Below us, only sky. Moments before we were inside the belly of a plane, contemplating the nearest of futures; its impact on the long haul. It was the second time I'd been in a plane. The first was when I'd gone to California for a music festival in high school. I'd wanted this to be the first time, because it would make for a better story. Sadly though, I hadn't the idea until then - to jump, that is. It all felt kind of fantastical and surreal, like I was in a dream. The plane was small, propelled by propellers, and it buzzed loudly. It seemed to be held together by glue duct tape and thumb tacks. Before I knew it we were at 13,000 feet, wrapped in clouds.
There was a signal and a moving forward. That part was awkward because there was another human being tethered to my back. We shimmied to the edge of the open plane-door, the wind pulling at me wildly, trying to dislodge me from my place. I looked down out of the open door, against the advice of the man behind me. I wasn't afraid. I marveled at how much the ground looked like a map; full of patchwork and hard lines; lush greens and deep blues; the long island sound. Then, we counted to three and rocked ourselves out into the fall.
All of my muscles flapped like rubber as we plummeted, I felt like I was a character in a Ren and Stimpy cartoon. We spiraled through the air with no frame of reference, like angels swinging from a trapeze. There was only the sensation of rushing wind and rippling, a sudden painful buildup of pressure inside my ears. Then, the parachute opened and we were pulled upward - the most physical manifestation of salvation I'd ever felt.
It's difficult to describe. The moment was augmented by the suddenness and the starkness of its contrast to the moment before it. Silence, save for the faint billowing of cloth overhead. Weightlessness, the drifting surrender and serenity: floating like human hot-air balloons.
The realization that I'd been out above where birds seldom soar.
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