Free Fallin'

Before boarding the Cessna 182 at Skydive Newport, I wanted to let on that I had an insatiable appetite for knowledge, but I think the instructors knew better. Certainly the only time any one of them betrayed any hint of stress or anxiety was when I was subjecting them to an endless barrage of inane questions. While reading and signing numerous liability waiver statements, I learned plenty of pertinent statistics about skydiving. For instance, when you jump out of a plane at an altitude of 10,000 feet, you can plunge to the earth at speeds exceeding 120 miles per hour. The free-fall time lasts between 40 and 60 seconds, and the parachute ride from 5-7 minutes. Jerry, my tandem jumper/instructor who moved from his native Holland to the United States 18 years ago, has 16,000-plus jumps under his belt. I found that to be an impressive and confidence-inspiring number, but I wasn’t satisfied, so I pressed for more and learned the following: The chances of both the primary and reserve parachutes malfunctioning are over 12 million to 1.
Now he had me. Still, I had one more question.
“Should I have worn diapers?”
“I haven’t had that happen yet.”
“Great,” I thought. “I get to be first at something.”
As I zipped up my jump suit and got strapped into my harness, Jerry recited a litany of instructions. At 8,000 feet, he’ll strap his harness – and parachute -- to mine, at which point we were to remain seated while shifting forward toward the open door. I was to stick my right foot out and place it on the platform outside the Cessna’s cabin and do the same with my left foot. I was to cross my hands at my chest, grab my harness, and keep my hands there when exiting the plane with my back arched. After feeling his tap on my shoulder, I was to spread my arms wide like an eagle in flight. Most importantly, after we descended to about 10 feet above the ground, I was to stretch my legs into a sitting position so as not to land on my feet and potentially break any bones.
After Jerry finished, Andreas, the photographer/videographer for this flight, began my mini-documentary by asking a question I do not remember. Nor do I remember what I prattled nervously about while being filmed. Once airborne, I do remember saying into the camera: “There’s no going back now.”
If you picture one of those plastic storage bins that you can pick up on the cheap at Target or Wal-Mart stores, and enlarge it to fit 3-4 people, you have a pretty good idea of what the inside of the Cessna 182 looks like. I unsuccessfully blocked out the image of a large coffin. John, the pilot, had the only seat, and I sat on the floor with my back against it. Behind sunglasses, John looked barely out of his teens, and I told him so, but I don’t think he took offense. I spent the 15-minute flight trying to enjoy the scenery on a partly cloudy day and listening to Jerry’s intermittent instructions, but as we kept banking higher and higher, my tension increased.
For some reason, the altitude seemed more intimidating when wisps of clouds obscured parts of the wide, multi-hued quilt of dappled and filigreed land and seascape below. Andreas, creating the entire experience for DVD viewing, pointed the camera at me again. This time I looked into it and said, “I’m scared to death.” I was only slightly exaggerating. Andreas told me to breathe.
Jerry and Andreas placidly looked out the window as if they were sitting on the beach watching the waves roll in, and that helped calm me some. Andreas seemed to nibble on an apparatus that projected from his headgear like it was a toothpick. I assumed it to be a microphone attached to the video camera that was affixed to his headgear. In his left hand he held a digital camera. In a few minutes, Andreas would perform some daredevilry.
Because I had already resigned myself to fate, I felt relieved when Jerry finally told me it was time to don and tighten my goggles. Nevertheless I made sure to note each of the four clicking sounds where he secured his harness to mine.
The first moment of terror came when the cabin door was thrust open. A cold gust of air blew in, and I was sure we’d be blown out. We maneuvered gingerly toward the exit. I placed my feet on the platform as instructed, looked down and realized that the only thing between me and Mother Earth was 10,000 feet of empty sky. Much to my amazement, Andreas was already clinging to a wing support with one hand while taking still photos of Jerry and me emerging from the Cessna. It was the kind of sight that makes one wonder about the genetic make-ups in the likes of Andreas and Jerry.
Because I do not believe, I did not pray. I wouldn’t have had the time even if I wanted to. Before I knew it, Jerry and I were flying, and he was tapping me on the shoulder to let me know it was time to extend my arms. I was Freebird.

Jerry had told me his favorite part of skydiving is the free fall, and now I understood why. Awe replaced my fear. From the sky, Newport County appears Lilliputian. The Pell Bridge, a behemoth from sea level, looks as if it could be toppled with a finger. The Jamestown Bridge bisects the West Bay in a pale, humped line as it stretches to the North Kingstown shore. Dewdrop islands look like green lily pads floating atop the blue surface of Narragansett Bay. Serpentine roads, seemingly the width of arteries, carry microscopic vehicles like blood platelets past miniature houses, knuckle-sized clumps of trees, and checkerboard sections of open fields. A brisk, clamorous and refreshingly chilly wind buffeted us and negated any sense of descending at 120 miles per hour. To afford me the entire majestic panorama, Jerry expertly turned us counterclockwise and back again. When he tapped my head and pointed, it was at Andreas, who was still filming. I smiled, whooped and gave two thumbs up. The furthest thing from my mind was the parachute opening. The experience transcended fun. It was more like ecstasy.
Ironically, my second terror moment came soon after the chute opened. An instant sense of relief followed the emerged parachute’s upward tug as I watched a still free-falling Andreas drop like a rock out of sight. That’s when Jerry loosened the straps on my harness, causing me to drop ever so slightly within its embrace. My heart palpitated.
“What are you doing?” I shouted.
“Just loosening your harness,” Jerry replied.
“Please don’t do that again.”
“It was just for your comfort,” an apologetic Jerry explained in his Dutch accent. “Just for your comfort.”
I asked if there was anything to hold onto. He told me my harness. Good enough. It was time to hang on, take a breath, and enjoy the rest of the ride. It was like floating in a surreal dream, but the nervous edge remained until we reached an altitude where I gratefully thought, “I’d survive a fall from here.”
My butt-slide landing wouldn’t pass muster in a baseball instructional text, but it was just right for skydiving.
“Safe at home.”
Andreas was waiting for me with the camera rolling when I slid to a stop. Adrenaline was coursing through me. I tried to explain my exhiliration with as many details as possible, but the tone in my voice probably said it all.
“I’m going to save my money and do this again next year.”
“Lots of people come back,” was the reply.
For $350 you get the jump, a DVD video, still photos of the entire process, a thrill-packed seven minutes, a bumper sticker, and a certificate that says, in part: "(Your Name) jumped from a perfectly good airplane at Skydive Newport in Middletown, Rhode Island..."
The bumper sticker and the certificate are now displayed with pride.
And to those of you who are wondering: Yes, skydiving is better than most sex…but not better than making love.