A solid yank to tighten my harness courtesy of the man strapped
to my back jerks me away from a pesky chorus of mental
”
what ifs.
”
A solid yank to tighten my harness courtesy of the man strapped to my back jerks me away from a pesky chorus of mental “what ifs.”
Good thing, too, because the thoughts weren’t all that pleasant: What if I chicken out right before I jump? What if I puke? What if something goes horribly wrong, and I end up a messy splat on Highway 101?
“When we’re ready to go, hold your arms into your chest, and crouch down like a baseball catcher. Keep low to the floor of the plane,” he yells in my ear, above the whir of the Cessna 206 that had propelled us to 15,000 feet.
I watch as Terry Goode, the professional skydiver videotaping my jump, slides open the clear, garage door-like entrance to the plane. A rush of cold air sweeps up my arms and forces strands of hair off my face. I strain my neck to peer at the green, blue and brown world beneath us.
Terry, perched on the edge of the plane, holds the video camera in his left hand and shoots the panorama. He moves his right hand out in front of the camera, his palm facing the lens, fingers extended. His thumb lays across his palm to form the number four, and I stare as each finger closes in. The four turns to a three, a two and then a one. He gives me a quick thumbs-up.
Terrified. I’m exhilarated, but I’m terrified.
The idea to skydive wasn’t some crazy whim I awoke with that Sunday morning about a month ago. Nor was it a reprimanding assignment from my boss. Skydiving was something I had wanted to do for years, ever since I moved to a small town just outside of Denver in 2002.
There, when the weather was nice, I’d watch from my back yard as hang gliders sailed through the air, catching flight from the surrounding hilltops and floating back to land. Seeing them made me jealous of their freedom and ability to soar. Neither the opportunity nor the cash was readily available for me to try it myself, but I knew someday I’d join them in the sky.
About a year ago, shortly after I moved to Gilroy, a friend told me about his experience skydiving in Monterey. Free falling through the air, he told me, is incredible: You’re engulfed in blue sky, scanning an even bluer ocean and a sprawling world of color that is the distant floor beneath you. Over the course of a year, my itch to skydive grew stronger, but it ended up on the backburner as work and other obligations consumed my time.
On a Monday afternoon during work, I took a break and went to the drive-through at It’s a Grind Coffeehouse in Gilroy. The teenager working behind the window asked me how my weekend was. I answered, then asked him the same.
“It was awesome,” he said. “I went skydiving.”
Ah, yes. Skydiving. I told him about my aspiration to do the same, and then I probed a little. Was he scared? Did he like it? Is he going to go again? His answers: yes, yes and absolutely.
And that’s what did it. The first thing I did when I got back to work was call Skydive Monterey Bay, located in Marina and owned by Gilroy resident Jess Rodriguez. I made my reservation two weekends in advance.
The following weeks were free of fear-inducing thoughts. I kept busy with work and other things, and whenever my upcoming adventure entered my mind, my mental response was, “Oh, yeah, I’m voluntarily risking my life next weekend by jumping out of a plane. Right.”
As I drove to Marina that Sunday morning, I tried to imagine how the poofs of green trees and sandy-brown hills lining Highway 101 south might look from 15,000 feet above. Would I be able to see cars? Highways? Houses?
After arriving at Skydive Monterey Bay, I checked in at the front desk.
“Just you?” the receptionist asked.
“Just me,” I replied.
I was instructed to watch an informational video while filling out some paperwork. I signed or initialed about five sheets, each of which contained at least one statement of understanding that under no circumstances would I would hold the facility liable in case of injury or death. I just kept scribbling my name, all the while listening to the guy on the video explain that I might die. How soothing.
Next I got situated in my harness. Standing with my arms horizontal so my body formed a T, I let the crew of professional skydivers tug and tighten the necessary straps and make sure all was in place. One of the instructors gave a basic rundown of what to expect and what I should do once I climbed into the plane. I repeated his words in my head like a mantra: fold your arms, bend your knees, arch your back.
