free falling

There’s no rational thought process when you’re about to jump out of a plane.

I realize this as I’m leaning out the side of a Cessna 180 — which is probably older than me and has been stripped down to metal, bolts and the pilot’s seat.

My feet are on a narrow platform above the wheel and I am looking down through grey wispy clouds at Kamloops, 9,100 feet below me.

In the seconds while sitting on the edge of the door, the chain of events that led me to this moment aren’t exactly clear. Just moments ago, I was watching the needle on the altimeter strapped to my co-diver’s wrist climb into the red zone as we reached altitude, my mouth so dry I could hardly swallow.

On the ride up, I couldn’t hear the three other divers crammed into the plane, talking and laughing. The only sound was the deafening beat of my heart and the rhythm of my breathing — surprisingly measured and deep.

I was dead calm. I’d found my zen.

There’s only one thought: I’m about to jump out of a plane.

“Ready, Melissa?” Sig yells from behind in his thick Dutch accent.

The harness I’m wearing is attached to him and I’m sitting in his lap.

We are jumping tandem.

The wind ripping through the open door and shell of the tiny plane tries to steal his question from the thin air.

I nod. Yes.

“One.” Rock forward.

“Two.” Rock again — and I close my eyes as we somersault head-first into space.

There’s snow in the cloud I’m ripping through on this May afternoon. It pelts my face and neck, stinging like thousands of sharp needles.

I open my eyes.

I am falling from the sky.

Cold — I can feel it slice through my purple jumpsuit and clothes underneath. My hands and face feel numb. It’s in my nose and ears.

It’s hard to breathe.

Chin up, hips down, back arched and hands up. Belly to earth.

Belly to earth, I’m wondering. That’s abnormal. Picture it. The only time I’ve been belly to earth is when lying on the ground on my stomach.

Well, except for now.

It’s the ever-elusive free-fall.

Hurtling towards the earth at 180 km/h, the drag force produced from our tethered bodies equals our combined weight — terminal velocity.

We plummet 3,700 feet in 25 seconds.

Twenty-five seconds of defying all the laws of nature. Twenty-five seconds of pure, unequivocal bliss.

This is what the other skydivers were telling me about earlier in the afternoon — their search for the ultimate high. I’m here, doing what many people never will.

It’s a weightless nothing — just falling.

I’m high.

Then, a jarring. So sharp, so sudden. I feel I’m being bent in half, backwards.

Can’t breathe. The air is hammered out of me as the harness cuts tightly across my chest.

Gasping, I’m searching for air. There’s air all around me, but I can’t seem to get any into my lungs.

“OK, Melissa?” Sig asks, still in my left ear. “The parachute has been deployed safely and everything’s beautiful.”

Parachute? At 5,600 feet, I’ve entirely forgot about the parachute.

I can’t believe I didn’t think, even for a millisecond, about the very thing that’s keeping me from smashing into the ground — and to my certain death.

Finally, I feel the sharp, cold air enter through my mouth and down my airway. It’s OK. I’m OK.

I’m OK.

Soaring over North Kamloops looking at Mount Paul and Sun Rivers, Sig offers me the controls.

I’m driving a parachute.

Is it called driving? I don’t know.

I pull down on the left handle and we swing counter-clockwise at a near 45-degree-angle.

I see the earth. I see the city. Everything looks so small and organized.

The sheer size of the side of the mountain, streets all in a row and houses — many with pools — in predictable clusters interspersed with trees and greenery.

Stunning. Absolutely surreal.

“Ready? Here we go for our landing,” Sig says. “Remember to keep your feet up.”

Knees up, toes pointed out. It’s hard to hold because my harness is so tight, cutting into my thighs.

We’re coming in too fast. We over-shoot the bowl and crash-land in some weeds in the field — belly to earth.

Sig hoists me up and we unhook as the chute floats down around us like a blanket of primary colours.

Bent, hands on my knees, I look up into the sky.

“Did I really just jump out of plane?” I ask him incredulously. I am dazed.

I stand straight — legs, back and neck aching — and the severity of what I’ve just done hits me full force.

And the world is different.

The sky is a mellow orange hue. The ground is soft underfoot, the sand grainy, gritty as I walk. Each blade of grass, intensely in focus, is its own colour, each unique. The warm breeze drifts over me. I feel it on my cheeks and eyelids.

I look at Sig and he grins, blue eyes sparkling. He’s doesn’t say a word. He doesn’t have to. He knows. He feels it, too.

I am alive — vividly and extraordinarily alive — and jumping has changed my perspective of the world.