On Sunday, I survived jumping out of a perfectly good airplane.
On Monday, I damn near broke my ankle falling out of bed.
Over the years I have emerged relatively unscathed from sled dog races, high altitude mountain climbing, bicycling in grizzly country and ziplining over wide chasms.
I have also sprained both ankles, popped a rib, gotten several concussions and fractured my foot by simply falling in holes, slipping on the ice or opening a garage door.
Welcome to my world, where the mundane is to be feared, and the risky embraced.
Most recently, taking part in a skydiving course offered through SAD 1 Adult Education in Presque Isle.
Frankly, I’m not really sure what tickled me more — the fact that the opportunity was coming to Aroostook County, or that it was an adult education class.
Taught by Vacationland Skydiving based in Pittsfield, the class offered a tandem jump in which you are tethered to the person who actually knows what they are doing
My partner for this adventure was my friend and retired educator Gail Hagelstein. Together — along with her husband and our ground support Bruce — we presented ourselves at the air cargo terminal at the Presque Isle Airport bright and early for a sort of skydiving 101.
It was a pretty short lessen, given all we had to do was hang on to the guy with the chute.
Vacationland Skydive instructor Jef LeRette walked us through what would happen once we jumped and told us that he would literally be doing all the heavy lifting.
More than 50-pounds of parachutes, harness, lines and clips would be carried on his back while on his front a series of clips and straps would attach the novice jumper to his body and — by association — to that all-important parachute.
LeRette showed us the myriad of failsafes and safety redundancies on his gear, including a spare chute and the device that automatically deploys the main parachute if he somehow became incapacitated or kidnapped by extraterrestrials during the jump.
Next came the lesson on the only thing we really had to do to ensure a successful jump, other than exit the plane.
Once out, we would be in freefall for 10 to 15 seconds, reaching terminal velocity — 120 mph and the speed at which a falling body experiences zero acceleration.
At that rate, LeRette said, we’d be falling 1,000-feet every five seconds.
During freefall, we were told we would need to bend our knees, raise our arms and look up. This would allow our instructor to keep us on an even keel and not engage in any unwanted aerial acrobatics.
Once the parachute deployed, we would be free to relax and enjoy the view for the six to eight minutes it would take to reach the ground.
Finally, we were fitted with harnesses and snazzy skydiving jumpsuits.
Well, most of us were.
Due to luck of the draw, I did not get one of the brightly colored, striped suits.
Nope, I was among the few who rocked the pair of obviously broken-in grey mechanic’s Dickie’s coveralls “borrowed” from the hanger.
Did I care that I looked more like I was about to do an oil change on the plane instead of jump out of it?
Heck no.
I mean, come on. What screams “Rusty Metal Farm skydiver” more than a pair of work coveralls?
After that, it was a matter of simply sitting around and waiting our turn.
High winds kept us out of the air on Saturday, but on Sunday all 31 people who had signed up to jump did just that, thus preserving Vactionland’s 100 percent safety and student jump record.
Okay, so maybe “jump” is not the right word. “Fall” is more like it. And if there is something I know how to do, it’s falling.
When it was our turn, we clambered into the small single engine plane that would take us to the drop zone more than 10,000 feet over and upwind of the airport.
Sitting on the plane’s floor — only the pilot had an actual seat — we got our last minute instructions and mentally prepared to do something that goes against every survival instinct we had.
Once at the proper altitude, the pilot cut the engine to slow us down to 80 mph and the side door was opened – something that would be pretty much frowned upon on every commercial flight I’ve been on — creating a very loud rush of wind.
On the ground, Gail and I had agreed she would be the first one out.
It took a little convincing on the part of her instructor to get her to let go of the door handle, but let go she did — after all, this is a woman who has bungee jumped in Australia — and she was on her way down.
Then it was my turn.
LeRette connected all the important clips and straps so we were joined at multiple points. Then I carefully inched my way to the open door and swung my legs out into thin air.
We had been told there was no way we could fall out, connected as we were to the instructors. We were also assured at any point – up to actually exiting the plane – we could opt out and not jump.
I didn’t have time to be scared. One second I was dangling, the next we were out and falling like rocks and I immediately forgot everything I had been told to do in freefall.
The rush of air at 120 mph literally took my breath away, making it impossible to breath. We had been told to scream, which actually allows you to breath. Luckily, next to falling, screaming is something at which I excell.
A few seconds later, I felt the rather abrupt jolt of the canopy deploying and filling with air.
Then, we were silently floating.
While I took in the view, LeRette skillfully directed the parachute into the wind executing a series of carnival ride-like spins culminating in a gentle, controlled landing inches from where we had taken off, and making the ultimate instructor sacrifice – turning himself into a soft landing pad for yours truly.
Now if I could just master the mundane as gracefully.
