Tempting Fate

My first guidebook assignment was in Spain a couple years back. I was left alone to meander the windy roads of the Pyrenees for many weeks on end until SVV, valiant boyfriend/travel companion that he is, returned from Azerbaijan and flew down to meet me. I had to kill time some way (other than simultaneously consuming tapas and drinking enough bier con limon to give me three guts and then some). I’d always (kinda sorta maybe) thought skydiving would be fun. So when I saw a flyer for it in the town of Jaca, I thought, why the heck not? Only, I called, and they didn’t have space…for three whole weeks. Even then, I was going to have to pay; despite my working for a guidebook and writing about their company, they weren’t the slightest bit interested in comping me (and, get this, my salary–including all expenses–was a meager FIFTEEN HUNDRED BUCKS).

It wasn’t meant to be, alas. I knew fate was sending a message. So what did I do? Well, naturally, I booked the jump and decided to return to Jaca on my way back through en route to Pamplona. That’s the great think about credit cards: You don’t have to deal with the consequences until much later. Besides, in Jaca I had met two amazing Spaniards, Erika and Luis Miguel, who had kindly let me crash at their place for as long as I needed, so as to not drain my entire salary on hotels. I was more than eager to return and hang out with them a bit longer.

Although the airfield was just 15 miles outside of Jaca, no buses went there. I contemplated renting a bike and riding out, but it was hot and, oh yeah, in the mountains, and I didn’t want to be so fatigued that I failed to comprehend important instructions–you know, like “jump” or “release parachute”–while in the air. In the end, I think it was Luis Miguel who drove me out there, and I hitchhiked–my favorite mode of transport while in Spain–back. I wasn’t really nervous. I’ve never been one who’s that terrified of heights. But the center was running way–like three hours way–behind schedule, which allowed more than enough time for my fear to mount. And mount it did. I tried to eat a crusty croissant in the cafe, as I hadn’t eaten since the previous night and had been out clubbing until the wee hours of the morning (in retrospect, probably not the best idea prior to flinging yourself out of a plane at 15,000 feet), but wound up running to the bathroom multiple times, as fear took my stomach hostage and beat it to a pulp.

Finally, it was time to learn the ropes. I should preface this by saying my conversational Spanish is pretty strong–I can definitely hold my own. However–and this is a huge however here–there’s a difference between feeling your way around the supermarket or striking up a conversation at a bar in a second language than there is learning the technical aspects of hurling yourself out of a moving aircraft. Good thing hand signs are universal.

This was only further complicated by the fact that I was diving with two visiting French instructors who weren’t native speakers either. Neat–the three of us communicating over a life-threatening activity in broken Spanish. But they were super nice, and as odd as it sounds, I was far more comforted by having one of them as my tandem as I would have been with some Rico Suave Spaniard (as much as I love the Spaniards, they’re lovers, not fliers). Then, it was time to get in the plane.

This was possibly the scariest part of the whole ordeal–the ride up. You see where I’m sitting? Um, yeah, that’s right next to the DOORLESS side. There’s a way to develop a last-minute case of acrophobia if I ever saw one.

We went up, up, up. And then up some more. We took a scenic cruise of the Pyrenees around the French border, but I think I was honestly too terrified of my pending jump to notice. And then, it was time.

They didn’t give me any sort of preparation time, it’s just like all of a sudden my tandem guy asked “Estas lista?” and gave me a shove out the doorless exit. When you’re jumping tandem, you must dangle there helplessly with your feet hooked under the plane until your guy steps off. It’s a bit jarring. And then, we were plummeting…to what I hoped wouldn’t be my death.

I don’t know how long we were freefalling–30 seconds? a minute?–and all I could think about was not “oh! what glorious scenery!” or “this is the freakin’ most scary thing I’ve ever done!” but rather “BRRRRRRR!” They hadn’t told me in advance what to wear, so I showed up in a tank, capris and tennis shoes, as it was 100+ degrees outside. I figured they would give me one of those nifty parachute suits to don while I dove. WRONG. Luckily, I had a tacky tee that said “Ich Leibre NY” in my bag, though it did little to keep me warm. So, there I was, teeth chattering, when Tandem Guy popped the parachute and began doing all sorts of tricks and 180s.

WHAT? I did NOT sign up for this. He eventually handed me the reins, and I meekly followed his lead. Then my ever-present motion sickness got the best of me, and I was terrified I was going to vomit all over the crowd of onlookers below. Can you imagine how embarrassing that would be? Didn’t happen, but just the thought makes me shudder.

I was also a bit nervous about the landing, as you’re well warned that many people have crushed their legs upon impact with the ground. So I assumed position with hundreds of feet still to go. In the end, it didn’t hurt one bit. Though I did wind up with grass stains on my khakied tush.

And I survived. Duh. As if you were sitting there all cliffhanger-like, wondering “does she live to tell the tale?!” And was it fun? Sure. Would I do it again? Why not. It would have to be some pretty marvelous scenery, though–like, say, somewhere over the South Pacific–to make me fork over another 300 smackers. I don’t know if I’d say it was the coolest thing I’ve ever done in my life, and it’s also not something that crosses my mind too terribly often. Because at the end of the day–like so many other things–I think it’s just the clout of being able to say you’ve done it that makes so many people take the plunge.