Note: I wrote this in 1993.

I know why birds sing.

They do because they can fly. And because they can fly, they are truly free. From the beauty of the air, they can see all of the wonders of the Earth. In 1992, I conquered some of my fears, and now, I can sing too.

It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.

The music started when one of my friends, Barbara (“call me Babs”*) related to me her plans to go bungy-jumping, a sport where one ties a long rubber band to one’s ankle and jumps from a relatively high distance — maybe 75 or 100 feet. Many such places have been springing up, selling jumps from a crane and into a parking lot (almost). I asked her if she had ever considered skydiving. She said that she had, and that she’d like to do it sometime. Seizing the opportunity, I asked her if she would like to do it soon. She gave a quick “yes” in reply. No backing out now, my pride was on the line.

But could I actually do it?

Making Plans

Enter Kris Stappenback. Kris is a colleague of mine, and an experienced skydiver. I talked to him about it, and he counseled me to go to a parachute center in Raeford, N.C., an hour and a half drive from Raleigh. We set the date for May 2nd, about three weeks from the inception of the idea. Plenty of time to think about things, to develop some preconceptions and a little bit of fear. I did.

Kris set everything up, and I bravely said that I wouldn’t be afraid. I knew that I would, and he knew it too. He had told me that I was initially going to be frightened, but to relax and enjoy myself. Good advice, but my nerves were having a great deal of difficulty taking that advice to heart. I thought about who would come to my funeral.

The night before the jump, Babs and I had been out quite late with other friends. Both of us were feeling a little rough. She told me that she lost her first patient–a catharsis in the career of every nurse. She had soothed herself with tequila. I spent the night working with my friend’s blues band, hanging out in some North Raleigh pool hall of the year, one replete with well-dressed bikers playing tough. It was a perfect setting for my last hurrah. I was partying like it was a wake–my own.

Kris came to the bar that night, ostensibly to give me support as the ringing of fear became louder and louder. I refused to admit that I was thinking about it, and made droll jokes about heirs and wills instead. While we were talking, I turned to a woman in the bar and asked her, “Excuse me. Would you think it sane to jump out of a perfectly good airplane?”

She looked at me and said, “I don’t know if you should ask me. I’m a pilot. But no, I wouldn’t do it.”

So much for support. Kris and I stood there with the woman and her sister, drinking for a few minutes. A nice distraction until they excused themselves. Apparently, they thought we were trying to pick them up or something. Women in bars are often (rightfully) suspicious about that. In reality, sex was far from my mind. A man stricken with fear does not think of reproduction. Other survival instincts crowd out that particular desire.

Meanwhile, Kris had turned to talk to another friend, Norman. You meet all kinds of people in life but there’s no one like Norman.

A long haired hippy, Norman is a retired Navy SEAL who has been to war on three different continents.  That he can tell us about, anyway.   As he and Kris drank, they began exchanging skydiving stories.  These stories weren’t exactly settling my nerves. They swapped stories close calls, cutting away from main chutes to get to reserves–with less than two seconds to impact, that sort of thing. Still, I could sense a camaraderie and a flavor of adventure in their mutual hobby. Clearly, both of them prized their experiences.  And they both had a good time ficking with me, too.  I don’t blame ’em, I would have too.

Finally Norman looked at me , smiled and said, “Don’t worry, you’ll have an absolute ball. You’ll never get a rush as good.  And you’ll be fine.”  I stood there, doubting his every word. I shouldn’t have, because I found out later that he was right. Norman is very wise about these things.  Besides, he knew who I was going to see.

My Last Day On The Planet

Before we left for Raeford, a little town near Fort Bragg, NC, Call Me Babs took me to lunch. The early spring day was gorgeous, with a blue sky, and small puffy white clouds. It was about 80°, and we dined outside on the terrace of one of Raleigh’s better restaurants. We made small-talk as we ate, swapping stories back and forth about her job, my job, ex-lovers, music, things we had done recently, everything but what we were about to do. Finally, I grabbed her green eyes into mine. “Scared yet?” I asked her.

