Well, that was quite something...Im happy to report that Quinn and I are both back firmly planted on terra firma. 18,000 feet is not such a long way above earth, it turns out, when youre plunging like a rock towards the inevitable reunion with your Mother. Once I adjusted myself to ideas such as find the horizon -- a fairly prosaic chore in an average moment -- I noticed that it was pretty darn cold; I couldnt wear my beanie and damn near froze my noggin off, with the 120 mile per hour wind chill factor and all... We were right at Pt. Conception -- the elbow of California, so the view of the mountains and ocean was spectacular, to the extent I could pay attention to it while doing my best bald-headed, goggle-eyed UFO impression. Quinn was like his mom -- steady and nonplussed, even when standing, bound and trussed like Harry Houdini at Scotland Yard, above the void. I jumped just after him and was amazed to see how quickly he became a dot below. As for myself, I was less stressed than the first time, I suppose, in the same way that the second session with a cat-o-nine tails is perhaps less shocking than the first, but there was still a moment while standing in the yawing gape of the exit door where I was questioning my life decisions. Part of the reason Ive done some of the more adventurous things Ive done in my life is because my natural inclination is, in all honesty, to plant myself in a La-Z-Boy with a cold beer and a remote. Its not an inclination I want to give in to, however, so I sometimes find myself standing, say, at the open door of an airplane with a ticket only good enough for half the flight. That instinct for a nice, easy afternoon doesnt go away, tho, so I would describe myself as more resigned than eager as I contemplated my little Kierkegaarian moment. The 90 second freefall was, what, exhilarating?; long enough for me to collect my no-longer-earthbound senses and actually have a look around, tho it went on a mite longer than Id have liked. Besides my glaciated skull meat I had a serious pain in one ear and -- dare I say, a sinking feeling -- that we were pushing the threshold of good sense. Turns out my impression was correct; when we were finally yanked back into the relative security found under an open canopy my instructor pointed out Quinn in the sky floating well above us. My guy had delayed deployment until after we had passed those two; made me wonder how it might have made Quinn feel seeing his Pop plunge past him, without even so much as a howdy-do. Standard practice is to deploy at 5500 feet, school policy is to go no lower than 5000, but, based on my instructors reply when I asked him afterwards, Ive got a feeling we were closer to 50 feet or so. Just in the nick of time. The glide back to earth, however brief, was my favorite part. With a nice diaphanous film of nylon above and an adrenaline junkie of uncertain mental constancy strapped behind I knew Id taken a great leap forward in the personal well-being department. Our landing was spot-on and flawless, followed by Quinn right behind, and the deed was done, the birthday promise fulfilled. From there, we had nothing more hazardous ahead of us than a 60 mile dash at 75 mph, cheek by jowl with wild-eyed Santas, careening their internal combustion sleds jammed to obstruction with holiday swag across four lanes to make every exit that had within eyeshot a retail operation of any ilk whatsoever. Now that bit of adventure I can handle in my sleep...
Posted on: Sun, 01 Dec 2013 05:27:40 +0000
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