in the airplane, how to make ourself a banana upon exiting the craft, and how to properly hold our feet at landing.  (I’ll get back to the banana part in a minute.) The group consisted of myself — the only loner — as well as six co-workers from the nuclear plant in Oak Ridge, Tenn.  They were jumping together in celebration of the retirement of a short, gray-haired lady named Dartha, who was either seriously lacking in personality or too terrified at the bleak prospects outlined in the aforementioned legal document to carry on much of a conversation.  Regardless, I still thought it was incredibly cool for these people to all be skydiving together.

We split ourselves into two teams: four girls and three guys.  The girls went first.  The guys and our little gaggle of family and friend supporters watched as the plane zig-zagged its way up to 10,000 feet before tiny black dots began popping out of it.  Soon, colorful chutes blossomed above the black dots, much to the relief of those watching.  A grim-faced Dartha landed to the cheers of our group, followed by the others.

Then, it was our turn.  The other two guys and their instructors board the sleek aircraft first, but my guy, Andrew, had been the last one down from the previous group, so he was last in gearing up for the second jump.  As if I needed anything else to heighten my anticipation…

Andrew was perfect for me.  Around my age — mid-40s, I’m guessing — and of the fringe culture with which I enjoy a certain level of comfort.  I’m guessing he’s former military, but kept forgetting to ask.  He was dropping f-bombs in casual conversation, but was serious and diligent in his preparation, attuned to every detail.

Finally, it was time for Andrew and me to board.  I received an inordinate amount of hugs, kisses, and “I love yous” from my very nervous family and climbed aboard.

The others were already in their places on bench seats running alongside the fuselage, which meant Andrew and I sat on the floor at the back of the plane, beside the exit door.  This also meant that we would be the first out.

I was cool with that.  I didn’t fancy the idea of watching the others go first.

The plane roared into the gray Chattanooga sky.  As we rose, Andrew, now strapped to my back, made multiple adjustments, tightening the connections more and more as we approached our target altitude.

I tried to look out the windows and enjoy the view.  I really did.  The splendor of the Chickamauga and Nickajack lakes, along with the Tennessee River and the vertical topography of the region is nearly without compare.

But I would soon be jumping out of this airplane.

Instructions raced through my brain.  When he opens the door, scoot your butt to the edge, drape your feet over and then under the plane, grab the harness with both hands, put your head back against Andrew’s chest, two rocks and then tumble out on three, arch your back and legs to make a human banana out of yourself, wait for a tap on your shoulder, at which time spread your arms out, look for a “hook ’em horns” gesture meaning all is good or a tap on the leg meaning “you’re doing it wrong,” and above all, enjoy yourself!

But, be sure not to die was what I was thinking.

Now, project yourself into my shoes and in the moment.

Suddenly and WAY before I expect it, the airplane throttles back and levels off.  Andrew yells, “Here we go!” into my ear and holds out his left wrist to which is attached a video camera.  I realize we’re now “rolling,” so I scream and shout with bravado while inside, I’m all “Oh, holy shit, I’m getting ready to do this.” Andrew raises the door and tells me to scoot to the edge.  Out go my Brooks running shoes (still containing my feet) into open air 10,000 feet above the ground.  Then my knees.  Then my thighs.  Then, for a horrifying second, my butt leaves the edge while Andrew’s butt is still on it.  Is this right?  Am I screwing up??

One!  Two!  And we’re gone.

We tumble twice.  Sky, ground, sky, ground.  I reflexively look down, but remember the banana and throw my head back.  We level off and Andrew taps my shoulder.  My arms fly out like a kid playing airplane.  It all happens within three seconds.  We’re soaring.  The 30-degree wind whips past my ears, makes waves in my cheeks, and zips across my shaven head.  My face cracks into a wide grin.  I shout jubilance!  I’m yelling over the wind.  Andrew’s gloved “hook ’em horns” gesture shakes before my face and he’s yelling “Hell, yeah!” into my ear.  A spectacular vision spreads out beneath me, and I try to take it in, but my memory rejects it in favor of the exhilaration of flying.  10 seconds, 20 seconds, 30 seconds…  My internal clock, my human survival chip, alerts me that deployment is soon, although I have no practical knowledge of this.  A tap from Andrew confirms it.  Deceleration!  Yelling!  Sweet!  Awesome!

Nausea.

My stomach says, “Would someone explain to me just what the hell is going on?”  Fight it.  Fight it.  Pick out a target on the horizon.  Andrew lowers the yellow control loops (my terms) and says, “Here, man!  Put your hands in here and fly this damn thing!”  Pull left to go left.  Right to go right.  There’s the target below, the hanger with a cluster of little black dots moving about.  I relinquish control back to Andrew.  He puts us in a series of spins and dives.  Lower, lower.  Stomach ain’t happy, but face registers happiness for the camera.  Hell, yeah! Woohoo!

The ground approaches.  “Hold your feet up!”  I do, but my heels clip the ground anyway, and there’s a twinge in my left calf muscle.  We’re down!  It’s over.

I’m sick.  I’m exhilarated.  I’m in pain.  I’m breathless.  I’m alive.

It’s Wednesday all over again.

It’s been quite a week.