The Best Gift
The pros keep up a banter to help us stay loose. Then Tim says it's time for us to get together. He straps himself to my back. I'm glad he's cute since we're more or less spooning. The plane tops out at 14,000 feet （nearly three miles up）。
One of the pros reviews the jump procedures. The sliding door is opened, and the first pair waddles forward. In a flash, they disappear like laundry blown from the line in a tornado.
Tim and I are next. Joined at the hip, we duck walk forward. Me in front. As we reach the door, Tim grasps an overhead bar with both hands. I am more or less hanging over a bottomless pit with the wind trying to tear me loose.
I cannot believe I am doing this.
Tim begins to rock us back and forth —— one, two, three. Jump！
The air rips past, and there's no bottom. We've jumped. I'm numb and exhilarated at the same time. This must be what death is like. My legs pedal frantically in search of solid ground. So much for merely “assuming the free-fall position.” Tim's knees engulf mine to control my flailing, and finally we seem to float on a pillow of air. Pillow talk, however, is out of the question, as our speed approaches 120 mph； the roar of the wind is earsplitting.
Gradually I gain enough composure to look out. The sky and farmland unfold as far as I can see. I glide through the heavens like a mythological goddess. I want to do this for eternity.
The sight of Tim's altimeter fractures my enchantment. Our 60-second free fall is coming to an end. I grope for the cord and pull. There's a rustling, an unraveling； then I get an instant wedgie as the harness jerks up.
The fall slows； the roar fades. Now Tim and I can talk. He demonstrates a corkscrew by pulling only one line of the chute. We twirl and spin. We float through a cloud, but I prefer the panorama —— trees, barns and fields, black and white cows scattered across a jade pasture like dice on a game board. I never want to touch down, but our seven minutes under the canopy is nearly over.
“We won't do a running landing,” Tim informs me. “When I signal, hold your legs out straight like you were sitting on a floor. Do not bend your knees. You could break a leg. My legs will be under yours and we'll slide in on our butts.” And so, gravity has its way in the end.
Physically I was delivered to terra firma, yet the adrenaline commandeered my system for three days. My son gave me the best gift I've ever received： a touch of terror, a hint of death （not entirely unlike the experience of his birth, I told Jeff）, and the determination to never act my age.
The pros keep up a banter to help us stay loose. Then Tim says it's time for us to get together. He straps himself to my back. I'm glad he's cute since we're more or less spooning. The plane tops out at 14,000 feet （nearly three miles up）。
One of the pros reviews the jump procedures. The sliding door is opened, and the first pair waddles forward. In a flash, they disappear like laundry blown from the line in a tornado.
Tim and I are next. Joined at the hip, we duck walk forward. Me in front. As we reach the door, Tim grasps an overhead bar with both hands. I am more or less hanging over a bottomless pit with the wind trying to tear me loose.
I cannot believe I am doing this.
Tim begins to rock us back and forth —— one, two, three. Jump！
The air rips past, and there's no bottom. We've jumped. I'm numb and exhilarated at the same time. This must be what death is like. My legs pedal frantically in search of solid ground. So much for merely “assuming the free-fall position.” Tim's knees engulf mine to control my flailing, and finally we seem to float on a pillow of air. Pillow talk, however, is out of the question, as our speed approaches 120 mph； the roar of the wind is earsplitting.
Gradually I gain enough composure to look out. The sky and farmland unfold as far as I can see. I glide through the heavens like a mythological goddess. I want to do this for eternity.
The sight of Tim's altimeter fractures my enchantment. Our 60-second free fall is coming to an end. I grope for the cord and pull. There's a rustling, an unraveling； then I get an instant wedgie as the harness jerks up.
The fall slows； the roar fades. Now Tim and I can talk. He demonstrates a corkscrew by pulling only one line of the chute. We twirl and spin. We float through a cloud, but I prefer the panorama —— trees, barns and fields, black and white cows scattered across a jade pasture like dice on a game board. I never want to touch down, but our seven minutes under the canopy is nearly over.
“We won't do a running landing,” Tim informs me. “When I signal, hold your legs out straight like you were sitting on a floor. Do not bend your knees. You could break a leg. My legs will be under yours and we'll slide in on our butts.” And so, gravity has its way in the end.
Physically I was delivered to terra firma, yet the adrenaline commandeered my system for three days. My son gave me the best gift I've ever received： a touch of terror, a hint of death （not entirely unlike the experience of his birth, I told Jeff）, and the determination to never act my age.