Some people crave danger and excitement, bungee jumping from cranes, swimming with sharks or scaling dangerous cliffs. I chose another form of excitement — throwing myself out of a plane exceeding speeds of 120 mph while strapped to a sexually ambiguous Norwegian named Sevin (pronounced “svin”).
I journeyed with a group of one girl and six boys, all lost souls seeking a change from the somber fates of daytime television, office meetings and Internet porn. We were also there to celebrate my friend Telly’s defeat of testicular cancer.
The crew, which formed at 12:30 on Saturday morning, was wild and varied. There was Samantha, sassy and outspoken, and Zach, a chess player.
The three southwesterners, Telly, Chaz and Teddy, were the roughest of the bunch. Out of the three, Chaz was the most savage, known for recreating Mike Tyson’s appalling ear-biting stunt on his own grandmother.
Telly and Teddy were more relaxed, but only slightly. Both men had been in and out the juvenile corrections system for repeated convictions of arson and public urination.
The next man only gave me his last name, Cordoba. With crazed, twitching eyes and the cackle of a hyena, he spoke of his hometown Baton Rouge, La. with so much fever and conviction that you would think it was the birthplace not just of human civilization, but of the spectrum of all other cosmic entities as well.
Axel introduced himself last. A simple man of the people, Axel came from a humble background of migrant agricultural labor in southern California.
The adventure began. The group took three cars; Telly in his seatbelt-less Ford Focus, Cordoba in his shaggin’ wagon and I in my surgically reconstructed Tahoe. The drive took about an hour as we trekked up North 75, past the spectacular dullness of Richardson and into the rural crevices of North Texas.
Our jaws dropped when we arrived at the drop zone, our eyes fixated on descending parachutes with stick-figure bodies tied below. In a couple of hours, we too would take that quantum leap from 13,000 feet into the unknown.
We entered the compound and checked in with the instructors. All beginning jumpers were to take a half-hour class that taught students the proper exit, freefall and landing techniques. The instructors were an odd bunch; they seemed like minor gurus, as if they’d reached some deep and mystical level of spiritual fulfillment.
Unfortunately, inclement weather delayed our sky dive and intensified our anxiety and fear. The crew spent the free time relaxing, eating and playing soccer with little kids.
As fate would have it, Cordoba was the first to jump. Before his freefall, the instructors outfitted him in a dashing blue jumpsuit and skycap. We wished the man luck and watched as our companion boarded the small Cessna aircraft and prepared for the most daring feat of his life.
Minutes passed, but finally Cordoba came into view. He landed safely, legs outstretched. Cordoba’s safe landing reassured me and further sparked my impatience, as I was scheduled to go with last jump group.
Hours passed as I watched each of my friends take the sacred leap. Finally, a voice said, “Tim Lloyd . . . please come to the school. Take off is in 20 minutes.”
My mind went blank as I put on my jumpsuit and harness; it was now or never.
The cameraman interviewed me as I readied myself. I answered all his questions with great enthusiasm and a wide smile, trying to combat the tension.
Finally, Zach, Samantha and I boarded the plane and took off into the country sky. It was about 6:30p.m., and the sun was beginning to descend.
Sevin forcefully strapped his harness to mine and said, “OK, they are going to open the door, you’re going to rotate your legs and on three . . . we go.”
The door paneled opened and I felt like Moses parting the seas, as streams of southern wind pummeled my face into a frightened shell.
I rotated my legs, looked into the great below, rocked twice, and abruptly vanished into the vast infinity of winds and clouds.
* Some names/characters/events in this story have been altered and/or are fictious for creative purposes.
