Skydive! A First-hand Account

You are going to jump out of a perfectly good plane. Sitting on the floor of the tiny aircraft, wedged in tightly between the bodies of new jumpers, instructors and crazy, long-haired hippie thrill-seekers, you gaze out of the window as the houses and trees shrink below you. You think that you must be high enough, but when you check you are only at 4,000 feet. 9,500 more to climb before you jump. You start to sweat. Your instructor, Nigel, is a cheerful Brit who is chatting in your left ear about jumping in Hong Kong and the Cayman Islands. You ask if he has ever had a bad jump. He replies, "Just that one time . . ." but that is all you need to hear. Your stomach is churning. Suddenly, the door opens and it is time to go. You watch anxiously as the others are sucked from the plane. At last, it is your turn. You walk, crouched down, to the door. You stand on the edge, overwhelmed by the vastness before you. The wind whips and wails around you. Your toes hang off the plane's edge -- nothing between you and the earth 13,500 feet below . . . and then, you jump. 

The wind is bitter cold and slaps violently against your skin. As you plummet toward the earth at an alarming speed, you are struck by the immense land stretched out before you, bending slightly toward the horizon. Suddenly, the parachute opens and you are jerked upwards. You are now floating peacefully on a cloud. You look up at the piece of cloth that saved your life. You look down at your feet hanging above nothingness. You look straight ahead into the shocking blue sky and you start to laugh.