Rico was an older guy from Jamaica. He was the coach and had all of us (there were four in this class) practice by putting on flight suits and helmets, then he strapped us to a beam by parachute lines about 4 feet up. One by one he had us rip, drop and roll, telling us about people who forget and end up with broken legs.
"Don't teense up da' legs. You don't roll you break. Got it?" "You don't roll you break." He liked to say important things at least twice. "You don't sign the release, you don't fly wit' me. Got it? You don't sign the release, you don't fly."
He said, "Don't worry, we got radio communication set up. Anything goes wrong, we're right there." It was a walky talky duct taped to the top of our parachute packs. My flight suit was huge and I dropped a contact lens while we practiced so I had to waft over in my flappy outfit and wash it off under a hose. I was tougher in those days, eye wise.
Rico explained that there would be a white van with a big black arrow on the roof. It would be driving through the fields and we would spot it when we got close enough to the ground for it to matter. We should aim ourselves at the van. All we had to do to steer left was yank on the left rope and so on. He said the parachute would open all by itself because it was attached to the roof of the airplane with something called a "dope rope." I approved of the dope rope idea all the way.
The plane was old, small and smelled like gasoline. There was room for a pilot and then a hollowed out section in back where we all huddled, except for Rico, who held onto a strap near where a door should've been. I jumped out second, because I wanted to see if he treated me any differently than the guy in front. I looked over and the first jumper looked green, like he might puke. Rico yelled, "Get up here! Now, now now! You! Let's GO!" and the he-man stepped half way out of the plane onto the wing strut. "What are you doing? You look like a monkey screwing a coconut! Jump! Jump! GO!" Then he said the exact same thing to me, and down I went.
There was a "whoosh" sound, then complete quiet. I couldn't see anything but clouds for a few seconds and it felt amazing, being that high up in the air. Too soon, the ground below came into view. It was a patchwork quilt of blues, greens and greys zooming up towards me. It was easy to spot the van below and aim for it; it was harder when I landed on the soft dark field dirt and the parachute filled with air before I could get up off the ground and find my footing.
I felt myself being airlifted just at ground level backwards by my parachute cords. I almost remembered something Rico said about cutting loose from the chute if needed, but it felt pretty good, skimming the surface. I figured I may as well get as much use out of the suit flight suit as possible and make it really worth the eighty bucks. The ride didn't last long when the wind suddenly changed and I was at the end of a cloud of dust a quarter of a football field. I got up and said, "Ta-daaa!"
Here's what I found out from jumping out of a plane. Mom was right. There is no good reason to jump out of a perfectly good plane. Except that it was fun and now I can see that it did help me to challenge myself and see if my courage could overcome my fear. That's what it means to be a strong woman.
It doesn't mean no fear. It just means doing it anyway, sometimes.
