I jumped from an airplane at 15.000 feet (4500m).
To begin with, I’m not even sure why exactly I did it. When I put my name on that list I assumed that it wasn’t binding and that I could get out of it any time. Well, it was, and I couldn’t. I had no time to think about it twice when they had already charged me. To make things worse, I had signed up for the highest jump, which I didn’t realize involved a longer free fall (yay). I didn’t want to lose my money, that’s true. But regardless of my assumptions on cancellation policies, why had I put my name on that list in the first place, to begin with? I have a tendency to assume negative outcomes when I’m not in control. A few years ago, due to my surfing accident —one that defied all statistical probability—, this error of thought was consolidated a bit more deeply into my subconscious mind. I think I needed to get rid of that, to become more rational again —even if doing so ironically required me to engage in the most irrational behavior imaginable.
Showing up at the venue, hoping onto the bus, getting into my harness and meeting my instructor all triggered an increasing release of cortisol into my bloodstream. But only getting on the plane made it all feel final for good. As we gained altitude and mountains and lakes decreased in size, the fear and anxiety in me skyrocketed to levels I had never experienced before. And so did the flow of tears rolling down my cheeks. I was sobbing and breathing fast. The notion that it was too late to go back was very scary, but at the same time, I wasn’t sure I even wanted to. What would I be teaching my brain by doing so? To run away from fear? That facing challenge and adversity was not a task I could master? That I just could not do it? I didn’t want it to be that way, but I also really didn’t want to die. All these contradicting feelings and turbulent thoughts where unfolding inside my head when I felt my instructor reach out to hold my hand and shout some comforting words in my ear. This and the feeling of his regular steady breathing right against my back calmed me down a bit, but the panic increased again as he started to hook himself up to my harness, and peaked when he placed an oxygen mask over my nose and mouth. This could only mean that we were about to reach the drop zone. Suddenly, the door slid open and the first tandem jumped. I shrieked. Before I knew it, it was my turn.
The anticipation while sitting at the door, legs dangling off the edge of the plane, was barely bearable. There are no words to describe the tension that arises from the absolute resignation of facing such a life-threatening situation, knowing that you’ll be confronting death any second and there is NOTHING you can do to avoid it. I was cramped into my “banana position”, as that was the only thing regarding safety that was in my hands. By this point, with just the edge of my overwhelmed conscience, I was vaguely aware that my goggles were sitting slightly displaced, pressuring lightly agains my left lower eyelid, which just added to the absolute panic that I was already experiencing. I closed my eyes and bent my head backwards the way I had been instructed to. It was imminent. All of a sudden and without warning I was pushed into the abyss.
At first, there was no wind, no resistance at all keeping my organs from dropping in that terrifying way they do when diving into water from a height. Just the night before, I had searched for people’s testimonies on their skydiving experiences, trying to gain an idea of what it’d be like. Many stated that fear disappeared as soon as you left the aircraft, and that after that, you just felt like floating. Bllsht. I felt like I was falling, and that I was faking FAST. The faster I fell, the stronger the wind became, which did make the experience of free falling slightly less physically distressing. But it also only displaced my goggles further upwards —so that at one point I could barely open my left eye— and it made it impossible for me to reach out to put them back in place. All this while having the camera man desperately trying to catch me smiling. Plummeting towards the ground at 200km/h, literally half blind: the smiling part just wasn’t gonna happen. Also, I was too busy screaming my lungs out. Again, someone had said that at that speed you can’t really scream. Well, bllsht again!
All of a sudden, a strong force pushed me upright and up. That sudden and powerful change in speed and dynamic was, again, very scary. I screamed once more. Words can’t describe this feeling either. My mind was vaguely able to make sense of what was happening to my body, but all my primitive instincts were screaming in overload, desperately trying to, somehow, get me away from that situation. That must have lasted for about two to three seconds, but it felt like a lot longer. And then, as I was finally able to feel an actual physical resistance to my fall —provided by the parachute— without the impairing wind in my face, when I realized the worst part was over, the first wave of relief washed over my body. I was alive. The parachute had gone off. I laughed compulsively, I screamed out “oh my God!” over and over again. I turned around to my instructor and thanked him for saving my life at the top of my lungs. “Thank you for saving my life”. Strong words.
And so, I finally started to kind of enjoy myself in the most exhilarating way because I was alive. The views over the Wakatipu basin were absolutely stunning and my brain was finally able to register them as such, instead of just as purely menacing. It was a perfect sunny day. Too ideal, too beautiful and warm for the idea of having faced death to seem real. That scenic beauty seemed to add to the sense of safety that the parachute opening above my head had already provided. There were a couple of violent turns and another moment of panic when my instructor loosened up the strap around my chest midair to make me feel more comfortable (“No, no, I’m ok, I’m ok, please leave it tight, please!), but if I had to pick the most pleasurable bit about the experience, it would be that last descending part. Sooner than expected, after around 4 minutes of circling through the air, I was told to lift up my legs and before I knew it, also at a higher speed than expected, I had landed on my butt. I collapsed in the ground, I closed my eyes and I started to laugh compulsively. That pressure valve to my emotional overload turned into crying as soon as I stood up and the harness was removed from my body. It went on for quite some time. What was that feeling? It’s not easy to describe with just one word. It was a boiling mix between relief, gratitude, processed fear, panic and sure, probably also joy. And yet, this description is not enough. I'm sure the intensity of the feelings I experienced yesterday can only be fully understood by experiencing them fist-hand.
With smeared make-up and red eyes, all shaky limbs attached to my body and the widest smile on my face, I jumped on the bus back to Queenstown.
As for whether I would recommend it or do it again, I’m still processing. It’s way too early to say. However, that evening at the hostel I was brushing my teeth next to one of my friends when out of nowhere, I broke the silence with a single chuckle. “What?”, she managed to ask with a mouth full of toothpaste. “It’s the skydiving”, I replied in the same fashion. We laughed.
