Tandem
The alarm went off at 6am. I wasn’t quite sure when I should be setting it for, unsure about how long it was going to take to drive to St. Andrews, but that seemed early enough for a Sunday morning. I had slept fine, but I still rose quite quickly. Maybe that’s because the radio is pretty bad at that time.
I showered, made my first visit of the day to the toilet, and actually managed to eat some breakfast. Although my stomach was certainly starting to do some leaps, I was pretty calm on the outside. I have a nervous stomach, so my nerves all seem to congregate in that single place.
It was almost 7 before I finally started the drive. I knew roughly where I was going, having driven in that area before, but I still paid close attention to the directions I had been given. This turned out to be a mistake when I took the wrong turning (I’m much better in these situations just working on instinct) but somehow I managed back onto the correct road again. I stopped once more at a public convienence, not a particularly nice one either. You could guess what kind of things happened in that toilet of an evening.
I got to Sky Dive St. Andrews at about 8:40am and signed in, paying my balance of £190. I was fifth on the sheet.
Myself and about seven other people had a safety briefing just after 9am and were shown what we were going to be expected to do. It all seemed so simple, a couple of arm and leg positions to do at the right moments, but as I was to find out later, not that easy. Only two tandem jumpers could go at a time (since the plane could only hold 4 people plus the pilot) and that meant that I would be on the third flight. Weather permitting of course.
Thankfully the weather was great, and they got through them pretty quickly. In fact it really didn’t seem like much time at all before I was called through to get suited up, and introduced to Freddy, the poor guy who was going to be strapped to my back. I’m sure I looked fantastic in the bright yellow jump suit, but I’m pleased to say there were no mirrors in sight to catch a glimpse of myself. I’m sure I would have been so embarrassed I’d have gone home right then. Of course at this point, suited and harnessed up, visiting the bathroom again was not an option, but I felt ok anyway. I laughed and joked and made small talk with the various friends and family members of the the other idiots jumpers outside. That made me feel slightly more at ease, as the laughter of others normally does. Yes, even in a crisis, I’d be the one telling knock-knock jokes.
Freddy came out and checked I hadn’t slackened off any of the harness belts since he had tightened them up (he obviously read my blog last night) and then we headed off to the plane with the other guy (Neil and his instructor Dave). We got into the plane first, which meant we’d be jumping second.
It was a nice ride up, the weather was really nice and the view over Fife was fabulous. I wasn’t really aware of the height, and in fact felt very calm about the whole thing, chatting away with Freddy as we went up. I noticed he had an altimeter on his wrist, so I could see it increasing as we climbed higher and higher… up to the 2 mile point we would be jumping from. As we reached about 8,500 feet he increased the tightness on the straps so that I was pretty much now sitting on top of him. Shortly before 10,000 feet the door was opened, which was my queue to pull down my goggles.
Then the first guy jumped.
It was about this point that I suddenly felt that the inevitable was upon me. There was no turning back at this point, although that wasn’t really the feeling I had. It was simply a case of “well here we go then”.
We shuffled forward and while Freddy sat on the edge of the plane, I was hanging out of it, attached by the straps on my shoulders and hips to him. A few seconds later, we were off.
Sky!
I’ve spent the last few hours trying to come up with an adequate description of what this moment was like, but I am unable to do it. There really is nothing that can properly express what it’s like to travel the distance of one mile, in 30 seconds, vertically. That’s 120mph if you can’t do the math.
Windy would be one description.
This is where the training is meant to come in, and you’re meant to put your body in the right position. But two miles up, hanging out of an aircraft, I suddenly found that I had the mental capacity of a two year old. Simple commands like cross your arms and lift your legs to kick your bottom just didn’t compute. I managed it somehow, but I think it was more instinct than actually knowing what I was doing. When it came to opening out into the traditional skydiver position (arms outstretched) I was still trying to comprehend the fact that I was falling at 120mph from two miles up. With a man on my back.
When the parachute opens, at one mile up, the acceleration is pretty rapid. 4G was a figure I heard. You pretty much just stop, dead.
And that’s when I felt sick. I get terrible motion sickness at the best of times (playing Quake 3 for instance) so this probably wasn’t the best thing to be doing. And I was right. I heaved, and I heaved, and I heaved… but I managed to hold it in. No carrots from me.
In-between the heaving, I chatted with Freddy, controlled the parachute (yes, you do get to control it yourself, which is cool), flew through some clouds and generally aimed us towards the landing site. My legs were pretty sore where the harness was gripping me and my arms were getting pins and needles from the circulation getting cut off, but I was pretty adamant that I was going to control it as much as I could rather than leaving it to him.
The ground came up pretty quick, even though it’s a four minute descent from the time the parachute opens. Which was a blessing because of how my stomach felt, but a curse because I WAS enjoying it. At this point your final training manoeuvre was meant to come into play, as you were expected to lift your legs up. Another thing that seemed so easy in the training room turned out to the be the hardest thing in the world, requiring me to grab the suit with my arms and lift them up that way. We landed perfectly, with only a slight bump, and I put my legs down and stood up.
Earth!
Everybody took great pleasure in telling me how white I was, and to be honest, I felt it. In fact even now, 12 hours later, my stomach still isn’t quite right. But I was very pleased to have done it, and took my certificate of completion with great pleasure.
I sat in the canteen afterwards for about half an hour before I ventured into the car for the drive home. I had the window open almost the whole way, just in case.
I think it’s still too early to properly reflect on the whole experience, as much of it is still a blur. But as I approach my 25th birthday, I feel as if I’ve actually achieved a life ambition, and that’s the first time I’ve been able to say that.
Just don’t ask me to do it again.