“No.” she replied quickly. “I’m not going to think about it.” She looked away, straight into a dead bush. Liar, I thought to myself. But am I fooling her?

The moment passed quickly and the subject changed. As we ate our meal, I saw a small plane flying over us. I imagined what the pilot saw, and I tried to imagine jumping out of that little plane. The thought was very alien to me. I just couldn’t imagine doing it.  That’s how you due.

The drive to the jump-site was one cloaked in silence. We were both covering our nerves with silence, maybe even a little dread.  Fear seemed like a very reasonable thing about then.

Finally, we arrived at an abandoned Army airfield redux, complete with families picnicking while they made jokes about ‘meat bombs’.  At that moment, I hoped that they sold Pepto-Bismol in the jump shack. Or maybe a Valium.

“Ladies And Gentlemen, Your Attention Please.”

Once inside, we were greeted by a stern looking Army Sergeant type: solidly built, short-cropped hair and a perfectly fitted cap.  John Tippy turned out to be — a former Army First Sergeant had retired from the Army because he was “damn tired of getting shot at.”  He said that casually, and you knew it was just…true.

Tippy (“Call me Tippy”) was friendly, but quite serious about his work. I liked his style. He was a man I felt I could die with. Somehow, though, I figured he wanted to live too. My stomach began to feel better.

We went inside a trailer and listened to do the do’s and don’ts of our mission ahead.  We’d be joined with an experienced instructor who’d tell me what to do.  And, Tippy said, “it’s in your best interests to do what they say.”

Tippy then lectured us us a class for about thirty minutes regarding our jump: that we were going to be strapped in tandem to a jumpmaster, and that they would hook our legs together to make two people fly in unison.

We also received lessons on how to get out of the airplane safely, how to read altimeters and finally, what the red handle affixed to our chest meant.

“It’s your reserve parachute ripcord,” he said. “If for any reason there is a malfunction in your equipment, your instructor will reach around your chest and pull it. Under NO circumstances should you try and stop him or get in the way. If you should, he has the right to knock the hell out of you to get to it. And believe me, that punch will hurt much less than bouncing off of the ground at 120 miles per hour.” Upon hearing that advice, I promised myself that if I could, I would present that red handle upon a silver platter.

The last thing Tippy said during the lecture struck as quite important as well. “The only thing you really have to do is this–” he said, as he reached for a yellow handle affixed to my hip and yanked it violently, “pull. That the only rule in skydiving–PULL! Once you are of off of the airplane, there is no choice, NO turning back. If you don’t pull, I won’t eat dinner with my wife tonight!” He stared sternly for a moment, then he smiled broadly.

Class dismissed.  Time to leave this Mortal Coil.

While we took a long walk towards the runway, Kris took pictures of Babs and me as the plane taxied behind us. It was an old silver Beech King Air, the kind used for puddle-hoppers, commuter airlines. This King Air was a little different; with no door on the side, it crept along the runway, it belching smoke behind the propellers. Suddenly, my stomach wanted that Pepto-Bismol anyway.

We then climbed into the airplane. It didn’t hesitate long before it took off, lifting gracefully off of the runway. As we climbed to altitude, the other jumpers relaxed, made jokes and drank Pepsis. Suddenly, one of them jumped up and ran out of the open door–into the clear blue sky! As he leapt through, there was a sucking sound. In an instant, he was gone. No one else seemed to notice his abrupt egress. Tippy laughed. “He’s trying to get as many jumps in as possible today,” he told me.

“Oh?” I said, still shocked.

“Yeah, I think that was his fifteenth. Or sixteenth.” Tippy continued. With that, he began joking with someone else. I tried to peer through the door to see if the fellow had made it, wondering if his parachute had opened, or if he was a meat-bomb, about to bounce.

The airplane leveled off at twelve thousand feet, and several people began to move to the door. One by one, they climbed out on the wings of the airplane, hanging off of any surface they could grasp. Then, with a nod, they all leapt together.

“They’re going to unite in the air.” Tippy explained. “It’s called relative work. You can fly together, almost like you’re dancing with each other.”

