My hip hurts. It’s tight. Tense. Stiff. I cannot move my right leg. Jeff, my instructor, tells me to sit back, pull the straps around my leg more securely. My hands are shaking, and I can’t manage to close them around the fabric strap. I’m fumbling, and my fingers are twitching. Jeff yells in my ear, “PULL LIKE YOUR LIFE DEPENDS ON IT.“ And I do, because it does. I cinch it tight and try to relax into the harness.
I’m about 8,000 feet in the air, and we’re still climbing.
About an hour and a half ago, I pulled into the tiny Canyonlands Field Airport parking lot in my Xterra, toting my friend and fellow adventurer Kamryn, trying to make myself believe this was nothing big — just a typical Sunday morning down in Moab. Except that I don’t tend to spend my Sundays leaping out of planes. Actually, I’ve never spent any part of any day leaping out of any plane because I’m petrified of heights — more specifically, of falling from heights. So naturally, how did I want to cap off my adventures for Wasatch? By skydiving.
The skydiving school was buried in the back of a long line of buildings. Kamryn and I paced back and forth before finally gaining access to the airstrip by way of a chain link gate. I looked around for the plane I would be trusting with my life. What I saw did not bring me any comfort. And being in the plane brought me even less. A couple chairs were scattered in the open-air prep area in front of a TV that was reeling through videos of others smiling and waving as they hurtled through the air attached to beaming instructors. There’s a large mat behind the row of chairs, flanked by two tall racks of skydiving suits. And behind that — the plane.
Jeff is strapping himself into the harness too, pulling, twisting, clipping. I’m hearing a lot of noises that should reassure me that I’m secured to him, but all I can focus on is my throbbing hip. What if I can’t move my legs? What if Jeff has to drag me out of the plane? I’m sitting in his lap as he attaches himself to me, my legs propped up at a 90 degree angle on the rattling tin of the plane. My hands in their gloves are twitching slightly, but I haven’t really started to panic yet. It hasn’t sunk in completely. I’m in a plane and I’m about to fall out of it. All I’m thinking about is that my hip might demobilize me when the time comes.
10,000 feet. Still climbing.
The plane. It’s tiny, rickety, dinky. That’s what I’ll be going up in. That’s what I’m jumping out of. It’s all I think about as I numbly fumble through paperwork that asks me about a dozen times if I understand that I could die doing this. I signed my life and liabilities away and waited. And waited. And waited.
There are two other flyers in the plane with me and Jeff, but they are going solo. One holds a map, the other a device that measures altitude, I think. Maybe air pressure. But none of us need oxygen — we won’t be up that high. It’s a small comfort.
Jeff turns his GoPro back on and loudly makes excited noises at it. The other two follow suit. He asks me how I’m doing, and I lie — say I’m not nervous — and all three men laugh. The GoPro goes off and Jeff reminds me for what seems like the 64th time, “DO NOT BREAK THE SAFETY POSITION!” As if I would. I’ll be lucky if I can move at all at this point. He asks me to prove to him that I can still move, and I demonstrate, clasping my hands down around my thighs, trying subtly to massage the pounding knot out of my hip. I show him the safety position, too, for good measure. “GOOD,” he yells.
12,500 feet and climbing.
After I watched the film, I got suited up, my hands clammy and cold. I chose the camouflage suit — the pattern soldiers wear — in hopes that it would make me brave. That’s when I met Jeff — his voice was rough and brash and it seemed like he was stuck in permanent capslock. He held out my harness and loosely adjusted the straps, explaining that the real process would begin when we were about halfway up. My eyes widened. My pupils dilated. And I shook my head yes.
Jeff walked me through the safety procedures: arms bent and clutched tight to my body, palms curled into fists — the position I was to hold no matter what during freefall or else. I assured him there was no danger of me breaking the position and he asked me if I was afraid. I slowly nodded. Terrified.
I remember shaking when I saw the tiny, tiny plane. It was obvious that this was my first time and that I was scared out of my mind. But, I figured, if I’m going to die, might as well die skydiving. I climbed in the back of the plane — waved goodbye to Kamryn — thumbs-upped her camera — the plane wheeled down the runway — I exhaled, hard — we took off — and my hip started to cramp.
14,500 feet, and Operation Skydive is a go.
My breath starts to flutter when I realize how high we are. The first full-on scream comes when the door flies open and the first flyer falls out. I don’t stop screaming as the second follows suit. I can’t move. I’m paralyzed by fear and by my hip, which is refusing to cooperate. Jeff hauls me to the door and shouts “PUT YOUR FEET ON THE LEDGE!”
It’s a testament to how loudly I’m shrieking that I can’t hear him. Somehow, I manage to make my legs obey — my feet are on the lip of the plane — Jeff’s feet are on either side of mine — I switch my GoPro on — I’m screaming and screaming and screaming and then —
I’m falling. I’m falling. Fast. I can’t remember every swear word I used, but I think I came up with some killer combinations. It’s about 69 seconds of freefall from 14,500 feet, with about the first 10 being a straight drop. Honestly, I can’t remember a lot aside from the sheer amount of yelling that was happening — on both mine and Jeff’s parts — but I hold the safety position until Jeff taps my shoulder and I pop my arms out. And that’s when I understand.
I’ve seen Canyonlands and Moab before, but floating over it through the sky was utterly different. It was a completely unreal experience to look out over Southern Utah and observe its beauty from a bird’s eye view. Literally.
I understood the adrenaline rush and why it must be a thrill to dive out of planes, but all I wanted to do was fly like an eagle over the red rocks and deep canyons. That was the thrill for me.
Jeff pulls the parachute and we drift to land gently, buffeted about by the sudden wind. I land less than gracefully, rear end first, but manage to right myself eventually. I am on ground. I have survived. I have not swallowed a bug or deafened my instructor. I am alive. These thoughts hit me in small waves. I walk back, return the harness, develop the photos, and give Kamryn the biggest hug I
can muster, as my arms are still shaking.
She asks me, “Was it fun? Did you love it?”
And even though I couldn’t really form a coherent, non-profanity-laced answer then, I can now.
Yes — absolutely. Yes — it was a thrill. And yes — I might one day do it again. wm
But nothing will compare to the first time.