There was an attempt to…fall out of a plane.

The year was 2001. I had just quit an incredibly stressful job with no other employment prospects on the horizon. In these bleak circumstances, I decided that my best course of action was to jump out of a plane.

Maybe I should elaborate a little. In what was a pretty turbulent point of my life, I was looking for a way to shake myself out of a funk. A friend suggested that it would be a good idea to try out an extreme experience that would take me out of my comfort zone.  My very first thought was “skydiving”. Voluntarily leaping from an absurd altitude, even with precautions, seemed crazy enough to fit the bill.   There were various options for the rookie parachutist, and I picked a tandem jump, where I would effectively be a meaty package for a much more experienced skydiver.  It seemed the least risky option, as if I was going to be 12,000 feet in the air and plummeting towards the ground, it seemed like a good idea to have an expert handy. There were plenty of charities that could arrange a tandem skydive experience if you were able to raise sufficient sponsorship funds, and so I picked to jump for the National Deaf Children’s Society.

Setting these events in motion gave me the kick up the backside I desperately needed, and soon I was gainfully employed again, pestering my new colleagues to sponsor my leap of insanity.  With plenty of generous donations, I exceeded my fundraising target and before I knew it, it was time to take the plunge.

At the airfield, I met about ten other people who would also be on the same plane, and we all had the same excited-but-flushed-with-terror look on our faces.  Our preparation involved practising our freefall position from a daring height of one metre. The key was to spread your arms and legs up and outward, as if you were attempting a belly-flop into a swimming pool.  After going through the full safety drill about back-up parachutes (which ramped up the nerves even higher), we were ready to board our plane. I was introduced to my tandem partner, an insanely cool and friendly Australian chap whose demeanour screamed “Extreme Sports Bro”.  I would also have an accompanying photographer, who would capture my various expressions of terror through the ordeal as a momento. I was strapped to my tandem partner, and with that we were ready for takeoff.

It seemed to take a very, very long time for the plane to get to altitude, and looking out of the window, it started to dawn on me how fucking high up we actually were. Once we reached 12,000 feet, it was time to depart through the open side hatch.  Each charity lemming shuffled towards the gaping door with their pro-skydiver strapped behind them, and then when the signal to leave was given, they would just…disappear.

That approach to the door was one of the most nerve-wracking walks of my life, and the moment when you are effectively dangling out of the plane, held in place by a few straps to your instructor, was frankly terrifying. There was no turning back now. We received our countdown; 3…2…1. Then, we jumped.

I’m told that we were in freefall for about 40 seconds.  I remember being laser-focused on following the instructions from the training; looking forward, belly-flop, but also mentally hoping that we would soon be deploying the parachute that would mean our continued descent to the ground would be as planned, and at a slightly more controlled pace. I was aware of clouds below me, but oddly not of the terrifying velocity that we were travelling towards the ground at this point. All of this was offset with the bizarreness of my personal paparazzi falling alongside us, trying to get me to smile and give thumbs up, which I dutifully obliged.  It wasn’t until seeing the photos afterwards that the effects of the air resistance meant that it looked like I was undergoing an extreme facelift at the time, with my rubbery features stretched out to extremes like a cartoon character.  

Those 40 seconds of freefall passed by in an instant, and my instructor indicated that it was time to deploy the parachute. Despite all of the safety precautions, the overwhelmingly positive statistics, and the fact that this guy jumped out of planes as frequently as I had hot dinners, this still felt like a pivotal, critical moment for me.

Nothing could have prepared me for the intense braking and the feeling of being janked upwards by the straps around my groin as the parachute was released and did exactly what it was intended to do, slowing our descent.  The feeling of relief was instantanuous and massive, and I exclaimed “Fuck me!” which in hindsight was not the best turn of phrase when a massive Australian dude is strapped to your arse.  Now with our silk canopy deployed, I was able to look around and enjoy the view.  There was a sense of calm being so far up from the ground, and as the adrenaline flushed through my system, this moment made the anxiety of the build up and all of the moments leading to this worth it. 

There was still the small matter of landing, and despite my best efforts to be graceful, I managed to topple a bit and fell backwards, landing on my instructor and squashing his leg.  It wasn’t exactly the thank you he deserved for shepherding me to safety through the skies. 

I hear that some people, after their first skydiving jump, get the adrenaline buzz and become thrill junkies, jumping out of planes over and over again as a hobby. Was this ever on the cards for me? FUCK NO. Whilst it was ultimately rewarding, I still feel like I survived a moment of madness rather than participating in a safe, if rather extreme activity. In my mind, a second jump would only be tempting fate, so any of my future activities would require me to have both feet strongly planted on terra firma.