A Leap of Faith

My hands froze to the wing of the plane like a vise grip on life. The whipping winds and motor blades from the Cessna were deafening. The temperature buckled at 32 degrees and everything on me went numb.

I begged to return to the safety of the cockpit but there was no way Greg Bishop, my fearless instructor, was going to let that happen. There was no turning back now.

And, with that I did a tandem jump from 10,000 feet yesterday.

Greg hurled ourselves into 3 carefully planned back flips. I behaved more like a rag doll blowing in the wind than a confident student. I can't remember if I kept my eyes closed or not but the spinning tickled my tummy like a kid on a roller coaster.

Sadly, all the practicing and reminders of posture, balance and altitude vanished with my cavalier attitude.

Greg yelled for me to correct. "Correct, correct!" I think I heard him say.

At that point, I barely knew my name let alone the position I needed to maintain to be a legitimate skydiver. His legs forcefully twisted mine into his and the mini-balloon or drouge, as it's called, was let loose slowing us down to 160 miles an hour so we could breathe.

Out of nowhere, the venturesome camera guy, Jim Stahl, popped in for a reaction to this crazy, out-of-control experience. I did everything in my power to smile and I hope the video shows that. Deep down I couldn't wait for the chute to open.

30 seconds into the free fall, Greg motions me to pull the ripcord. We're already at 5,000 feet and falling fast. I wanted so badly to reach back and yank that cord, like I practiced to do, but again, I was frozen in place. I depended on him like a kid taking their first swim lessons in a pool the size of an ocean.

When the shoot opened all went eerily and disturbingly quiet. From one extreme to the next, I could finally hear myself think, breathe and remember why I was doing this. This is the part of the journey that makes it all worth it.



Still strapped to Greg, I surveyed Earth like God does, admiring a giant canvas of color, texture and depth. The Mohawk river snakes into the horizon while miniature roads, vehicles and buildings lends a surreal feel to the reality of life below.

At about 500 feet I would have given anything to stay buoyant. It was the same mystical sensation I get flying in dreams, a feeling that refuses to accept becoming human again. There is a sweet spot in the sky where the brain feels the most safe, safer than being on the ground and far safer than 10,000 feet.

Rather than land like a bird we slide in on the grass tarmac like a kid sliding into home plate. It's over and I'm elated that I lived to tell the tale. Elated to know that I could jump for joy again.