5 March 2009 - Abel Tasman National Park
We were staying at somewhere called Old MacDonald's Farm in Abel Tasman. Beautiful picturesque coastline surrounded us, and we were told by the locals that when the weather is good this place can be pretty close to paradise.
On the morning of 5 March 2009, however, the weather was not so hot. The skies looked as grey, overcast and drizzly as one would typically expect to see looking out the window back home in Essex.
I was so relieved.
You see readers, on the way to our digs the day before I had got a little over excited when they passed the clipboard round the bus and in a moment of bravery/lunacy had signed myself up to jump 12,000 out of an aeroplane at 10am the next morning.
Gulp.
All night I was completely bricking it, but when I awoke and glanced at those miserable skies, I breathed a massive sigh of relief and assumed the jump would be cancelled. I remembered how some fellow backpackers had had their jumps cancelled in Taupo due to this sort of poor visibility. So I threw on a hoodie, jeans and raggedy Converse then ambled casually over to the meeting point just to make sure.
Me: "Hey Mambo, so I guess it's all off today then? Nevermind."
Mambo: "No, no. We're still doing it. In fact you're late, better get in the minibus now, the rest of the group are waiting for you."
Me: "Shit."
As I got on the bus and sat next to Helena I realised my own extreme fear was easily eclipsed by hers as she suddenly burst into tears! This was intense. I felt awful for her, especially as I had sort of convinced H into joining me on the skydive in the first place! But she quickly got it together, and we both sat in silence mentally preparing for an experience that was likely to be one of the most terrifying of both our lives.
When we got to the jump spot, I'd imagined we'd get a good hour's worth of training before we got put on the plane. I was wrong. We were kitted out in our jump suits, strapped up and briefly introduced to our respective instructors (with whom we would all be entrusting our lives) and went up-diddly-up-up in what looked like the world's smallest aircraft within about 20 minutes!
In the tiny crammed plane were me, H, our two instructors and two camera men who would jump out just before us and take video and stills of our gurning faces as we plummeted to the earth. My instructor was called Tom. A nice man, certainly, but he didn't inspire much confidence when I asked him how many jumps he'd done before as an instructor and he replied "Four".
Four!? I was expecting him to say hundreds!! I was really really nervous now. I turned my head away from Tom, and felt a chill go down my spine. Sensing my unease, Tom added, "Only joking, I've done four thousand!".
Oh Tom, you are a one!
I looked over at Helena who was fighting back the tears and gave her a little nod to say she'd be ok. This seemed to reassure her, although little did she realise that my mental state was no better than hers. Within 5 or 10 minutes, we'd reached 12,000 feet and our time had come.
H went first. The door of the aircraft opened her instructor shuffled them both over to edge on their bums. As she disappeared out of the door screaming, I could hear my photographer describing to Tom exactly how he was going to film us on the way down and what the protocol was when we landed. This seemed like a strange thing to have to explain to an expert that had already done four thousand of these jumps before. Then it occurred to me: Shit, maybe he was only lying to put my mind at ease! Maybe he had only done four jumps!! Did I really want to entrust my life in the hands of a relatively novice instructor!? Well it was too late now, before I could say anything we were shuffling over to the edge and it was time to dive into the still cloudy morning sky. Tom whispered to me, "It's raining a little out there, so you might feel a bit of stinging on your face". Oh God, this was getting worse.
We sat on the edge and I was told to go "like a banana" and face the sky with my head up and my legs curled underneath the plane.
I have honestly never been so terrified in my entire life.
They counted 1-2-3 and we were gone..........................................
The first 3 or 4 seconds were the scariest but also in a way the most familiar as we tumbled towards the ground and I got that same feeling of acceleration and "drop" in my stomach that you get when you go on a really big rollacoaster. However as soon as Tom stabilised us and tapped me on the shoulder to open out my arms, the whole thing changed. It was as if my body and mind just adjusted to what was going on and within a moment the scariest experience of my life had turned into the most thrilling and unique thing I've ever done.
I was freefalling through the clouds for a total of 45 seconds but it only felt like about 10. The whole thing was magic. There's not really anything with which I could compare it. It's unlike anything else you're ever likely to do in your life. It really is unbelievable.
I was told that if I shouted (NOTE: shouted, not screamed) on my way down I'd be able to catch my breath properly. As you can see from these photos I more than obliged.
As soon as the parachute opened, I actually found that bit more uncomfortable than the freefall. At least with the freefall you know that the parachute is going to (hopefully) open and you'll be ok. But once the parachute was open I realised that if I was to somehow slip through the straps I was a goner (not that that was likely to happen but the mind plays tricks when you're thousands of feet in the air). Tom starting spinning to get us through the clouds and that really started to make me feel sick. That old familiar "rollercoaster stomach" feeling returned as we glided in large circles and the ground approached faster and faster. I was convinced I wouldn't be able to lift my not-very-supple gangly limbs up high enough to pull off the landing properly and I'd end up doing a Janet Ellis and breaking my legs, but it was a piece of piss. We landed gently on our arses and the immediate feeling was that of utter exhaustion. It was difficult to process what had just happened. I got to my feet and stumbled around like a drunk uncle at a wedding, just as H (reacting in the complete opposite way) came bounding over, shouting in her Swedish accent "Woooo hooo, I was flying!!!!"
We did it. It was mega. The Facebookers back home weren't gonna believe this.
I turned to Tom, shook his hand and thanked him so much for getting me down alive. Then just before I walked away to rest my legs and collect my commemorative certificate I looked my trusted instructor in the eyes and said, "So come on Tom, how many jumps have you actually done? Truthfully please."
"Four", he replied.
Git.
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Reading:
W.J. Peasley 'The Last of the Nomads'
Erlend Loe 'Niave. Super'
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