I’m a huge sissy. My younger brother, Taylor, had been riding roller coasters several years before I gathered the courage to jump on one myself. Looking back, I probably should have stayed off the coasters. Dealing with insults about being too chicken was much easier than trying to explain my swollen eyes and tear-soaked shirt after getting off.
Taylor started petitioning my parents to let him go skydiving when he was six years old. His fearlessness has benefited him in many ways, especially with the ladies, and earned him quite the reputation. I obviously respect his gift, as any sane man would, but when my dad promised Taylor that he would take him skydiving when he was 18, I could only shake my head; I knew this meant I would be swindled into jumping as well.
And swindled I was when a year ago, Taylor turned the deal he cut with our dad into a reality. The morning of the plunge my mom called us all idiots and I didn’t think to argue. I was sick to my stomach and alternately shot the we’re screwed look to my dad and the I’m going to cut you look to my brother.
We piled into the car and began the hour-long drive. Miserable, I promptly passed out in the back seat and woke up unfazed by the crusted drool on my cheek. I was too preoccupied to even wipe it off; I just got out of the car, limped into the office and signed a release form stating that if I jumped out of the plane and my parachute failed to open, I would be responsible for the damage my corpse might inflct upon any private property. The thought of any such damage being my responsibility left me feeling warm and fuzzy inside.
Next we met with the professional skydivers who would be strapped to our backs when we jumped. They filed into the room one behind the other. My dad’s partner, Jim, had a Blowpop in his mouth and threw out friendly ice breakers about being suicidal from time to time. Cool dude. Glad he wasn’t mine.
Taylor’s partner, John, was 45 but had such a weathered and wrinkled face he looked closer to 65; a lot of hard consumption had taken its toll on this guy. It wasn’t much of a surprise, then, that he reeked of alcohol when he strolled through; even Taylor was fazed by the aroma. He turned to me but before he could say anything, my tandem partner, Eric, stuck his head between ours and said, “Don’t worry about John, he has a couple of beers in the morning to take the edge off.” It wasn’t even 9 a.m. and we were pretty sure he’d had a lot more than beer that morning.
When we got in, I sat next to the door, which was barely more than a hole in the side of the plane covered by a thin piece of Plexiglas. On the runway, I just wanted to get the jump over with, but we had to wait for what seemed to be an eternity for airspace to clear. With sweaty palms and faintly white skin, I had enough time to think of all the things I was going to miss in life.
We were scheduled to jump out at 14,000 feet and at 12,500 feet, Eric started moving around behind me and I heard a faint click, click. I turned around and he avoided eye contact but did manage to say, “Good thing I noticed that, huh?” I thought I had the responsible guy but really I was hanging out of this Plexiglas door at 12,500 feet with no parachute.
We counted down from three to jump. At zero I was still clutching the inside of the plane. Eric was trying to use his body weight to get me to let go. Nothing was going to break me then, but as I was gripping for my life I had an epiphany. Suddenly, I was in the locker room of the cinematic classic Major League II. I was Pedro Ceraño and skinny little Takaaki Ishibashi was staring at me. He didn’t have to open his mouth because I knew what was coming. He said it anyway, “You have no…no… Marbles!” With that I was gone, free-falling through the air at a speed of 181 miles an hour and all I could think about was how cold I was.
