Intense Moments, Part One

...here we are again. My topic for today's post is driven in part by all the amazingly forthright, honest blogging that has been going on recently among the people I read regularly. Wendz, it's the little things, Kaat (the other blog), Shelley Rayedeane, you inspire me. I admire your resolve and am trying to learn from it. So, I'm trying to think of ways I can tell you more about me, who I am, etc. And one way I came up with is this, to share some of my life's "crunch time" moments thus far, be they positive and uplifting experiences or otherwise. Starting off, here's one moment (Wendz-inspired again!!!) I shall never, ever forget. In fact, I dream of it regularly ever since...

(this image courtesy of www.jaars.org)

The Porter PC 6's side door slides open, letting a sudden blast of cold air into the tiny cabin crammed with bodies. Take-off was at a summery 26 degrees centigrade - up here, we're down to a cool 14, which feels positively arctic in comparison. I'm kneeling on the cabin floor, head almost touching the ceiling, the harness belts across my chest, shoulders and belly pulling me painfully back against Sam, my instructor, who is cool as ice outwardly, though I can feel his pulse quickening as things start happening. The moment the door went back, three to five guys leapt out, but as Sam has been ordering me around, I've not had time to focus on them. Now, fully belted up and ready, I'm told to move forward through the increasingly emptier cabin on my knees, pulling Sam behind me in an awkward sort of conga motion. As we near the door, my mate Andy (whose stag do this is) sits in the doorway, gives a nervous thumbs-up to the cameraman clinging to the wing strut outside, then leans forward and is gone. Being nearer the door now, I can actually see what happens, and it robs me of all thought except blank terror. Quicker than my eyes can follow, he and his instructor have vanished, become a colourful speck somewhere way below me, then they're gone from view, all in a matter of one or two seconds. Suddenly, the realisation of what I'm about to do hits me like a ton of bricks. I guess the build-up to the event - organising the jump, re-scheduling it at short notice, organising a pre-event meeting with Sam, getting transport for all of Andy's mates, etc. has really helped me to not think about the jump itself. Even the training session this morning somehow failed to make me register just what this is all about. My throat constricts and it's all I can do not to scream. My hands are up at my neck, unable to claw at anything, as ordered by Sam. Oh my God.

(this image courtesy of www.codinghorror.com)

We're alongside the door now and I note how, even kneeling, I'm too tall to fit through. Andy, who's over six foot tall, went out feet first, sitting on the ledge for a moment with his instructor before jumping, but Sam, maybe anticipating my nervousness, has other plans. I'm ordered to duck my head down, then stick my left knee out of the plane into thin air and plunk it down on the plane's running board just below the door. I'm dumbstruck, but try to follow orders anyway. As I lower my head, I can't help noticing that the familiar landscape 4000 metres below me is shrouded by some light clouds. Oh gosh, we're even higher than the clouds! Panic strikes as I lurch out into what is effectively thin air, and I can't help but grab the top of the doorframe as my knee fumbles for the sill. Sam whips my hand away with an angry motion (okay, maybe he wasn't angry, but that's how it felt at the time). Cripes, this is uncomfortable - I'm half in, half out of a tiny airplane with miles of thin air below me and an instructor who's exchanging pleasantries with the pilot and the other divers still to go, including two cameramen who are hanging, grinning, off the side of the plane. My head is stretched back hard as ordered, hands up at my neck as I'm told to grin and give the cameras a thumbs-up. Then, with my head still back, Sam tells me he'll count to three, then go. Moments later, at two-and-a-bit, we're suddenly out of the plane with a jerk, falling as my stomach does an amplified version of that jerk you get when cresting a hump on a roller-coaster. I've instinctively kicked my legs backwards and up like I was told to, back arched. Still, we go through an almost complete somersault before righting ourselves awkwardly in the horizontal position we practiced all morning. My eyes fill with earth, then sky (my head's still back) as I stifle yet another yelp. This is sensory overload - despite the overalls, I'm freezing cold as we accelerate relentlessly towards the ground. Every time I catch a glimpse of terra firma from the corner of my eye, it seems to have come so much closer that I expect us to pull the 'chute any moment now. Meanwhile, I'm gagging on the cold air that's rushing into my nostrils and mouth, threatening to choke as I try my best to control my breathing. My mouth is wide open, both in shock and in an attempt to exhale better - it's not the intake of breath, it's getting the air back out that's hard work at what I find out later is in excess of 150 mph (254 km/h - we even have a speedo "on board"). Sam is tapping my shoulder now, pulling my arms out of their position and into a way more comfortable "wings-out" stance. As I begin to relax (and look down - after all, I want to see where we're going, what this familiar piece of Germany looks like from the air, etc.), someone suddenly pulls on my arm and pushes my head back up again. Jens, our cameraman, has arrived in position right next to us and motions me to smile and do a thumbs-up for the camera. His helmet cam is using the wrong type of lense, but I we don't find that out until later on the ground. Sam and I perform a few spins for him (the tiny brake 'chute dragging behind us means we can easily circle around our own plummet axis, which is fun but a little too fast for my liking), then I'm told to put my hands back in and brace myself. What, already? I've only just started relaxing!