“I see.” I said meekly. I still could not imagine it.

“It’s our turn now. Let’s move to the door!” With that, we scooted towards the open door–and my impending doom. I gave Babs one last look. Weakly, she smiled and mouthed “goodbye,” looking rather nauseous. As strongly as I could, I smiled back.  I wasn’t exactly feeling well.

Tempest fugit: “Time is fleeting.”

As I looked outside the airplane, I wasn’t sure that I had the nerve to go through with the jump. My hands gripped on the outside of the airplane for anything they could grasp onto, anything to keep me on that rickety old DC-3. Fear gripped me as tightly as it ever has. My stomach groaned loudly, and I could feel my heart beating in my throat. A cool bead of sweat trickled down my brow, and was sucked out of the airplane into the sky. Below us, the clouds were as white as any white I had ever seen. The countryside below that was tranquil, serene, a surreal painting.

Above the roar of the engines, I heard a yell into my ear. “Ready!” Tippy screamed. I felt myself rock forward.

“Set!” I rocked backwards. My eyes began to roll. My life became a quick time film in my vision.

“Go!” Tippy bellowed.

Tippy rocked forward hard, and we fell together into the sky.

Suddenly, I was flying, and only for a second or two did I feel any sensation of falling.

The world quickly evened out to a floating roar, with the wind buffeting past. My arms were outstretched, and Tippy tried to hook my legs into the correct position–the one he said would keep us alive. I noticed that my body was all tense and taut, not relaxing as I had been told earlier. He hit my leg, and I went totally slack, which allowed him to finally twine our ankles. I didn’t feel like I was falling at all, but the mad rush of the wind told me otherwise. I wondered how Babs was doing. Then suddenly, I didn’t care. I was doing. That was all that was important.

I quickly got used to the sensation. It had only been a few seconds, but time stretched out in adrenal eternity.  It was…nice.  Beautiful.  Thrilling, even.  It was nothing I’d ever seen, or had the imagination to dream.  The mix of sensations was fun!  I stared at the ground below, not in fear, but in awe.  Oddly, I couldn’t really tell it was getting closer at 120 miles per hour. The ground reminded me of the moon in a car window, never moving, following in exactly the same place as we moved.

“Oh, Hi There!”

About then, something grabbed my hand. I jerked it back in surprise. I looked at it, and there was my friend Kris, grinning at me like the Cheshire cat of old. A man with a video camera affixed to the top of his helmet had floated up with him, and Kris made a big face for the lens. Then suddenly, both of them were gone. They seemed to simply vanish. Later, I found out that Tippy had waved them off with his arms, giving the signal we were about to deploy our parachute. I was very happy to see Kris, because he helped me snap out of any disorientation I was feeling. Yup, I was disoriented. I think nearly anyone would have been.

About then, I could tell the ground was much closer. I was not afraid anymore, actually I was buzzing, and enthralled. And at that very moment, I heard a sound like paper crumpling, followed by a quick pop and a yank, as if some cosmic force had suddenly decided that this high was all wrong. Suddenly, the noise and wind were gone, replaced by a chimerically serene floating over the terrain, in a gentle breeze on a beautiful Spring day. As loud as the airplane and the wind had been, this was equally quiet and calm.

Hanging Out

“What’d you think of free-fall ? ” Tippy asked me as we floated groundward. We could talk normally, as though I was standing in front of him. His voice was calm, relaxed, quiet. There was no longer a need for him to shout.

“Wow!” was all I could manage in reply. At that moment, my brain was experiencing sensory overload — one of the most pleasant human experiences possible. Words were eluding me, my mind racing languagelessly. I was simply feeling, and at that moment, I was very happy.

‘I didn’t think I ‘d get you out of the airplane. You sure were grabbing everything on the outside of the door. It was like you had octopus hands!”

“Well,” I replied, “I have a real fear of heights. The door to the plane opened up and it got real hard to let go!”

