Writing

Skydiving is Kinda Boring

 

I never said skydiving wasn't beautiful

Next Stop: Earth

The sound of the propellers drowns the voices of plane’s other passengers.  Two by two they lighten the vessel’s load.  The instructor tightens all the straps for the third time, and motions to slide along the bench in the middle of the cramped cabin.  We wiggle up into an awkward standing position, repeating the same waddle as the last attached pair of bodies that just fell out the open door.  We move up.  “Ready?” I hear in my ear.  The moment I dreaded has arrived.  Will I hesitate?  I look out and see Earth through a hole in the clouds.  “1.”  Where’s the rush?  “2.”  How is it that I’m not freaking out right now?  “3!”  Where’s the hesitation?  The whirr of the propellers is instantly replaced with the sound of rushing wind.  If I closed my eyes, I could have been in a pine forest during a hurricane.  I try to look around as much as possible; I want to take in the whole experience.   The instructor motions for me to make a shaka sign with my hand, and I begrudgingly cave in.  As we pass under the clouds my hand is guided to the golf ball on the parachute’s ripcord, and then, suddenly, we’re floating.  At that moment I realize something very underwhelming: I’m bored.

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