The Art of Falling
My brother and sister-in-law had asked me to watch their house over the weekend while they were away. I jumped to the opportunity to be able to sleep in a big, comfy bed and have a house to myself. As night fell, that quickly became a bad idea. The bed was so large that I was scared to sleep in it. It felt vastly empty… an unnerving feeling that kept me tossing and turning. My thoughts spiraled out of control as I re-read my text exchanges. I looked at the dates on them, then back to the screenshot my friend sent me, then looked back at my texts again. Everything I knew defied any logic… I further began to not understand what was real or what wasn’t.
I find that the two hardest times of the day are as I lay down to sleep and the moment I wake up. As I lay down to sleep I am reminded of how absolutely alone I am and my thoughts race to try and figure out why all of this is happening. I’m a good person, so why am I subjected to all this pain? When I wake, I am reminded that the dreams I had were all just that… dreams. The cycle begins again.
That night I begged for someone to hold me, anybody, just to make my world stop spinning. I gripped the pillow tight, screamed in agony and pleaded to God to make it all stop. It was my worst evening of my life and I spent it all alone in the Tempest of my mind. Somehow I fell asleep… I’m not sure how, probably just passed out from exhaustion.
I awoke that morning sandwiched between a blonde and long-legged, black haired thing… two labradoodles. Not how I envisioned that fantasy going, but I’ll take it. Dogs are amazing at detecting sadness. I looked at Rosie and Hank’s face and they both stared directly at my eyes, knowing. They sensed the pain I felt and made themselves a warm, loving perimeter around me until I woke. My german shepherd, Blitzkrieg, used to do the same thing. He’d sense whenever I was sad and he’d sit next to you with his soulful eyes letting you know he was there, nuzzling you.
We don’t deserve dogs…
I had every intension of spending my weekend drawing and being creative, but after the emotional free fall I experienced I knew I had to get out of the house. I had already done one Skydive jump last week and I thought it was about time I do another. Maybe get my accelerated free-fall.
Fuck it, if I’m going to experience falling I’m going to do it on MY terms. I’m going to take control over these pit fall feelings in my stomach and intentionally seek them out. After being largely out of control of my own life for the past month I want to be fully in control of my destiny. I’m going to do another jump at 13,000 feet.
If you want to get all psychological on me… then yes, I was seeking out arousal and recreating situations in which I have control. I don’t need to pay a therapist $200 an hour to figure that out.
Skydive Taft is slowly becoming my place to be, and the weekends are a hub of commotion and camaraderie. As I walked up, a few familiar faces greeted me and were ecstatic that I had come back. After the winter storm had rolled through, the weather was perfect for skydives.
My brother’s good friend and ranger buddy, Micah, was there. I instantly felt a sense of ease at knowing someone. Micah is an interesting dude. A big burly, handsome man with a beard and a lip full of Copenhagen all the time. He’s still an Army Ranger to the core, hard as fuck if he needs to be but still a girl dad. First time I ever met Micah, he was belting “How Far I’ll Go” from Moana with his daughter doing an entire performance for us in the grass. After he put on Slayer’s “Reign in Blood” in which she danced to that too. Such a girl dad… the very best girl dad. It was the most charming thing I’ve ever seen.
I met Chad and Tim, two other Army dudes who were fun jumping as well, and spent a lot of time bullshitting with them.
It’s funny, because the more people I tell my story the more I realize that people don’t give a shit that I’m gay. Heart break is universal. The more people hear that I’m traveling the more excited they get and I get too. My tribe increases. I definitely felt like these three guys are my kind of people and their stories and advice were great.
We all load up into the plane and got ready for our 13K jump. I was still tandem, but this time my instructor Luke was going to allow me to be in control. As the plane took off, we all pressed our index fingers to the ceiling to “help lift the plane up,” a superstition that is unique to Taft folks. As I looked behind me, I could see the pilot with a cigar in his mouth (unlit, of course…) and I chuckled at how different this culture was compared to the Air Force, Test Pilot, and Weekender flying groups I’ve been accustomed to.
I watched as Chad, Micah, and Tim exited the plane before me, falling into oblivion; they smiled as they hung onto the side of the fuselage and released themselves. I can understand why. Luke and I were the very last ones out. As I got to the edge, the nervous feelings most people have still weren’t there; this time I was determined and eager to get out there.
I went through the mental checklist of my tasks: arch my back, watch my altimeter, do three practice touches, lock on at 7,000ft, pull at 6,000.
We walked to the edge of the plane door. This part is by far the most surreal. The world below is so open… so vast… much like the bed I laid in the night before except this time I was in control. The thing that I love about flying is that you explore the world in 3 dimensional space. Most of us are used to just left, right, back, forward… but with flight you have up and down as well. It opens the world up more when you add those two into the mix. When you remove the cockpit, it’s even more liberating. You truly feel how large the world is and how absolutely insignificant you are in size.
The noise is deafening. It’s the sound of the aircraft engines mixed with the wind whipping around the fuselage and your face. Through the chaos of noise and wind I can hear Luke count down: “3… 2…” and I stopped listening at 2 because I was already trying to lean out the plane and get this over with.
It’s even colder at 13,000 ft than I would have thought. My finger tips and face quickly became numb from the freezing wind. The initial sound as you jump out of the plane is silence, until you hit terminal velocity and the wind rushes past your ears again. I did my touches, felt the familiar feel of the orange golf ball that deploys the parachute. I watched my altimeter as we plummeted quickly…
9,000…
8,000…
7,000… LOCK.
6,000… PULL.
I reached back for the golf ball and grasped it firmly. At that moment I had a choice, we ALWAYS have a choice, and we are ALWAYS defined by our choices.
Do I pull it?
Of course I did. I wouldn’t be writing this right now if I didn’t pull the damn thing. I yanked and yanked until it popped free and the familiar jerk of the parachute kicked our legs forward. We were back to soaring like a leaf on the wind.
The scariest times for me when parachuting are when Luke has to adjust the straps to make it more comfortable to land. That part always is a 8 on the Asshole-Puckering Scale (or the “APS” as we’ll call it). Otherwise it’s a smooth ride to the bottom as we turn and flare. The moment my feet hit the ground I’m not thankful to be back on planet earth, I’m wanting to go again.
Truthfully, when I jump is the only time I feel alive or in control of my life.
