The sky is falling

No wait, it’s just me

MELISSA HIEBERT STAFF

As I watched a plane zoom by in the sky through the window of my car on the way to Steinbeck last Saturday morning, I was filled with mixed feelings. I knew that in a few short hours, I would be jumping out of that little tiny dot and plummeting towards the ground at an acceleration of 9.8 m/s² (minus wind resistance), which translates to a speed of about 185-209 km/h. This was a thought that was both utterly exciting and completely terrifying, especially to someone who has a mild fear of both heights and planes.

My brother, my dad and myself pulled up to the hangar, and were promptly asked to sign a slough of waiver forms that included statements which basically read: “If your equipment malfunctions, even if it is a result of gross negligence on our part, you hereby agree not to sue.” Of course, they make you sign similar waiver forms if you go horseback riding, but it was still none too reassuring.

After the waiver forms were all signed, the eight-hour training course commenced. An enthusiastic teacher headed the class, regaling us with the story of how for his 21st birthday (which took place the day before) he completed 25 jumps, the last of which he performed completely nude. “Man, it was so cold up there, my outie became an innie!” he said, lightening the tone and diverting our minds from the death waivers we had just finished signing.

The course mainly consisted of an instructional video, which gave directions on how to exit the plane, the position to maintain when falling, and what to do if a “malfunction” ever occurred. The class, usually talkative and lively, was dead silent during that section (even though the most likely people to get hurt are the ones who have been jumping forever, and that’s only because they try ridiculously impossible stunts). In between each segment, the instructor answered any questions we had, and then took us outside to practise some of the stuff we had seen in the video.

In the field behind the hangar, there was a rickety wooden structure that served as our sole means of practising how we were to climb out of the plane for real. “JUMPER ONE, BRACE THE DOOR!” the instructor bellowed, in his best drill sergeant voice. “RIGHT FOOT! LEFT HAND! RIGHT HAND! LEFT FOOT!” This was the order in which you were to thrust your limbs out of the door hatch, step onto a tiny foot platform, and grab hold of a beam that ran diagonally from the body of the plane to the wing. After that, you were to step off of the beam, until you were only hanging on with your hands. From there, we were instructed to look under our right arm (where the wing camera would normally be located) to say a final “Hi mom!” before looking upwards towards the red dot on the underside of the wing, and of course, letting go.

It all seemed simple enough, but that’s easy to say when your feet are still firmly planted on solid ground.

After taking a simple test (which you didn’t really need to pass in order to jump, but would hopefully deter people who weren’t paying attention from jumping), we were finally ready to go. We geared up, putting on our multicoloured jumpsuits and helmets. The helmet that I grabbed was the only one that really fit, and was adorned with masking tape and bore the phrase “stud muffin” scrawled in permanent marker. “Wow, at least if I die,” I thought to myself, “I will forever be immortalized as ‘stud muffin.’”

After the instructors carefully checked our packs, we crammed into the plane, which looked a lot bigger from the outside. Inside, there was barely room for movement of any kind. I waved to the group of friends and family who had come down to watch us jump, including my tearful mother, who had been on edge for over a year since we first mentioned the idea. And after that, it was takeoff.

As I looked out the window and saw the hangar and runway fade into nothing but tiny specks and lines, the reality of what I was about to do finally hit me. I glanced over at my brother, and he gave me a reassuring hand squeeze, telling me that everything was going to be all right. Surprisingly enough, I wasn’t as petrified as I thought I would be. The feeling of the plane soaring through the perfect blue sky and the bird’s eye view of the breathtaking Manitoban landscape was enough to calm my mind.

That was until the instructor opened the door and violent winds rushed in and filled the cabin. The divers go out in order of weight, so I was the last one to go. “JUMPER ONE, BRACE THE DOOR!” the instructor yelled, just as had been done in practice. Only this time, we were not in a wooden practice plane safely on the ground; we were 4,500 feet up in the air. My dad braced the door, as my brother and I wished him good luck. He climbed out onto the wing, and I watched intently as he let go and disappeared, swallowed up into the immense blue sky. My brother was soon to follow, and I felt a huge wave of relief as I saw that both of their parachutes had opened, and that both of them were floating gracefully down towards the earth. Now, it was my turn.

The instructor yelled for me to move up towards the opening, and I braced the door. This was it; I was at the point of no return (once you’re out of the plane, you can’t go back in). Holding firmly onto the bar, I stepped off of the platform, and looked up to where the big red dot was situated on the bottom of the wing. It read simply, “let go.” And so I did.

There’s nothing like a good 500- foot plummet to clear your head. When I finally was able to muster some brainpower, I looked up to see if my parachute had indeed opened. It had. Upon the realization that I wasn’t plummeting face-first into the ground, I finally had some time to sit back and enjoy the overwhelming view of the horizon and the land below from outside the confines of an airplane. It was magnificent.

The radio controller gave landing instructions from below, and after what seemed like a short time (though apparently I was up in the air for the longest time that they had ever seen, double the norm) I was back on the ground, met by my family, a relieved mother, and all of the other onlookers, who all asked how it felt and offered their congratulations.

In conclusion, skydiving is, comma, awesome! Though to be honest, it wasn’t the life-changing experience I thought it would be, but the euphoric surge of adrenaline combined with the awe-inspiring feeling of being on top of the world make it definitely something that should be pencilled into life’s “to-do” list.