I choose my spot on the plane's floor, prudently far from the open door, and continued to feel no fear. The plane took off and began a series of corkscrew turns with the nose angled up. Directly over the landing field, we climbed and climbed. 4,000 feet. I was enjoying the view. 6,000 feet. The houses and barns looked like postage stamps.
Eight thousand feet of altitude is nearly two miles up. Ponds resembled frozen peas. I began to think about the height. I decided I really didn't want to do this. By 9,000 feet, panic churned in my gut. I wanted to curl up in the fetal position until we touched down again. Except that my brother, my girlfriend and about 100 macho idiot skydivers were looking up expectantly at me.
My mind darted from one improbable escape scenario to the next. Finally, 1,500 feet of our final altitude, I devised a plan. I would buy my way out. I'd offer the jumpmaster money -- big money -- to invent a scenario in which I defend my honor while not actually jumping. A plane breakdown. A parachute malfunction. Somebody other than me getting sick. We'd fly back to the ground and I'd be in the car and on my way home in minutes. "Too bad," I'd say. "I'll do it next week, or next month. What a disappointment."
Suddenly the pilot called out: "Ready to jump." It wasn't a question.
The jumpmaster gestured toward the door. He probably saw the waning enthusiasm in my face. This was the moment to scream out my offer. Instead, I crawled over to the door. I, who couldn't stand on a second-floor balcony without becoming woozy, reached out and grabbed the wing strut. The wind blew me almost horizontal. I got one foot on a tire and assumed the position. The jumpmaster flashed his maniacal grin. "Holy mother of God!" I mouthed. I am not Catholic.
I don't remember making any conscious decision to jump. The jumpmaster and I exchanged glances and the next thing I knew my limbs were flailing wildly -- a marionette in the hands of a hyperactive child. I felt a rush of abject horror. The jumpmaster was right behind me. He must have sensed that something was amiss because be moved toward me.
Just then my training kicked in. I puffed out my chest, spread my limbs wide and became stable. The jumpmaster drifted into my field of vision and pointed at my altimeter. My fifty seconds of joyous flight felt like three. I pulled my ripcord. After the gentlest of shocks, I was upright and floating down on a proverbial cloud.
I landed like a sack of cement and lay on the ground as several people rushed toward me. "You okay?" I heard, but didn't answer immediately. Then: "You're a skydiver!" My jumpmaster was still screaming at the top of his lungs. I considered beating the shit out of him. Instead, I replied, "Perfect in every respect."
According to the literature, people who complete the Accelerated Free Fall course almost invariably go on to become certified jumpers who enjoy years of skydiving fun. Jumping again has never crossed my mind and I am still terrified of heights. Nevertheless, I took the liberty of pronouncing myself cured -- not of acrophobia, but of any further desire to exorcise the affliction. It's fitting in nicely with my new old-guy image, which thankfully calls for less courage and more wisdom.
Kent Doyle is a fiftysomething divorced bachelor living aboard a 44-foot trawler on the Jersey side of New York Harbor. He has built hang gliders in Buffalo, run a car company in the West Indies and written software in Manhattan without distinguishing himself at any of these. He hopes his next challenge will be ???
Print this page 
Send to a friend
