Flying High

As I got to the door I was physically shaking with fear and regret. The ride had been beautiful, but I was now starting to question my motives and my sanity. Legs out the door, the wind slaps me in the face. I blew a kiss to the camera, waved "Hi Mom!" and was pushed out of a plane traveling at an altitude of 12,000 feet. I free fell 8,000 feet in fifty seconds. That's a mile and a half. That's a football field every two seconds.

The first few seconds were the worst. My body was not accepting my new environment and was rebelling. I felt twisted inside out, could not comprehend the meaning of my surroundings, could not scream as my mouth filled with rushing air. James tapped me on the shoulder. My logical brain said that meant to let go of the harness I was gripping with Hulk-like strength. I freed my hands, spread out my arms and with a jolt of clarity I was on top of the world looking down at its most breathtaking scene. It was the most amazing feeling I have ever felt, and my only regret is that it might be a while before I reach it again. I was flying.

At 4,000 feet James, my tandem buddy, pulled the cord and the parachute miraculously opened. He lifted my goggles off my face and the realization that I had just jumped out of a plane over the Abel Tasman National Park came into sharp focus. I could see Farewell Spit, the 35 kilometer long boulder bank sitting on the northernmost part of the South Island. I could see all the way from the west coast to Mt. Taranaki on the North Island. In between lay the mountains of the Tasman, the Cook Strait, Golden Bay and my little Nelson town in the distance. Looking back, it's almost like a dream. We floated down over the next few minutes, spinning in circles and screaming Ay-yai-yai-yai like a crazed mariachi band and waving to Crazy Carl in the carpark. The pounding in my head and heart as we landed smoothly on the soft grass of the drop zone was like nothing I had ever felt before. The wide-eyed adrenaline junky look took its time leaving my face, and I am forever plagued with the knowledge that I have jumped out of a plane and survived. I can now do anything. ANYTHING. That's a bit scary considering my flair for the ridiculous.

The beginning of this story really starts about an hour before I was pushed out of the plane. I have been visiting friends in Motueka and Kaiteriteri for the last few days, relaxing and swimming at the beach, socializing in the evenings when they finished work. My friend Dan came down from Takaka to do his skydiving course and I decided to leave the beach to go watch. The wide-eyed expression of pure bliss as he came down from his first jump of the day made me start to question my staunch policy on not jumping out of planes.The first twenty times I said "No!" I truly, truly meant them, yet he slowly and stealthily convinced me to go on the next jump with him anyway. Something in his smirk did the trick, something in his eyes that said "I know something you don't," and from that moment I was hooked. I've written before about Fear vs. Curiosity, and how my damned Curiosity always gets the better of me. There's just no fighting that pushy, stubborn, ever-present need to experience and grow, even if I have to plummet to my death to find out.

I've always considered myself somewhat of a pansy, except for the tattoo thing, so this definitely rates high on my Weird-o-meter, right up there with hiking up an active volcano in Guatemala wearing only flip flops as protection from the lava, the first time I ever went scuba diving and realized I could breathe under water, and riding a giant dirtbike through the mountains of Northern Viet Nam.Whether it was the bravest thing I have ever done, or the stupidest, I'm not sure. Random acts of spontaneity has always been my blessing and my curse, but I am glad for my moment in the clouds. I guess now all that's left is the age-old conundrum...What's next?

Rachel
(and Crazy Carl)