A few summers ago, I impulsively decided to go skydiving with a few of my friends. It was one of those situations where we were bored and wanted to do something new and exciting but everything else suggested seemed "been there, done that." That is, until skydiving was thrown into the mix and suddenly we piled into the car and found ourselves driving to the North Shore, our hearts racing to keep up with our nervous excitement. I've always wanted to go skydiving, but was too scared to ever go, so in hindsight the best way to get me to do it was probably in the spur of the moment. During the two hours of pre-waiting I was a nervous wreck of emotions and it was even worse when we were flying thousands of miles above the Pacific Ocean in a rinky dink plane, but at least I was strapped to an instructor with a parachute. So I felt safe. That is until...
The fall.
Initially, it was a dizzying tumble through the sky that I was so disoriented as to where I was I didn't have time to feel scared. When we finally stabilized and falling stomach first, I was surprised at how I felt. It felt like I was floating down (albeit very fast) instead of just a rush of speed. My stomach wasn't in my throat like I expected. It was actually...very calming? I could open my eyes and see the vast blanket of fluffy, white clouds. Once we got passed through the clouds, I could then see all of the North Shore below me. It was so spectacular and unreal. The dive was over in the matter of minutes and when I landed I was in a daze of, "Did that just really happen?" I also paid extra money to have pictures taken aka sacrificing another person's life so I could have photographic proof. I thought it would be a once-in-a-life-time experience, but I'm already gearing up for more! Next on the agenda: bungee jumping.
