sky diiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiive

see the world,

I just fell out of a teeny tiny plane, 12000 feet above ground, stomach fully lurched, heart fully in throat, eyes alternately squeezed shut or wide, wide wide open ... and freefalled for a full minute without screaming.


I was hanging on the stoop of an aircraft roughly the size of my old wardrobe, as it bounced around above clouds and tiny insignificant traces of human architecture. The wind was too rough to pull my legs out at first, and the roaring was deafening. There was nothing I could do to panic any more or any less - they shoved me out. Just shoved.

My face rushed up to meet my eyebrows, the push of air beneath me was too tight to breathe, my legs swung out of control as I tried to retain the surfing position they'd taught me several thousands of feet closer to earth, on top of a picnic table. I cast hasty glances at the mountain range opposite, but mostly was preoccupied with the sort of "ohgodohgodohgod" routine that characterises most perceptibly near death moments. Then a tap on my shoulder, a crashing feeling as the freefall pulled urgent and hard at the parachute explosion opening behind me, goggles lifted, and I swung gently upright into drifting, beautiful silence.

After the parachute opened, the roaring stopped, my mouth became a functioning breathing appratus again, and I drifted quietly and slowly like pollen. I could change direction, swing, turn, spiral.

As I slowed and came upright, Pete, the sensible, taciturn old timer who was taking me down pointed over across Mount Cook in the distance and said "welcome to my office".

Stunning.

Can I just say that again? I fell out at 12000 feet. Fell.

But I don't think I'll ever be as scared again.