Just Another Day In The Life

Waking up to my neck now stiff and yelping with pain, I look at the fluorescent lights hovering thirty feet above my head. I move my neck emphatically to bring less pain, and make sure that no one else has moved, or that I haven't missed something. I check my watch. I don't remember what time we were supposed to start this whole thing, but I know better, no timeline is to be trusted. 

I push up off of the cold concrete floor, and back onto the oddly shaped wood bench. I feel as if the harness I am wearing is now part of my body. It's a beautiful day through the window, but it's been a few hours since I've stepped outside. The parachute resting on the bench, attached to my back is one that I have never jumped before. A new model, and though I'm very trusting of the rigorous testing of this equipment, and confident in my abilities to successfully leap from an aircraft while in flight, I'm still a little nervous. 

The bay door lifts with a racket and the C-130 aircraft is taxiing down the runway to where we will have to walk to it. Most of the time, I dread this part as much as any. Tired, sweating and carrying enough equipment to sustain for a week, you usually way around 400 lbs. It's a waddle, not a walk, and it's painful from the shoulders through the hips down to the knees and feet. This time though, in the clear blue North Carolina sky, I only carry the parachute today, and my body is thankful.

I've been in the harness for over three hours before we start to walk on the tarmac and towards the plane with it's tailgate down and awaiting our entry. That's a short amount of time considering that the manifest for the jump was conducted three hours before that. The propeller and engines blow loud enough that you can't hear without a yell, and the exhaust helps to make you sweat. We get tightly seated like sardines in the vessel and prepare for our take off and flight.

The seats are cramped, but spacious when you don't have any equipment for combat, just the chute and a helmet. The plane takes awhile to get ready, but eventually we are on our way. The initial start makes you lean against the buddy to the rear of the aircraft, as you sit perpendicular to the direction of flight. Eventually, after the rough jostling of the bird you're in flight and should be on the way to getting sick. The turbulence doesn't keep you awake, but it's quicker than you think and you're being told to stand up and hook up. The door is about the only light that lets in, and it's over and under the silhouettes of the paratroopers anxiously waiting the little green light to turn on.

The jump master gives a slap on the ass and a go, and the cable starts to pull. You feel the yank of a jumper outside the aircraft, his shoot just beginning it's first stage of deployment. You extend your arm straight out and walk behind the guy in front of you towards the tunnel of light. You hand your static line off to the safety and turn towards the door. You don't think anything at that point. There is not being scared, only perhaps the excitement of shortly being out of the parachute harness that's been your purgatory between relief and comfort. The first portion always is the same for me. I look at the horizon drop quickly, and then my head is forced into my chest and all I see is the sky, the plane, and maybe the confused look on my face.

The opening shock isn't bad, but then again I grew up spending summers at the local theme park. I look and make sure that the parachute is actually open, and then look around for others in the air. Yesterday was clear out, with no wind and Carolina starting to green beneath my feet, some 200 yards below. I float down like a feather, but feel like a brick. The ground comes, and with it comes me holding my breath and trying not to look down. Everything I've done to this point is entirely unnatural. I hit the soft sand of the drop zone and the parachute covers me. The silk, I can't seem to find it's end, and I'm buried. I crawl out and unhook. Urination is all I think of, and from a knee, liberation. 

Pack up the shoot, now freed of the harness. It's a little bit of a walk for me to the turn in point, but probably a lot of bit for you. By the time I get there, the sweat has dried on the sides of my face, and I feel the coarse red clay on my cheeks that's been attracted by the southern humidity. It's only taught me about myself, but maybe not about life, just an experience to hold in my deck of cards. Perhaps there's more that I don't see, miserable and tarnished from the experience up front. 

All the way?