Jump Start

By Bob Liddil

The airplane looks a little shaky. It's a 1950s vintage DC3 that had seen better days 35 years ago when it was retired as an airliner. There it sits, engines cold, no one aboard, a lifeless machine that I will be depending on for life itself in less time than it take for the sun to come up over the Eastern Mountains.

Today is the day I've trained for. Today, I will fly without wings. I will hurl myself out of a (hopefully) perfectly functioning DC3, circling two miles above Lake Elsinore, and plunge back to earth, potentially reaching terminal velocity, 120 mph, within seconds of clearing the door.

The sun is now brightening the eastern horizon. My heart is pounding in my ears. I close my eyes to the smell and taste of the dawn and slip fitfully into a nap. As I drift away, my heartbeat slows, my breathing becomes ever more steady, and the first flickers of REM sleep begin to cross my eyelids like a scratchy long dead movie.

I dream of falling.

Bang! Bam! Bam!

The starboard engine of the DC3 backfires several times, reaching into the world of sleep and snatching me from the jaws of a dream-state death.

"Hey, boy! Get it in gear!" Somebody shouts at me, jogging by and laughing at my sudden, groggy awakening. "Briefing in 5 minutes!"

I grab my gym bag and click the alarm on the SUV. Then I start for the hanger at a light jog myself, hoping to be inconspicuous.

"First Jump?" The voice is female. I turn to reply but am unprepared for the drop-dead gorgeous babe behind me matching my pace step for step.

Yeah." I manage to stammer. "uh, yeah."

"Take my advice" she purrs, a mischievous smile lighting up her face. "When you get to the door, don't look down."

She slaps me on the butt as she speeds up and then past me. Her red hair dances in the light breeze, like a supermodel in a shampoo commercial.

The briefing is brief. We check each other's gear and load, single file into the DC3.

The plane shudders and shakes like a palsied geriatric, as we begin to taxi. I am scared of heights. Why am I doing this? What an idiot I am to be sitting here in front of the most beautiful woman I have ever seen, and be about to pee down the leg of a bright orange flight suit. I have finally figured out why skydiving is not for everyone. It's not the fall, or even the sudden stop that kills you, it's the anticipation.

I will never survive this. I think I want to puke.

It takes us longer to climb to 10, 000 feet than it took me to drive to Lake Elsinore from Corona. The floor of the plane has been vibrating like a drop a quarter bed in a cheap motel. I haven't puked or peed or embarrassed myself, but only by luck and peer pressure have I been able to stonewall the terror of the moment that is fast approaching.

Suddenly the engines throttle back. Everybody stands up, as do I. Static lines attached. Vibration gone. The DC3 has found her groove. Green light is on. The line moves toward the door. Just like that it is my turn. I take the redhead's advice and I don't look down. I just step off into empty space.

Silence follows. A snapping of my body as the chute opens flawlessly. I open my eyes. Blue skies surround me. I can see the sun to the east, the plane above and I am drifting in peace as one with the air around me.

Lake Elsinore is not much more than a puddle below me. My training takes over. I know I have to steer the chute for landing. Gently, I swing, to and fro, blissfully uncaring of the distance between my feet and the ground. I'm flying, as sure as if there were feathers on my body.

With a jarring thud, I touch the ground and roll, as I have been taught. I am reclaimed by gravity and the earth, as have been my fellow students. Nearby to me, the redhead has already retrieved her chute and is walking toward me.

"How was it?" She asks, with a twinkle in her eye.

"Piece of cake." I reply. "Want to get a beer?"

She laughs, and answers yes.

Thinking back on it now, my first jump wasn't all that bad.