My tandem jumper Mike Eakins, Terry, two other jumpers and I all hopped on a van that took us to the small runway where the plane coasted in to retrieve us. During the ascent, I stared out the window and watched the world shrink. At 7,000 feet, Terry showed me the altimeter he wore around his wrist like a watch.
“About halfway there,” he said, grinning. I managed a smile sandwiched by gulps.
Mike, sitting behind me, leaned forward.
“It’s gonna get pretty loud here in a minute, so I’m gonna tell you now what will happen,” he said over the growing noise of the plane’s engine. I nodded as he explained where he would connect my harness to his and the signals he’d give during the first few seconds of our flight. A tap on the shoulder, for example, meant it was OK for me to uncross my arms from my chest and extend them like a bird’s wings.
After a few more minutes of ascent, the world becomes almost unrecognizable. We’re at the point where, whenever I’d fly on an airplane to get from one city to another, I’d look at the window and think, “I wish I could jump and float through the air.”
“You ready?” Terry asks me.
“I’m ready.”
He lifts the plane’s door. Mike leans in and tells me to cross my arms. I feel his right arm swing up to grab a rail above us, preparing to hoist himself – and therefore me – onto our feet.
I keep my eyes on Terry’s hand as it performs the countdown. Mike nudges me, and, as instructed, I crouch down and position myself like a baseball catcher on the floor of the plane.
We shuffle our way over to the plane’s edge, and I’m given a split second to survey the unbelievable view while perched on the platform. Farms are green and brown rectangular pieces of a patchwork quilt, bordered by grayish buildings and roads. To my right is the vast, aqua expanse of Monterey Bay, with wisps of white puff floating above.
Terry jumps. In my periphery, I see Mike’s forefinger pointing straight ahead. I feel his weight push against my back, and I use the plane’s edge as a springboard into the cold, crisp, thin atmosphere.
The rush of wind is deafening as air rushes fiercely past my body. For about 70 seconds I’m falling and spinning, simultaneously trying to take in the views and remember to breathe through my nose. My arms are cold – I’m wearing a sleeveless shirt and jeans – but it’s the last thing on my mind.
Mike checks his altimeter every few seconds, and at about 10,000 feet he pulls the ripcord. The change in speed is sudden. It feels like we’ve been wrenched upward, and I watch as Terry – who hasn’t yet pulled his ripcord – seemingly plummets to the ground. The descent feels calm, slow and peaceful. The air warms.
As my lungs acclimate and breathing becomes easier, I start laughing. It’s all I can do. The views, the sensations, the emotions all are breathtaking.
“How ya doin'”? Mike yells. “Look – over there, that’s Gilroy,” he says, pointing to a heap of hills and itty-bitty buildings to our left. “There’s Hollister, and Morgan Hill is that way.”
I squint and try to decipher homes from shopping centers, backyard swimming pools from lakes.
Then Mike tells me to look up. Above us is the splendor of our parachute, an arched blanket of deep purple, bright red and lime green made translucent by the sun. He invites me to steer the parachute, so I place my hands in the front risers and drive us in lazy circles above Monterey. Suddenly the air turns cold.
“That’s the marine layer,” Mike explains.
As we get closer to the ground, I search for the landing zone. Mike takes over steering, and in a few seconds, we glide smoothly to a dirt-and-grass field where Terry and a few other crew members wait.
“Put your legs out so you can see your feet,” Mike instructs me just before we land.
I stick out my legs and let my heels touch down first. My arms involuntarily extend for balance, and I bend my knees in a deep squat as my feet glue themselves to solid ground.
We stand up straight, Mike detaches our harnesses, and he and Terry give me high fives and words of congratulations. I grin wildly.
“You can expect to have that smile on your face the rest of the day,” Terry said.
After riding back to the hangar, I call my parents to let them know I’m alive. Their sighs of relief are followed by a string of questions.
Was I scared? Did I like it? Will I do it again?
Yes, yes and absolutely.
For more information about skydiving in the area, call Skydive Monterey Bay at (888) BAY-JUMP (229-5867) or visit the Web site at www.skydivemontereybay.com. Or, call Adventure Center Skydiving in Hollister at (800) FUN-JUMP (386-5867) or visit the Web site at www.1800funjump.com.
