Terrified didn’t begin to cover the way I felt that day. I had clammy hands, a nervous stomach, and sweat beads popping out on my forehead – I was quivering with fear - and that just barely covers my description. Shining in brilliant beams between the clouds that dotted the sky like jet-puffed marshmallows, the sun beat down as the light breeze attempted to cut the degree heat while we drove towards my doom that day, a perfect Texas day. ‘Why couldn’t it rain?’ I thought to myself. What I really wanted to do at that moment was to go back home and hide under the biggest rock I could find in the eight acres of cow pasture we rented, or maybe hide under one of the cows. However, Marty McFly and I have something in common; I, too, never backed down from a challenge of a bully. Unfortunately, that bully wasn’t Biff Tannen, but instead, my loving husband, Nick.
We pulled up to the gray, steel metal building in Bryan, Texas; full of parachutes, jumpsuits, harness’ and other paraphernalia, Nick got out of the car, grabbed his video camera and started filming. Sitting in the car for long moments, I contemplated my fate. Would I actually go through with it? Would I survive? Knocking on my window with the lens of his camera, startling me out of my reverie, Nick asked, “Are you all right?” with a mischievous grin.
“No, I’m not. I feel sick. I think I’m going to throw up,” I replied with a pained expression.
“Oh come on, you’ll be fine!” he retorted.
“Easy for you to say. You wanted to do this. I don’t!” I exclaimed.
“Yes you do. Think about all the fun you’ll have. Think about what a rush it will be. I wouldn’t make you do this if I didn’t think you’d love it.” He countered, taunting me with his boyish love of adventure.
However, I didn’t quite see it that way. “The thing is, and you said it yourself, you’re ‘making me do this’. What if I didn’t want to do it?” I queried.
“But…but I already paid for it. And you said you would…” he looked as a child looked when their favorite toy is taken away from them.
“I know. And I never back down from a challenge. But I’ll have you know, you so owe me big time for this.” I replied.
Getting out of the car, I walked dejectedly toward the yawning mouth of the hangar. I often look at that tape now and laugh to see myself, my bright red hair shining in the golden sun; a big, fake smile plastered on my face; acting as though I’m walking to the gallows waiting for the hangman to put the noose around my neck.
I put on my gear, climbed into the cramped space of the soaring sardine can they called a plane, between the instructor, pilot and cameraman and endured the taunts - references to my intense fear of heights being the topic of utmost fun – while my stomach began doing somersaults in time to the turning of the planes rotors. At 12,500 feet, we reached our cruising height and Dave, my instructor, indicated by tapping me on the shoulder that we needed to get ready to meet my fate. I squeezed myself into the tightest fetal position that I could, slowly worked my way 180˚ around so that my back was to Dave, and waited patiently while he connected the straps that would hold me tightly to him while we soared through the air at 120 miles per hour.
Suddenly, the door whipped open and a roaring in my ears began; I felt as though the entire world opened up and wanted to swallow me whole, I wished it would have. Knowing it was too late to back out now, my stomach began gymnastic floor exercises and rounded it off by twisting itself into knots; I don’t think I’ve ever felt so sick. The cameraman gave me a smile, stepped onto the minuscule step that served as man’s last tether with sanity, waved and fell backwards into nothingness. Then Dave tapped me again, the signal telling me my brush with insanity began now.
Taking a deep breath and feeling my heart in my throat, I scooted slowly to the door of death, careful not to look down, my fear of heights causing me to not want to see the events as they unfolded by knowing I had no choice. Dave’s finger pointed to the step that I needed to stand on much the way I remember Death’s finger pointing to Ebenezer’s grave in “A Christmas Carol”. Gingerly, I placed one foot on the step, then the other, Dave right behind me not giving me much time – for anything. He began rocking back and forth; one…two…three…and we pushed off into thin air…into nothingness.
Amazement doesn’t begin to describe the feeling that free falling gave me. Sixty seconds of the world rushing up to meet me so fast I didn’t feel as though I could catch my breath. Making me feel as thought I were on the ride at the carnival where you stick to the walls and the floor drops out from underneath your feet, the wind pushed at me and the skin on my face flapped back and forth like Dumbo’s ears. Those sixty seconds felt like forever right then.
With a tremendous jerk, the parachute opened and I was yanked up and then dropped back down as though being on the end of a rubber band. We now floated towards Earth, almost a mile up in the air, with the parachute billowing above us like sheets on a wash line. Looking down, the world below unfolded before my eyes. The toy cars moving slowly over the ribbon roads, the black shapes dotting the fields, from that height everything looked so surreal.
Within minutes the ground rushed up to meet us and Dave, behind me, told me to prepare for landing. Trying to recall what Dave had told me, I pulled my feet in, picturing myself sitting on a chair and prepared for the impending impact. My feet hit the wet earth and I started sliding, slithering on my rear in the crab grass and mud, while Dave tried to keep us upright. We were safe…and alive.
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