Tippy chuckled easily. “Yeah, a lot of people are like that. You did just fine. I’ve had some real problem children, and twelve-thousand feet high is no time to have to review your lessons!”

Coming down to Earth

Back to business, Tippy continued, “Let’s practice turning and landing.” The ground was slowly floating up towards us, but there was still no sensation of speed as we slowly headed downwards. I pulled left, then right, learning how to maneuver the parachute. Being a large tandem (two-person) rig, it turned in slow arcs, rotating the view below. I watched a baseball game being played on a field a couple of thousand feet below my feet. Then I turned us to look at the runway we had just left. It sparkled in the sun like diamonds in the bottom of a clear river. In all, the view was perfect and spectacular. As I watched, I practiced flaring the chute, which nearly stopped the downward momentum completely. It would be the last thing we did when we met the ground.

Each tree began to have its own definition. A crowd was below us, other jumpers in various stages of either parachuting or partying. Children ran around, laughing and screaming as they chased one another. I could hear their voices distinctly as they enjoyed their day. I wondered who was having more fun–me or them.

“Let’s turn in a loop, and land upwind,” Tippy said from behind. He instructed me to pull the chute left, and as I did the prachute rotated us, taking a gently sweeping arc. The ground was gently approaching with some certainty now. It was clear to me that this was end-game. I took one last long gaze at the wonder below me, and at that moment, I was certain I would be back — and soon.

We swung out over the north end of the landing field, and stopped our course change. Now we were dropping straight down, and the ground was approaching quickly. I saw the shadow of my feet rushing to meet my shoes. Then, I could see the blades of grass, and the people below were scant feet from us as we descended.

The last part came quickly. We landed in a soft step, but just as we touched down, the wind shifted, and the chute pulled us over to the ground. We fell over, laughing. Terra firma. I was alive! I hadn’t simply survived, I was more alive then I had ever been.

As we landed, the people on the ground had captured our chute. Everyone rushed up to me, slapping me on the back, shaking my hand, grinning and laughing. Kris, who had fallen further before he deployed his parachute, had beaten John and me down. He grabbed my hand, slapped me on the back and exclaimed, “You’re one of us now!!! You’re a skydiver!!!” I hugged him.

Now I knew exactly why he was in this sport. Now I knew exactly why I was in this sport. The buzz, the rush, the bang, whatever you wish to call it, was better than any drug, bigger than any other thrill, the best thing I’d ever done. The skydiver’s analogy of their sport being the best thing one could do with their clothes on was the exact truth. This much I now knew for certain.

Call Me Babs landed a few seconds later. Her landing was much crisper than mine. She softly touched her feet and walked away easily as the parachute deflated behind her. I could tell her mood had definitely improved–she was laughing, talking, being herself again. She related to Kris and I that as she and her instructor free-fell, they had done several flips in the air. He apologized profusely, but all Babs could say was how much she enjoyed the somersaults. “Can we do that again?” she asked, smiling. Her instructor smiled meekly in reply, a little greener at the gills for the experience.

The Thrill Is Not Gone

We relaxed, laughing and talking about the jump over and again. The day grew late, and as the sun set over the runway, we celebrated with a beer and a couple of shots of Mexican Holy Water — Jose Cuervo. The talk was free and easy, and somehow, I felt a little closer to her at that moment. We had both accomplished something incredible, first, conquering our fear, second, the jump itself. Both of us decided that we wanted to do it again.

It was dark before we headed homewards. As we left the drop zone, I turned for one last look. I knew that my life would never be the same, and that I would be back to this place to experience that thrill again and again. Perhaps that feeling will lessen in time, but I’m sure that it will never go away completely. I’m also sure that one day, I will be able to share stories of special jumps, those that were beautiful, harrowing, unexpected, interesting. If anything, the fall from the sky had stirred a passion in me.

For those seven minutes, life was absolute perfection. You don’t get many of those in life, and I savored this one. I had stood up to my fears, and had conquered them, making them small, weak, and unimportant, at least when I really needed to. And by doing so, I was free, maybe for the first time, ever.  Because I could fly.

And that is why birds can sing.