I won’t lie. I’m not a fan of flying. Over the years I’ve come to view it as a necessary evil to get me to where I want to be. But why anyone would choose to jump out of a plane for fun is beyond me.
Nonetheless, I nearly did.
Here’s what happened, and why I’m absolutely gutted that it all went horribly wrong.
Skydiving
My friend emigrated to New Zealand a few years ago and, after settling in Queenstown, he instantly became an adrenalin junkie.
I visited him on his 30th birthday. And guess what he wanted to do to celebrate? He only wanted to go bloody skydiving.
My trip to New Zealand was months in the planning. We Skyped a lot in the weeks leading up to it. And every time we spoke, he’d talk about how jumping out of a plane was going to be the best way to spend his 30th birthday.
I didn’t commit to anything. Instead, I tried to swallow back tears of terror at the thought of it. Honestly, the mere mention of skydiving, made my stomach somersault, my mouth dry and my eyes well up.
I refused to talk about it. I let him go ahead and make the arrangements, but I couldn’t discuss it.
The Jump
When the time came, I still couldn’t talk about it. In the mini-bus on the way to the dive site, I remained silent.
Unbeknown to me at the time, my 3 friends had played ‘Rock Paper Scissors’ to decide who would be the unlucky one to partner up with me for the jump. They all thought I’d freak out and become an absolute wreck. I have to admit, I thought the same.
By the time we arrived I was resigned to my fate. I didn’t want to let the team down. And if I’m honest, I didn’t want to be ridiculed for the rest of my life. I also knew that it would be an amazing experience and one that I’d remember forever. If I survived.
Fast forward a couple of hours, I’d watched the safety videos, my skydiving suit was on and I was being strapped to a very jovial young Irish man, my dive instructor.
Six of us clambered into the worlds tiniest aeroplane. Myself and two friends each strapped to a dive instructor, our lives in their hands. I wasn’t a blabbering wreck like everyone, including me, thought I’d be.
I was simply numb.
The plane took off and my dive instructor told me there was only one way down. He was jumping, and since I was strapped very tightly to him, I was jumping too. There was no turning back.
The Jump’s Off
Apparently, we had reached about 10,000 feet (we were jumping from 15,000) when it all went wrong.
My dive instructor tapped me on the shoulder, pointed to the window and said something.
I let out a nervous laugh, not actually having heard what he’d said.
“The jump’s off” he said again.
What? I couldn’t believe I’d come this far. I was actually going to jump be thrown out of a plane, and here I was being told that it wasn’t going to happen.
The clouds had thickened and for health and safety reasons, we weren’t allowed to jump.
Relief or Disappointment?
I felt what I can only describe is a mixture of elated relief and immense disappointment.
I know! This surprised me too.
It wasn’t until we landed that I realised just how pumped full of adrenaline my body was. I was bordering on delirium.
The truth of the matter is that I was absolutely gutted. Gutted because it would’ve been one hell of an experience. And I knew, and I know, that I’m unlikely to find the courage to do it again.