Sorry for the Group Email

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Quick, think of the most exciting thing you’ve ever done to break up a long car journey. Stopped at McDonald’s? Bought a magazine? Written a good friend’s phone number in a toilet stall beneath a lurid and inventive description of their sexual availability and preferences?

Stopped for a few hours, donned a parachute and a trained skydiver and dropped out of a plane?

I’ve done three of those four things.

Lake Taupo is the southern hemisphere’s largest lake, and it sits prettily against a backdrop of towering, snow-capped mountains and rolling hills. The road runs against the side of the lake and, with a following wind and a cool breeze, you could drive forever.

Instead, we pulled into the airport.

“Nice day to jump out of a plane!” chirruped the nineteen year old behind the counter.

I disagreed. The sky was blue and the sun was shining, but a nice day to drop out of a plane? You may as well say it was a nice day to contract a mouth ulcer or to crash your car.

Most skydiving institutions in New Zealand offer you two choices: twelve thousand feet or fifteen thousand feet. The difference is a few seconds of freefall, so we opted for the lower of the two, and signed our health insurance away on the contract, which included a clause that said that if we got into the plane and decided not to jump, we’d be paying anyway.

“Has that ever happened?” I asked, in what I hoped was a casual tone.

“Not that I know of,” replied the teenager. “One woman got up there and started crying and everything. Eventually she was persuaded and when she got down she said it was the best thing she’d ever done.”

Crying and everything, I thought. I can probably top that.

Suddenly, I was wearing a jumpsuit.

“It’s not too late to arrange a Handycam video of your jump!” suggested breezy sign tacked to the toilet door. I looked for a sign that said, “It’s not too late to back out gracefully!” but there wasn’t one.

My tandem partner was a German named Albert. Luckily, Albert seemed like a reasonably well-centered individual. As well-adjusted as you can be, I suppose, when your day job is throwing yourself from planes. Mendy was less fortunate. She was tied to a Brazilian wearing a fluffy blue helmet who introduced himself as Jam.

“Everything in the middle?” asked Albert suggestively as I climbed into my second harness of two days. I nodded slightly and before we knew it, we were in a very small plane. The last time I was in such a small plane I had a set of controls in front of me. That was much better, I decided.

The view, I recall, was incredible, all tiny forests and winding, quiet roads, capped by mountains and occasional glimpses of the lake. This was ok. The plane was a bit shakey, but this was, all in all, fine.

Suddenly, the door at the back of the plane was thrown open and the wind rushed in. Three professional skydivers moved to the back of the plane and stood on the ledge.

They paused for what seemed like forever. I noticed the wind whipping the edges of their jumpsuits. They looked inexplicably happy. Then, abruptly, they were gone. One minute they were standing on the edge of the plane, and the next they had vanished . It looked violent and very, very dangerous. It struck me that this was what skydiving was: paying a great deal of money to come very close to having an appalling accident.

Mendy was next. She and Jam shuffled to the front door and she sat for a moment with her legs dangling over the edge. Then, they tipped forwards, and fell.

It was the falling that surprised me. I’m not sure what I expected – we were at twelve thousand feet, after all – but I think I expected them to hover gently in the slipstream of the plane for a moment or two before descending. Instead Mendy vanished beneath the plane: if you blinked you would miss the entire thing. It was less of a jump and more of a tumble.

We were next.

“Ready?” shouted Albert.

No. I wanted to be on the ground. I wanted to be in the car. I wanted to be at home, watching a box set of 24 and munching my way through a bag of Haribo. I wanted to be in an office, anything, anything but humping my way towards the back of a plane with an open door between the legs of a parachute-wearing German.

The rational part of my brain was at this point safely tucked away in a soundproof box somewhere, and a very loud voice in my head shouted, “Stop getting so close to the door! You’ll have an accident!”

Just before you jump out, a camera in the corner of the plane pops off a quick shot of you and your tandem partner. I’d like you to take a moment to compare and contrast the difference between Mendy’s shot and mine. Mendy has her thumbs up, a big smile, and looks for all the world like she was born to fall from a plane:

Mine? Eyes wide, pupils dilated, mouth dry and slightly open, manically unfocussed stare. It is not the look of a man having the time of his life. It is the look of the man about to be savaged by a pack of dogs.

I sat, heart thumping, on the edge of the plane. My legs dangled over the edge and I became aware of the very real possibility of my shoes blowing off in the hurricane whipping at my face. The single saving grace was that Albert didn’t ask me if we ready again. I’d have said no.

Then we were out the door. My eyes were welded open and I caught a split-second glimpse of the plane and horizon spinning madly away. The acceleration was unlike anything: imagine taking off in a jet plane and times it by, I don’t know, a million. It was like being roared at by God.

I became very, very calm. I’m pretty sure it was a feeling of abandonment. There is, once you’re out of the plane, nothing you can do. Whatever self-preservation instincts you have telling you not to jump disappear because there’s nothing you can do. Your life is completely in some else’s hands. I enjoyed the view; I looked down. I looked at the mountains. At that moment, at two hundred kilometres per hour and hurtling towards certain death, I could not have been happier.

Then the parachute snapped open: it was like being lifted at the shoulders by a giant. The roaring stopped, and we hung in the air. Then we executed a series of gut-wrenching turns towards the airport. Imagine lying on the ground and inviting a friend to place a small bus on your stomach. That’s what it felt like. I felt my breakfast rising towards my throat and wondered what I’d think if I was pelted with vomit from several thousand feet. Then we hung a little longer, then executed a few more turns. I turned green and make an involuntary croaking noise.

“Feet down! Feet down! Run!” shouted Albert. I did as well as I could and, gently, we were on the ground again. I was unclipped from Albert, who turned around to wrestle his ‘chute under control.

Quietly and very discretely, I was the teensiest bit sick on the grass.

Dave would, despite it all, go skydiving again. Fewer turns this time, please.

And:

Fancy learning to fall professionally? Why not try Taupo Tandem Skydiving. Just look:

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