Our Favorite Heroine

RAPTURE AT 10.000 FEET HOW I SURVIVED MY FIRST TANDEM SKY DIVE

Distilled almost to jelly with the act of fear. - Shakespeare, Hamlet, Act I, scene ii.

In a matter of minutes, I've managed to reduce my life to two agonizing choices: I can be a wretched yellowbelly (with witnesses), or I can jump out of an airplane and free-fall two and a half miles above the Earth. I habitually - perhaps compulsively - experiment with the physical and emotional effects of fear, but this, this is heart-stopping. The door to the Cessna 182 isshoved open. My hair bristles up from my scalp, and my mind seems to have shut itself off. There's a swelling of fear lodged in my throat that wants to come out as a scream. Someone smarter than I am is struggling to climb out of my skin and stop me, and I want her to hurry. I close my eyes and despair that I've done this to myself.

It is my first tandem sky-dive jump. Tandem skydiving is a relatively new sport that allows a novice jumper to make a free-fall sky dive after only a half hour of instruction (and an hour filling out death-warning liability forms).

Parachuting isn't a first for me, so I should know better than to be here.

Several years ago, I made a static-line jump at a sky-dive school near Coolidge. I was so afraid that my mind went blank. All I remember after I jumped is counting to 10 and seeing the static chute automatically open. As the ground seemed to rush up at me, I committed every landing sin. I burnt my hands on the chute ropes; I scraped my body as I was dragged through the desert by the chute, and I sprained my foot.

I vowed I would never again jump out of an airplane.

Then an Air Force pilot on a recent scuba-diving certification trip off the coast of San Diego convinced me tandem skydiving was different. The thrill of tandem, the pilot said, eyeing me directly, is that you can free-fall on the first jump without the customary hours of instruction and five static-line prep jumps.

He grabbed a paper napkin from the galley table, reached for my pen, and scribbled. "You want a thrill, this is one you'll never forget. Do it, and then come back and talk to me about your adventure." He slid the napkin toward me. It said: Ty Kelley - Desert Skydiving Center, Buckeye Airport.

"Tell Ty the Madman sent you," he added. He was grinning like a demon, but his words stuck with me.

That was in the summer. In the fall, I called Kelley, then manager of Desert Skydiving Center, 30 minutes west of Phoenix. Three weeks later, I was mentally kicking myself for my compulsive idiocy as I zipped up my skydiving suit.

The essential element of tandem sky-diving is that the instructor is physically attached to the novice. Through a fairly simple network of belts, straps, buckles, and rings, the instructor actually fastens his chest to the back of the student. The in-structor and student are both attached to the main chute, and there is a secondary rip cord in case of emergency. The instructor also wears a drogue chute, which is engaged immediately into the dive to slow the fall speed from 220 mph to 110.

The day of the jump7:30 A.M. on a Saturday - I finish signing liability forms, and Kelley, a strapping guy who has made 2,600 jumps, nudges me and points. "There's your instructor," he says. "Evan Kiser."

Kiser, who looks like a young Burt Reynolds, takes me through the drill. He shows me how we will be attached, and he explains how the jump will go from take-off in the Cessna 182 to touching back down on Earth. He spends extra time explaining the "hard arch" and demonstrating it on a floor mat in the center's training area.

When you free-fall, you must avoid spinning or tumbling out of control. Both of us, Kiser explains, must immediately arch our backs, strain our necks upward, thrust our arms out like wings, and extend our legs, bending them at the knees. The idea, he says, is that you "fly" parallel to the Earth for the 45-second free-fall.

"Do people ever go up with you and get so scared they chicken out?" I ask Kiser. "Naw." Kiser gives me a sideways look.

"It's what happens after they jump that can be a problem. Women aren't so bad. When they get scared, their bodies just sort of close down, and they go limp. But men, sometimes they try to fight the fall. They grab their ankles or thrash around, and they're out of control. Just remember the arch."

A pilot who is listening to us tells me about a woman on a recent jump: "She was getting ready for her first. She pulled herself toward the airplane door, using my thigh as a brace. I had bruises for weeks where her fingers dug into me. She didn't want to leave the plane, I can tell you."

We'll fly to an altitude of 10,500 feet, Kiser says, jump, and free-fall three quarters of a minute to 4,000, when he'll open the main chute. He'll make a chopping motion in front of my face before he engages the chute to prepare me for the strong upward jerk created by the chute taking wind.

