A 'perfectly good' plane and a parachute (December '01)

Back in December 2001, I was young, stupid, unemployed, newly single - and on a Contiki tour - so also inebriated or hungover, mostly alternating between the two... sometimes not. I was also fast approaching 'very poor' to boot. That two week trip from Sydney to Cairns was in many ways a pivotal foundation stone on who I am today; without it I would never have become the person that would meet my wife, or probably drink beer, let alone drink beer on every continent of the earth. It also cost me everything I owned, save the $5.13 that was left in my bank account - and that was possibly only because it was inaccessible by ATM.

Three days from the end I did as any self respecting twenty year old does at some point on a Contiki. I called home and pleaded for a parental loan. Even though they might tell the story differently, I assure you I never lied to them - I merely neglected to share the full details of the situation to them in case they didn't see eye to eye with the rest of my trip schedule. Sure the money would be bringing me back from the brink of starvation, but it wouldn't be until well after that money appeared in my account that anything was said about a plane and a parachute.

So the next day I found myself killing time in Cairns waiting for the phone-call that the weather was looking good enough for a little skydiving. And soon enough, with the wind dropping and the cloud cover lifting, I was in a beat-up courtesy bus (if you've ever done any adventure sport, you'd know the type... With ripped upholstery and seatbelts that don't work) full of other crazy people heading to Paul's Parachuting.

It seemed simple enough. The guy that I'd be strapped to for a good part of the afternoon, Jason, had me suited up and on the floor practicing different positions I'd need to know in free-fall and landing. Easy right? It wouldn't be until almost ten years later when I had four minutes in a vertical wind-tunnel that I found out how difficult it is to get right, and just how little idea I really had. But I was twenty, invincible, and pumped like you wouldn't believe.

Pretty soon I was back in the bus of questionable appearance arriving on the tarmac of Cairns airport. Now, when I first told my Dad what I did that day, he said to me: "why on earth would you want to jump out of a perfectly good plane?". Well, quite obviously Dad, you weren't looking at the same plane I was.

It stood before me: a doorless, beat-up twelve seater (without the seats) double prop that was probably white, once, but was now covered with the smudge of twenty years worth of grease rags brushing against its sides. Once it was in the air my guide-to-gravity, Jason, informed me that they don't budget for the extra fuel needed to bring this much loaded-weight back to the ground, so there was only one way back down for me. I was secretly relieved, because after that take-off, let me tell you, there was no way I wanted to be in that thing when it landed. I sat and watched the ground grow more distant through the open door cavity.

Shit gets real the first time you see someone disappear out the side of a plane. They're there one moment, then there's a loud rush of air and the doorway is empty again. At 10,000 feet, three of my fellow passengers were disembarking - and the first rush of real adrenalin hits. But I've still got 2,000 more feet to climb before I take the same exit.

Checking his altimeter one more time, Jason taps me on the shoulder: "lets GO!". Strapped tightly together, we crab-shuffle to the rear of the plane. I cross my arms as he moves forward and grips the sides of the door. As you might imagine, that meant I was almost entirely out of the plane at this time. Even if I wanted to, there was no going back now - but I was still pumped. I could see the wing and prop of the plane in my peripheral, and wisps of cloud racing across my vision of the cane fields below. "Ready!" came the call from behind. "1!", rocking back and forth, "2!", back and forth. Then my stomach dropped.

A tightly packed ball on a new trajectory, we twisted in the air as we searched for some stability. For a split second, almost as soon as we were free, we rolled to the side and I watched the plane drop away - it was completely surreal, shrinking in size more rapidly than could be believed. Freefall is so loud that there's nothing else but the wind and gravity. The next tap came to my shoulder - we'd leveled out, and now was time to spread my arms and legs to catch our fall.

I settled in to what I will always describe as the longest 45 seconds of my life. Not because it was traumatic and life scarring - but because everything slows down to almost a stop when you find yourself in a situation so completely outside the usual. Every last second is felt intimately as you float weightless in the air, everything so small beneath you, so slowly drawing closer.

The photographer spreads his body out and catches the air, floating up from below to hover right in front of me. I try my best to smile, but opening your mouth even a little blows your face up like a puffer-fish. For posterity, I have several photos that testify to this. The rest show my face flapping around like a loose sail. Lets face it (no pun intended), no first timer will ever look good in a freefall photo. After being prompted for a double-thumbs-up shot, I turned my attention back to fall.

The cane fields were noticeably closer now, occasionally fading in and out of white as I fell through shallow banks of cloud. I might have been imagining it, but for those few milliseconds, I swear the air feels thicker. Coming out the other side I feel the next tap on my shoulder: brace for impact. The photographer waves goodbye, then falls away as the breaks slam on hard. I feel the biggest wedgie I'll ever have, and say my thanks to the harness. Not just because it held, but because it was correctly place around my groin. I'd carry bruises for a week where the harness broke my brief affair with freefall.

It's all smooth sailing from there. Maneuvering, swinging side to side, doing doughies in the air. We talk freely about the drop now, and two or three minutes has me pulling my legs up for a graceful buttslide along a small paddock surrounded by sugar cane. The camera man is down there catching every undignified moment. Unstrapped I weakly stand, battling the adrenaline for control of my legs. The pros start discussing landings that weren't so successful. It couldn't have been much more than five minutes ago that I was sitting in a plane cruising three and a half kilometres from the ground. I shake hands and say my thanks to my single-serving skydiver, before clambering back into our friendly courtesy bus.

Three days later I would be back in Sydney, but for now I was on top of the world. I really was invincible. The next day I'd scuba dive for the first of many times, and tomorrow night I'd be dancing on the tables at a steak restaurant, and saying teary farewells to a ragtag group of revellers who in two weeks had gone from being randoms to the closest of friends. There haven't been many times in my life that I've felt so completely free, and maybe I'll never be quite so again. So I hold those moments close for when reality is too much, and quietly plot my way back there.