The plane was nearing an altitude of 13,000-feet when my instructor cracked open the door and I foolishly peeked out at the snow-capped Swiss Alps below. Instantly, my head begin to spin, my stomach clenched and my heart seemed to triple its speed. Sure, I had felt nervous on the ground loading the small-propeller plane, but it wasn’t until the bitter cold wind raced through our safe haven that the fear of what I was about to do set in—I was about to do my first tandem skydive.
Five years later, I found myself sitting in a ball, hugging my knees to my chest, with my eyes closed waiting in the open doorway of a Cessna Grand Caravan. I felt the metal floor lurch at an angle and the instructions I had been given started racing through my head: “Count to ten, slowly, and then arch your back and throw your arms and legs wide.” Halfway through that thought the instructor pushed me off my perch and I was tumbling through the air, still in a ball, with my eyes closed.
It was my first solo skydive from 13,000 feet. I had embarked on a six month training course to receive my skydive certification, with a one-day ground-class and static-line jump from 3,500 feet and had progressively worked my way up in altitude and skill.
Flying in the Face of Danger
That first jump over the heart of the Alps had led me here. The first thing I’d said upon landing was, “I am going again, but the next time I’m jumping alone.” (I have the video to prove it.)
For me, the risk was never the matter of life or death. Instead it was the risk of regret—for not pursuing the experience. And I learned quickly after joining the skydive community that I was not alone.
Skydiving is often deemed as the ultimate extreme sport, reserved for military personnel and stunt men. For those with a more adventurous side it is one-off event taken on as test of will. So what surprised me most when I joined the ranks of the drop zone rats was the community of skydivers who partook in the sport on a regular basis, relaxed as if they were reading a book. They spent their days learning to free-fly (flying solo in a variety of positions) practicing formations (flying with a group to create a shape in the air) and working toward advanced qualifications and certificates.
Statistically, there is more danger in driving a car than there is completing a skydive. According to the United States Parachute Association (USPA), a voluntary organization that oversees training and licensing qualifications and promotes competitive programs, in 2009 there were only 16 fatalities out of nearly three million skydives made by 32,000 USPA members and 400,000 first-time skydivers. In the same year, USPA members reported making 2.5 million jumps and only 747 reported skydiving injuries requiring medical attention (less than three injuries per 10,000 skydives).
Understanding the real versus the perceived dangers was the first thing covered in the ground course. One reason skydiving is perceived to be so dangerous is because base-jumping—a parachute jump from a non-moving object such as a bridge or mountaintop—is often clumped in with skydiving, giving it a bad rep.
Our instructors noted the dangers of base-jumping. The low height of these jumps leaves no room for error, resulting in a higher fatality rate. This slight shift in perspective doesn’t provide much comfort during your first solo flight, when you are figuring out how to fly a 150-square foot piece of nylon through the wind, but it is reassuring enough to get you on the plane.
Sensory Overload
As my training progressed, I noticed my brain and body adapting at different speeds. While it only took a few flights to feel confident with my freefall and canopy skills, it wasn’t until my 12th jump that I remembered my exit. Sensory overload is a common occurrence in skydiving, especially with tandem and first-time jumpers: it happens when your brain searches for an experience similar to the current situation. When it can’t find one, it protects itself and blacks out momentarily. Recalling the exit isn’t necessary for your body to perform properly—your awareness comes back in seconds—but being unable to recall my exits meant the fear couldn’t dissipate. My body knew what to do, but my mind wouldn’t allow me the memory.
As one instructor who completed more than 10,000 jumps said to me, “You’re scared? Good. When you stop feeling nervous in the plane is when I’ll start to worry about you.”
It is natural for our minds to fear the unknown. Conquering that fear requires gaining familiarity. Skydiving is one of the most intense adrenaline rushes a human being can experience (as a new student our instructors pushed us to nap in between jumps to maintain our energy). But the excitement isn’t what attracts me to the sport. It is the challenge of staring fear in the face, jump after jump.
Written by Elizabeth Louise Hatt for Moxy Magazine, February 2011. Images by divemasterking2000 via flikr.com.
