I Jumped Out Of A Freaking Plane!

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The roaring of the engines blistered my ears as I approached the plane. The wind from the propellers glanced off my face like rocks hitting a windshield. "Holy crap, this is actually happening," I mumbled under my breath. My instructor, Jason, directed me to get on the plane. I stepped onto essentially one of those makeshift step stools and lifted myself into the cabin of the aircraft. One of the workers gave me a fistbump as I did that, calming my nerves a bit.

Jason took his seat and directed me to sit in front of him. "Let me know if you need me to scoot over to give you some more room," I told him. He laughed and said, "You're funny; there's no personal space in skydiving. Scoot as close to me as possible." So that's what I did. Then the next individuals to get on the plane basically sat on my lap, preventing me from breathing—not necessarily an ideal situation when you're trying to control your heart rate. I wiggled around, trying to find a comfortable position. Thankfully, I finally did, but as soon as I managed that, my instructor shouted, "I'm going to tighten your straps." A piercing pain shot through my shoulders and crotch, and I was now back to being uncomfortable. "Perfect!" I thought sarcastically.

Nevertheless, the plane engines started whirring up, and we taxied down what seemed like a runway that was so long it drifted off into the horizon. "Are we back-taxiing?" another instructor shouted. Back-taxiing (or backtrack) is an airport maneuver where an aircraft taxis on an active runway in the opposite direction of its planned takeoff or landing. This is typically necessary at smaller airports or specific terminals that do not have a parallel taxiway running the full length of the runway.

Suddenly, one by one, every other instructor shouted "back-taxiing" as well. I assumed it was standard procedure, but the shouting of a checklist item almost made me feel like I was a paratrooper in the military.

The plane thumped and bumped around more as we continued to taxi. We approached the end of the runway and did a slow U-turn. And before I could catch my breath, the engines whirred up some more and jerked me back into my instructor, Jason, behind me. The acceleration continued to force me backward, but before I knew it, the wheels left the ground, and gravity dissipated as we climbed in altitude.

When you're gearing up on the ground, the thought of jumping out of a plane honestly isn't that scary. But when you're actually on the plane—when you're in the air and at the point of no return—that feeling starts to get real incredibly quickly.

As we continued to climb, Jason pointed out some—let's just say—gaps in the aircraft. He also showed me some sketchy-looking duct tape on both the interior and exterior of the plane. He assured me he had "never been in a perfect-looking aircraft." I jokingly responded, "I'm going to pretend I didn't hear anything you just said." He gave a good chuckle to that.

What was supposed to be a 15-minute climb felt like 3 minutes. Time flies when your adrenaline is through the roof. I looked over toward my best friend, with whom I was also jumping. You could see his smile slowly start to fade into a more serious demeanor. Jason pointed it out, too. "He doesn't look like he's having too much fun anymore," Jason said. "Yeah, he's a little b*tch; you should see how scared he gets in haunted houses," I responded. Jason and I got a good laugh from that.

Alright, just a few minutes until go time. My heart rate starts to climb. "Is this the day I'm going to die?" I thought. I wasn't sure if the vibrations were from the shaking of the plane or the rapid pace of my heart. Who even knows at this point? No time for thoughts. No time for second-guessing. No time for turning back. This is going to happen.

Two minutes till go time. We finally reached the appropriate altitude: 12,000 feet. The red light toward the back of the plane turned on, almost like something out of a video game. That's the signal to open the door and go. Suddenly, the people in front of me started scooting forward, and before I knew it, they were falling out of the plane. Watching your best friend jump out of a plane before you is quite an experience.

Now it's my turn. My head's thrashing around as I get closer to the door of the plane. Trying to crawl and scoot forward with someone strapped to you is no easy task. The cold wind hit my face like a freight train. I gazed out of the gaping hole. I looked down. What's in front of me is the most terrifying thing I've ever seen in my life... air. 12,000 feet of air. From this height, the world looks like a map—something you'd see in a classroom. I'm literally 12,000 feet above the freaking Earth. Seriously, who let me do this!? Who let me go up here!? It's quite strange, honestly. When you look down, the world seems so vast, and you seem so small. It's almost liberating.

Jason gave me the signal. It's time to drop. "OH. MY. GOODNESS." "This is actually happening," I exclaimed. I shuffled my feet as close to the edge as I could. Jason rocked back and then launched me forward. We were now free-falling.

You know that feeling when your stomach sinks on a roller coaster? Yeah, times that by a million, and it's not even close to this. There's nothing to hold onto. No real safety features. No sense of a backup plan. It's just you and fate.

I'm sure you've probably had a dream where you were flying or falling. That's the best and only way to describe it—it's a fever dream. Gravity seemed to be working just fine now. The pace at which we are falling is nothing short of breathtaking. The wind pierced my face at unimaginable speeds. In fact, the wind was shooting through my mouth and nostrils so fast it made it extremely difficult to breathe.

My adrenaline started to subdue, and I gazed out at the horizon. Absolutely breathtaking. The ground started to get closer, and out of nowhere, the parachute deployed, and my head thrashed forward with extreme force. Now, we were just simply hanging in the air. Almost like clothes on a clothesline drifting in the wind—except at 5,000 feet. Everything went quiet. No thoughts. No noise. Nothing. The most incredible peace one could experience.

"Do you want to steer?" said Jason. "Heck yeah, I do!" I exclaimed. I pulled down on the left strap, and we turned 90 degrees. "Let's do that one more time," Jason said. So that's what I did, and yet again, we turned another 90 degrees. He took the controls back as the ground got closer. The Earth returned to its normal size. "At the last second, I'll tell you when to pick your feet up so we can land," Jason told me. And, about 30-40 feet above the ground, he told me to lift my feet, and we came scraping in on our butts. Not the most cushiony landing ever, but certainly not the worst. Jason unbuckled my straps, and that was it.

Just a mere 2% of the population can say they skydived. And now my best friend and I are a part of that 2%.

What's the takeaway? I did something that terrified me. Every part of my brain was telling me not to jump, and I did it anyway. And when I landed, everything changed. The shit I was anxious about before? Suddenly it didn't matter. It all felt so small.

That's the power of doing scary things. It recalibrates your entire perspective. You realize that most of the things you're afraid of in your everyday life are nowhere near as terrifying as jumping out of a plane. And once you've done that? The anxiety you used to carry around loses its grip on you.

So do the scary thing. Not for the story, not for anyone else. (Well, okay, the story is really cool, so I’ll give you a pass on that one.) Do it because it will change how you see everything. Do it because fear is the only thing holding you back from seeing what you're actually capable of.

PS—Here are some of the others I jumped with!

Until next week,

—Wyatt