Falling

Am smack in the middle of my night shift, but it would be grossly unfair of me to at least state in my blog that I fell off a plane last weekend. The fact that I'm still alive is indicative that the fall occured with a parachute attached to me, or to be more technically accurate, was attached to the instructor who was attached to me by a few metal clips.

I decided to go tandem skydiving primarily as a what-the-heck, do-it-while-you're-young kinda thing and the decision was helped by the enthusiasm of both Radzi and Shane. In fact, it was the former who arranged the entire drive down to Lincolnshire and who made the appropriate bookings.

The whole experience was rather surreal. I wasn't nervous (although the growling in my stomach indicated that on a subconsious level by body was trying its best to to maintain its survival instinct); in fact I remember being more nervous prior to riding one of the roller-coasters at Alton Towers. It was just before jumping off, when all I could see was the clear blue sky and 15000ft between me and solid ground, when I thought 'Oh fuck...'.

I must say that falling at a terminal velocity of 120mph has its moments (this being a rather massive understatement). The first thing that hit me was the cool climate up there, followed by the rather pleasant sensation of almost floating in the air (which is probably why Superman just loves to fly) whilst taking in the magnificent view of the horizons. I can only imagine how pilots or astronauts feel when they go up even higher. Part of me was mildly relieved when the parachute came off without the hitch, and from that point onwards it was just plain sailing.

I had the whole experience recorded on DVD as it's meant to be one of those once-in-a-lifetime kinda things, but I won't be surprised if I go up again, with Sweetie the second time round.