At dinner with my friend Eric, I had the spontaneous idea that we needed to go jump out of a plane, to which he enthusiastically agreed. A few nights later, we happened to end up at a neighborhood bar and found out that a bunch of crazies from there were going that weekend. Eric couldn't get out of work, so I went with them, none of whom I previously knew. We met at the bar at the brisk hour of 7:30am, and a few people went straight for a hair-of-the-dog beer. At that hour I stuck to the provided coffee and donuts. After waiting for a couple people (who didn't show up because they were too hungover to get out of bed), the nine of us piled into two cars and a Jeep and were on our way. A joint was passed in another car, and a flask of tequila made its way all the way to the jump site. Again I stayed with more boring substances, like water.

The day was pristine. No clouds. 72 degrees. We arrived to a cluster of trailers and tents next to a large grass field, and signed in among people hurrying by, packing parachutes, and shouting instructions. We were then led into an old school bus, where we were shown a video that no one paid much attention to. It warned us of every conceivable danger and the real risk of death or permanent disfigurement. Then we were told to have fun. We were also told in many ways that we could not sue, for any reason, and were made to sign a seemingly endless pile of witnessed legal documents. No one paid much attention to those either. Then it was off to a 15 minute class covering what we were to do and what would happen. In order to show our freefall form, we each had to lie in turn on a weird carpet-covered plywood trolley that our instructor assured us was "FAA approved."

Before I knew it, I was being fitted with a jumpsuit, harness, gloves, helmet and altimeter, and led out to the revving plane. We climbed in through sort of garage door opening at the back, and since there no seats, sat in two rows on the floor, each with an instructor behind us. When we had climbed to 13,500 feet and leveled off, the see-through garage door was pulled up, letting in the loud roar of the outside world. Since I was now securely fastened to my instructor, we maneuvered into position at the door like lumbering Siamese twins.

Then it was "rock, rock, ready, ARCH!" and I was in the abyss with the biggest physical rush I've ever experienced. People seem to talk most about THE STEP, but I was a lot more scared on the ground getting all suited up. It is, though, the proverbial moment of truth. I'd been in many planes before, but the world outside always seemed unreal, like I was watching it on TV. I felt cut off and insulated from the true nature of where I was. But now I was OUT IN IT. The wind was so strong that it distorted my face like a g-force test. I fell 8500 feet in 55 seconds. The view was incredible. I felt microscopic. There was a strange sense that I was an intruder somewhere where I was not supposed to be.

And I absolutely loved it. I was so into it, in fact, that I forgot to pull the ripcord. I was supposed to pull it at 6000 feet. My instructor tapped me on the wrist, I looked, and my altimeter read 5000. Before I could react, he pulled it for me. I found out later that the pros can pull at 2500 feet and there's an auto-deploy device that goes off at a certain altitude, in case you pass out or something, I guess.

After the íchute deployed, he told me to look up at it. An end section of the rectangular canopy didn't open all the way. While I was trying to mentally prepare myself for the reserve chute thing, he said, "It doesn't look bad enough to cut..." We had to yank on it a few times, but we got it to go. And then, there I was. I didn't really have a sense of how far up I was until I was hanging from some cords looking down at my pathetic little feet 4000 feet above the trees.

After a few practice maneuvers and some 360's that made me a little nauseous, I landed accurately if awkwardly back onto the sweet earth.

I'll definitely do it again. Maybe next time I'll remember to pull the ripcord.