(this image courtesy of www.pacific-skydiving.com)

Moments later, I do the perfect impression of a marionet whose strings have snapped as the 'chute comes out with what sounds like a supersonic bang. Despite myself, my head is thrown forwards, my legs and arms flail downwards and I feel a huge rush of blood down from my head and upper body into my legs. Simultaneously, the belts on my thighs (around my crotch) seem to tighten up as gravity fights the increased drag the canopy above us is creating. Oww! The term "pants on fire" springs to my addled mind. Meanwhile, Sam is talking again, asking whether I'm okay, telling me to reach up and grab the chute's steering lines. "I'm okay, thanks", is all I can manage rather weakly (fortunately, Sam's American, so using my mother tongue is alright) as things finally begin to calm down. The ground has come rather a lot closer than it was before - I can discern individual cars on the nearby autobahn, I can see a town somewhere below me that I think I recognise. Squirming, I try my best to ease the pressure on my privates and allow some of the blood in my legs to flow back upwards. It doesn't work - I can feel myself on the verge of fainting and tell Sam so as black curtains try to close before my open eyes. Pro that he is, Sam immediately starts taking action, making me stand on his feet and losening the belts on my thighs slightly. Unfortunately, his next command makes me want to throw up within seconds - I'm told to pull down on my right-hand guide line as hard as I can. I do and immediately, the whole world starts spinning around me as we swing in a tight circle. This is awful - there are no visual orientation points I can make out by which to reference what is happening, and this makes my stomach lurch. Sam gives out a muted curse as I warn him what's about to happen - I don't know why at this point, but as he tells me later, this is a very common occurance and unfortunately, he's only just discovered he forgot to pack a barf bag for me. I'm terribly embarrassed as my body convulses against his and my breakfast is dispersed upon the landscape below us, but there's nothing I can do and Sam reassures me that it's okay (my admiration for him is immeasurable at this point already. I honestly don't think there could be a better instructor for a novice like me. He's doing great - it's not his fault his charge is being such a wuss.). Finally, one empty stomach and several more sickening spins later, I can see us homing in on the landing circle (a large pit full of gravel) in a graceful arc. My legs still feel leaden at this point, so much so that I fail to obey Sam's command to pull them up towards me. We manage a fairly gentle landing anyway and relief floods through me as Sam unbuckles me and turns to attend to the parachute. Andy and the two mates who did the jump before us are there patting me on the back as in kneel on all fours, intestines still heaving, my jump suit in a horrible mess. God, I'm so glad to be alive right now. We make it up and out of the pit and the guys kindly walk back to base with me (the van that usually does the transfer has deemed me untransportable due to the smell). All kinds of emotions rush in - a feeling of triumph at having made it, shame at having made a prat of myself, a deep calm as I realise I'm alive and have done something I shall be able to bore my grandchildren with, something other people would have been scared to do.

(this image courtesy of www.facilities.upenn.edu, clearly not the jump zone we used)

All in all the day ends well for me (not for the future bridegroom, who has a massive row with his fiancee upon coming home. They still got married, though, and are very happy together, I'm glad to report), but I'm left with various impressions that together make me very suspicious of skydiving as a sport. Everyone has said that it's a Marmite thing (love it or hate it), but what I found most worrying wasn't the sport, it was the people I met who do this on a regular basis. With the notable exception of Sam (of whom I'm extremely unwilling to speak badly. He was ace - a quiet, thorough and gentle instructor, truly professional and friendly at all times), most of the guys (and girls) at the jump base reminded me of every adrenaline junkie I've ever met, except that these people spoke openly of taunting death, taking their fate into their own hands as they aimed for low pulls (opening the parachute late) and daredevil stunts mid-air. Scariest moment for me was meeting the guy everybody else on base thought was a bit loony. This grey-haired gentleman wasn't only wearing a very ugly 1970's jump suit, but more importantly he had just consciously completed a jump with a ripped canopy! One of the instructors was having words with him, but it was clear to me from his grin and impudent manner that he didn't give a toss - he was going to do what he liked, and to hell with those like the pilot and the base's organisers who would be made partially accountable if something happened to him. And that's what I don't like about the sport in a nutshell - many of the people here are married with kids and responsibilities beyond their own lives. In order to maintain a valid license, jumpers must make a fairly high number of certified skydives per year. In other words, Family Mum or Dad can't just go out there and risk her or his life once a year for perks if they want to do their own jumps. They have to spend greater parts of their weekends in spring and summer putting their lives in very, very real danger and potentially ruining others' lives in the process. That, to me, just doesn't seem right - sorry, folks. Maybe you think I'm a conservative fraidy-cat, but this thinking is also why I don't ride motorbikes or do drugs - even though I'm married without kids at the moment, I'm not willing to ruin the lives of my wife and family by selfishly indulging in the kinds of pleasure that has an overwhelming potential for fatality. At least, I won't do anything like that more than once. And, as you can probably tell by now, I'm pretty much cured of any such desires for the moment. I still have recurring nightmares of that one jump, and while I'm glad I now know what people are talking about when describing such thrills, I don't think anything but a complete lack of emotional fulfillment in my life would drive me back there...

(this image courtesy of www.whatdigitalcamera.com)

My heartfelt thanks go out to Sam, the instructor who made this the smoothest possible experience for me, and to Andy for having the balls to come through with an unusual idea for a stag do. Meanwhile, I hope you, dear readers, will benefit from what I've written by knowing me a little bit better and being able to extend the image you have of me. So, there! Signing off...

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