Angella Johnson: VIEW FROM A BROAD
Me, jump out of a plane at 3 000m? You must be joking. No way! Not this side of life. I could not have emphasised the point more strongly when my editor suggested, with an evil grin, that I try skydiving for this column.
I gave him one of my “you’re outta your mind”, slitty-eyed glares. He gave me one of those “I didn’t know you were such a coward” looks. And nothing, nothing causes me to loose a grip on reality quite like a dare.
So that is how I ended up crammed with eight other lunatics into a sardine tin they call a plane (it is about the size of your average saloon car, only elongated), climbing 3 000m into the sky so that we could hurl ourselves out into the air.
I was really not ready for it. My bladder was full to bursting, I had not written a will and (this is crucial) my mind does not tolerate heights – I get dizzy just standing on a chair. No job was worth this much anguish, I told myself.
It had seemed so different on land. More tranquil and graceful. Watching the brightly coloured suits of the Pretoria Skydiving Club members float in the sky like birds, I had even lost some of my overnight dread of the event.
“It’s great man. Such a rush,” exclaimed 18-year-old matric student Michelle Alfredo, who had made her first jump the previous week and was back for more. “There’s nothing like that feeling of adrenaline pumping through your body. You’ll love it.”
Such enthusiasm from one so young and the presence of a group of about 30 other skydiving enthusiasts (plus a couple of virgin jumpers like myself) lulled me into the false impression that this was indeed just a normal sport.
These people meet here every Saturday and Sunday and pay good money to do this.
Admittedly, they were mainly adrenaline junkies – most had either bungy jumped from the Victoria Falls bridge or done some other death defying danger sport at some time in their life.
Take Ted Summerlee, a long-hair bejewelled catering co-ordinator for South African Airways. He has made about 360 jumps during the past two years. “I was looking for something exciting to do,” he said enthusiastically. “This seemed like just the ticket.”
Summerlee had already done speed motorbike riding, was a member of the Porsche club and had bungy jumped several times. “I sat down and worked out that this was the next step within an affordable price bracket.”
He became hooked after the first jump. “It’s like when you’re out there nothing can hurt you. You’re just flying,” he waxed lyrical. “It’s even better than sex.” (Now you see why I was seduced into going up.)
So much so that it did not sink in when he told me why he had not skydived for six weeks. Something to do with jumping out of a plane over Potchefstroom late one night, hitting a power line, going unconscious, plummeting to the ground on his face and waking up in the Linksfield Park Clinic three days later suffering from memory loss.
Unfortunately, my memory was working just fine and all this came rushing back to me in the airplane.
Mark Farrell, my instructor on this tandem skydive, hunkered down in front of the door looking very cool. A well-built chap (I hope the parachute can take our combined weight) he is the one wearing the parachute. I clutch his hand like a lifeline.
The other guys in the plane are experienced formation divers. They casually discuss technique and the various positions they plan to practice for competing in national championships.
I’m desperately trying to keep calm. Have I really paid R500 – an extra R170 gets you video coverage – to do this? One of the guys senses my fear and tries to help by pointing out the various landmarks. “Over there is the N1 motorway to Petersburg,” he says.
I glance down at the miniature landscape. It just makes me feel worse. Oh shit! I can’t do this … I don’t want to do this. The panic was rising in me like bile. I have that sinking feeling – a sensation akin to that of losing control of one’s bowel movement.
“Ten thousand feet.” Farrell’s shouts over the hum of the engine bring me swiftly back to reality. “Get ready,” he instructs, then slides open the door. I look out at nothing and almost lose it.
It is without a doubt the most frightening moment of my entire life. Noooo, I don’t want to do it any more, I scream at him. It’s my money! I’ve changed my mind.
It is like shouting at a brick wall.
“Put your foot out on the step,” he orders. I consider what would happen if I resist and decide that as we are hooked together – his front to my back – it might actually be more dangerous than just doing it. I cross my arms, close my goggle- protected eyes and hurl myself out sideways.
For the first second or so we just fall. Then I adopt an arching position – they call it the banana- and Farrell pulls the chute open.
Whoosh, we are propelled upwards with a jolting motion and the straps around my legs tighten – actually, it is bloody painful! Feels like I am supporting both of us by my inner thighs.
My eyes are streaming from the air pressure, my nose is running and I’m petrified. I just want this to be over.
“Relax and enjoy it,” urges Farrell.
“I don’t want to enjoy it. I just want to get back to land,” is my belligerent reply. I seriously want to cry with frustration, fright – and that pain from my inner thigh.
Farrell is doing his tour-guide thing – pointing out the Pretoria city skyline and the descending solo skydivers from our plane. But my mind is a blur. I blubber incoherently about people who do this being mad. Just get me down, I plead.
We are falling fast yet only some three minutes (why does it seem more like three hours?) have elapsed. I start to relax a little as it dawns on me that all is going smoothly.
The ground is rushing to meet us. Oh no, landing time. I’ve forgotten what to do. Panic manifests itself as hysterical blood- curdling screaming. Everyone from the club rushes out to watch.
Farrell shouts instructions, but it is too late. Thud! We come down with an inelegant bump, my left foot is twisted in a strange angle. Fortunately, Farrell acts as a convenient cushion.
People surround us, helping to unhook the parachute. “How was it? … Did you enjoy it? … Wasn’t it great? … How do you feel.” I take a deep breath and opt to answer the last question. I feel as if I’ve just narrowly escaped a car crash.
“That’s the adrenaline,” Farrell explains. “Some people’s heart rate goes over 200.” I’m surprised I didn’t have a heart attack.
The whole thing had taken about 10 minutes from the moment we got into the plane – it took me a further 15 minutes to regain complete control of my faculties.
Would I do it again? No way. Not unless the aircraft was on fire and there was no other way out. I’d rather streak naked across a football pitch. I am clearly not an adrenaline junkie.