There are several of us in the plane, and we're at 9,000 feet. My upper body is being pushed and pulled as Kiser tugs and tightens our attachments. My mouth is dry and tears are welling up when Bill Will, a sky-dive photographer, suddenly shoves open the airplane door. Hunched on my knees facing the cockpit and next to the door, I thrust my right hand out to get a sense of wind power. The blast slams my palm back toward the door frame. I look out at the sky and feel nothing. I'm numb.

RAPTURE AT 10,000 FEET

sky-dive photographer, suddenly shoves open the airplane door. Hunched on my knees facing the cockpit and next to the door, I thrust my right hand out to get a sense of wind power. The blast slams my palm back toward the door frame. I look out at the sky and feel nothing. I'm numb.

"Evan, I'm really scared." I turn back to look at him, and I feel like I'm whispering, but it comes out as a scream over the noise of the plane's engine. "I don't think I want to do this. I've never been this afraid."

"Good," Kiser says, leaning closer and talking directly into my ear. "That's okay. That's natural. Think of it like, 'So what?' Take breaths. Not quick ones. Just breathe slow and deep."

Kiser thrusts his right leg outside the plane and places it on the wing railing. He taps me, signaling me to put my leg out and in front of his. I do, and I know now there's no turning back. Our right legs stretched outside the plane, we grab the outside of the door frame and scoot closer to the opening. As a single unit, we turn and lean outside the plane."DIVE!" Kiser yells. We're out. I'm in a somersault. Dis-oriented but determined not to blank out, I focus on forcing my body into the hard arch. I feel it tumbling and wavering and shaking as it tries to right itself into a par-allel position.

Then, with my body parallel to the Earth, a kind of rapture takes hold of me. My arms are spread out, and my head is raised toward the sun. I know I'm falling 110 miles an hour, and the wind is whistling and ripping past my body, but my "world" now seems unusually slow and gentle. It's like I'm an angel gliding in heaven. I feel a rushing exuberance and an absolutely joy-ous thrill. I understand in an instant why people do this. It's an ecstasy you could easily begin to crave.

All too soon, Kiser reaches around and chops his hand in front of my face to signal he's opening the main chute. We're yanked upward like we're on a warp-speed elevator, and then we're floating, bathed in gentle rose light from a sun-backed neon pink canopy.

We're at 4,000 feet and falling quickly. It occurs to me that the danger's not over, but my mind is still on the free-fall. The con-trolled descent under the chute is a letdown compared to the ecstatic sky fall.

Our landing is flawless, and we're met by Kelley and a crew that helps detach and pack up the chute.

WHEN YOU GO

Desert Skydiving Center is at the Buckeye Airport off Pollo Verde Road, Exit 109, one mile south of Interstate 10. Current Manager Mark Scott, who has made 4,000 tandem jumps, says there are other locations in Arizona that offer tandem instruction. Before you make a selection, he cautions, make certain the center is certified, preferably by the United States Parachute Association of Alexandria, Virginia; (703) 836-3495.

The cost of the first tandem jump at Desert Skydiving is $125. For continuing students the cost is $105, and beginning with the second jump, if the student chooses, he can pull the ripcord. You should be in good condition. There are some physical restrictions including a weight limit. Scott says that a student weighing up to 235 pounds can tandem jump with an instructor using a static line, but because of technical restrictions Months later I carry the feeling of this free-fall with me, and I call it up when I need confidence and peace. Think of it: fear can be so strong it'll stop us dead in our tracks, and then, what do you know? We meet it, examine it, own it, and there it is, gaining us perspective and helping us move more knowingly through life.

they cannot accept tandem jumpers above that weight.

For more information about tandem jumping, contact Desert Skydiving Center, 3000 S. Pollo Verde Road, Buckeye, AZ 85326; (602) 271-0440 or toll-free (800) 441-5867 outside the Phoenix area.

Other USPA Group Members in Arizona include:

Arizona Aero-Sports, Inc., 4021 E. Harmony Ave., Mesa, AZ 85206-3284; (602) 830-6555.

Marana Skydiving Center, Avra Valley Airport; toll-free (800) 647-5867.

Pair-A-Chute, Inc., Coolidge-Globe Airport, Globe, AZ 85282; (602) 431-9279.

Skydive Arizona, Eloy Municipal Airport, 4900 N. Taylor Road, Eloy, AZ 85321; (520) 466-3753.