Outdoor Recreation

utdoor Recreation

In my repertoire of recurring dreams there's a cold-sweat night-mare. Gripped by fear and wind battered, I'm in the sky, crouching on a metal bar outside an airplane. I have a despair-ing sense that falling is inevitable. I let go. My mind goes blank, but I'm jolted back by a hair-raising scream. It's me. In this dream, I'm falling to my death.

I don't have a friend who hasn't asked me why I climb mountains, sleep in the snow, soar in gliders, rappel down cliffs, and lower myself into caves. I shrug, hoping they'll assume it's adrenaline-rush bravado.

The fact is I'm timid in the face of everyday life, so I routinely give myself real reasons to be afraid. It boosts my confidence. The only rush for me is the relief when it's over.

But one day I overdid it. I jumped out of an airplane.

Working with a central Arizona parachuting group based in Pinal County, I made arrangements for a static-line jump, which often precedes free-fall skydiving. There were 10 other trainees in my group.

The day began with lectures about safety and equipment. The safety checks that are routine among sky divers were explained as was the static-line process. The main chutes we'd use would be attached to a line in the compartment of the airplane that would take us up to 3,500 feet. Once we jumped, our main chutes would be pulled open automatically. Then we'd drift downward to Earth. Simple movements such as pulling down on the shrouds (the cords that connect the harness to the canopy) right or left would give us directional control, and the process, instructors assured us, was relatively safe.

Except once in a while the static chute didn't open.

For these times there was a special ring on our chests attached to an auxiliary chute. The trick was to remain calm and remember to yank the ring.

Another concept was hitting the ground. You didn't land squarely on your feet. Instead, you rolled into the ground, shoulders first, to prevent impact injury. Then you got up, ran to the chute to pound the air out of it, and waited for transportation back to the airport.

HURTLING THROUGH EMPTY SKY ISN'T FUN — UNLESS YOU'RE A SKY DIVER

If we didn't get the air out of the chute immediately, the ground wind would fill it, and we would be dragged through the desert. If this happened, we couldn't grab the shrouds to deflate the canopy because we'd burn our hands.

Dressed in overalls and loaded with our parachute gear, we got ready for the afternoon flight. By that time, the ground wind had increased to more than 25 miles an hour. This would make landing precarious, we were told, but we opted to go.

I was the first. I was supposed to climb outside of the plane, stand on the wing railing, smile, and push off. I was told to count to 10. If my static-line chute wasn't open by then, I had to yank the auxiliary ring.

I fell away from the plane.

I don't remember the first 10 seconds. My mind went blank. I don't remember hearing a scream. I do remember opening my eyes to behold a chute billowing above me. I stared down at the ground and descended in a daze.

The wind was so strong I never got a chance to roll into the ground. I smashed against it, feet first. My ankle was injured, and, while I lay there rubbing it, the wind caught my chute. I grabbed for the shrouds to hold it back and burned my hands. Then I was dragged through rocks and cacti.

But I made it, and for a long time after the jump, I was fearless.

WHEN YOU GO

Skydiving is offered only at central-Arizona desert locations, where the terrain is consistently level.

One of the most popular training centers is Accelerated Freefall-Desert Skydiving Center, (602) 271-0440, near Buckeye. Owner Patti Horn cautions that no matter which center you select, make certain instructors are certified by the United States Parachuting Association, (703) 836-3495. And, she adds, the first time is the most difficult. Thereafter, it's a thrill that can't be matched.