I’m a big fan of sky-diving…so long as it is undertaken for the express purpose of escaping from a paralyzed airplane which is hurtling ground-ward. On the other hand, leaving a perfectly functional aircraft mid-flight would be disrespectful to the hardworking engineers, technicians and flight crew who are dedicated to providing a safe, comfortable trip.
Despite my common sense, I recently tried my hand at skydiving from the dizzying altitude of five feet, ten inches.
I blame my son. He invited me out for an afternoon of bowling, mini-golf and laser-tag for the express purpose of showing me how old I am. He outscored me in bowling, underscored me in mini-golf, and his laser-tag score resembled the national debt while mine was closer to the prices on the Burger King value menu. If I’d been able to breathe and stand upright after the match I would have taken a swing at him.
I had no choice but to find some way to demonstrate my superiority. Skydiving seemed a good idea, especially since I could do it on a day when the whippersnapper was at work. At the same time, I’m a great respecter of gravity. I’ve often said, “If you respect gravity it will respect you.”
In truth, gravity isn’t exactly respectful and has begun to play cruel jokes on my earlobes and knees and I can only imagine what it has in store for other parts of my anatomy in the next few decades. I didn’t want to tempt it by jumping out of an airplane. Who knows what wacky things it might decide to do to my tender flesh? Indoor skydiving seemed a good compromise between bravery and lunacy.
The local indoor skydiving facility is cleverly called iFly. I suppose this beat out the alternatives including iCrash, iFall or iWishI’dPaidMyHealthInsurancePremiumThisMonth. While I eyed the whole thing with a healthy skepticism, my wife marched right in. She went along as a witness and because she’s intrigued the idea of real skydiving.
At the check-in desk they presented us with densely-worded legal waivers which started with “I understand” and prominently featured phrases like “inherently dangerous activity” and “release from all claims and liabilities” and “accidental death.” In reading the fine print, I realized I was literally being asked to sign my life away.
We sealed the deal with cash and were directed toward the classroom where we would complete the mandatory flight-training course before being permitted to enter the “vertical wind tunnel.”
The thought of a qualifying course calmed me a bit. They weren’t just throwing us to the winds, they actually wanted us trained and ready to go.
The instructor, a trim athletic fellow by the name of Brett, bounded into the room and introduced himself. “I’ll be teaching you about how to fly safely and what to do if you get stuck on the ceiling. Just kidding. That never happens.”
Oh. Good. Wacky flight instructor humor. I consoled myself with the thought that we were getting training.
Ten minutes later when I’d finished the course I was less confident.
Really.
All I’d learned was; A) I’d have to wear a special flight suit and helmet and B) there were four hand signals the instructor would use during my session. These included “bend legs”, “straighten legs”, “head up” and “relax.” Oddly, they didn’t teach us signals to use to communicate back to the instructor. What if I wanted to express complicated concepts like, “I seem to be stuck to the side of the vertical wind tunnel” or “Can I please come down now?” or “I’m going to be sick, you might want to move.”
Immediately after class we were asked to stow all of our loose gear in a locker. Brett kept the key and I assumed this was so he could easily pass our valuables on to our next of kin.
For flight we had to be properly suited up which, in my case, meant a green jumpsuit that was clearly modeled on prison clothing, only much less fashionable. Any dignity I had left was decimated by the bowling-ball-shaped helmet and Mr. Wizard safety goggles.
Brett lead us into the vertical wind tunnel; or, as I had come to think of it, the “plexiglass tube of doom.” An operator sat in a small booth to one side with his hand on a throttle that was topped with a chrome skull. This did little to bolster my confidence and much to reinforce the whole “tube of doom” idea.
According to Brett, the wind in the tunnel exceeded 150 miles per hour. All we lacked to make it a hurricane was several thousand gallons of rain water and an on-scene report from Jim Cantore. Fortunately, the whoosh of the airflow kept people from hearing my heart pounding frantically against my ribs.
When my turn came I stepped resolutely to the doorway and into the air stream. I fell forward, my feet left the ground, and I suddenly understood how it would feel to be a spider caught in an Electrolux. Brett leaned in and started making helpful hand gestures. I tried to follow as best I could and floated up toward the ceiling.
It was incredible. Far from being scared, I felt safe cradled on my cushion of air. I was grace personified, drifting through the air like a leaf on the wind.
At least that’s how it felt.
Watching the commemorative video they provided after the flight I realized two things. First, my wife is far more graceful than I am and she took to flight like…well, like a bird. On the other hand, in the green jumpsuit, I look like a mighty confused toad that suddenly found itself airborne.
We haven’t shown the video to my son yet. If we did, he’d realize what I really meant when I told him I’d gone skydiving.
