08/19/07  I Had A Funny Title But Then I Jumped Out Of A Fucking Plane And Forgot It

We hit the road this weekend and drove a couple of hours north of Charlotte to Carolina Skydiving in Jonesville, NC.
They might also be Adrenaline Air Sports, or maybe that's just their new assumed name after they got into witness
protection.  I like to think this guy did.  Whoever he is, he needs to stay anonymous. 

Here's a photo gallery, I don't even want to talk about it.

Well, ok, I want to talk about it a little.  I spent all day trying to specifically not think about jumping out of a plane and
I like to think I did a pretty good job.  I don't like heights, airplanes, people taller than me and televisions smaller than
twenty-seven inches (what is wrong with you people?), so I wasn't looking for this sort of experience and was mostly
just doing a little thing I like to call "going along and not looking like a total pussy".  I hope that's not too subtle for you. 
Anyway, I did a great job of it, right up to the six or seven times I told my wife and our friend Dan (Dan's girl, the Prom
Queen, was in Las Vegas, which was pretty much a really good call) that I wasn't going up and I hoped they'd have a
good time and I'll go try and get my fifty-dollar deposit back again please and thank you.  Really, I was doing great and
Not Thinking About It, even when I found myself getting strapped into a harness and specifically, this is very important,
not getting a parachute of my own.  For your safety, you get some hooks.  And a parachute named Richard.  I didn't get
a chance to ask Richard how many times he'd jumped or if he did this for a living, because I was busy Not Thinking
About Jumping Out Of A Fucking Plane. 

If you've never gone skydiving, you might have this impression, like I did when I was Not Thinking About It for a week
beforehand, that you're going to be jumping out of a large airplane with a spacious interior and a large "jumping out hatch"
which is the technical term this one older lady told me when I asked her if she had change for a dollar.  You know, like
you saw Gomer Pyle jumping out of while his sergeant yelled at him (or, if you're not really fucking old, maybe you've
seen other movies, pretty much any movie where they jump out of a plane, where the plane they're jumping out of is just
gigantic, right?  Take James Bond for instance.  The man doesn't wait for a table, he doesn't ever ride a ski lift, and when
he parachutes off anything, it's most likely out the back of a cargo plane while kicking at a bad guy and having premarital
sex with a hot brunette.  Who he also didn't have to wait for.)  This reminds me of a really great joke, also set in what I
can only assume was a large and comfortable military cargo plane.  Well, sort of set there, see, because there's this guy,
right, and he's home from paratrooper training and telling his parents about it.  "I was really scared, and we were way up
in the sky, and I had a parachute strapped to me, and I was the last guy to jump out of the plane, and I told my sergeant
that I just couldn't do it, I wasn't going to jump.  So my sergeant yells at me for a while, and I say I'm still not going to
jump out of the plane.  He yells at me some more, and I tell him I'm still not going to jump out of that plane.  So he tells me
that if I don't jump, right now this instant, he is going to fuck me in the ass."  His parents look aghast.  After a moment, his
mother asks "So did you jump?" and the guy says "Well, sure, a little."

Speaking of tight places.  We do not, in fact, get into a very large and spacious plane.  The six of us (and I'm not including
the pilot here) clown-car ourselves in a very specific order (which, not to digress or anything, included a very specific inst-
ruction from Dan's parachute, which, I'll para-phrase here, was "I'll get in first and then you come as far back as you can
and sit between my legs".) into a four person, one-engine Cessna, from which has been removed the following: all the fucking
seats. The pilot has a seat, and of interesting note, his own door and his own parachute.  It's also pretty obvious that the
pilot is the person on the "Adventure Team" who might just possibly hate his job and, by extension, you.  He goes up and
down all day and during that time, his company is entirely made up of three groups:  1) Professional instructors with many
interesting stories and a vaguely exciting life as long as nobody grabs anything on the way out of the plane, 2) Ass-kicking
yahoos who are on flight number two-hundred and eleventy and spend the flight talking about how they're going to really
grab each other's arms or legs a different way this time so that they make a circle...again and 3) Terrified tourist assholes
who will never come back again but will probably goddamn grab something before they get out the door, breaking a finger,
tilting the plane, pinching the pilot, whatever, but it's still going to be a relief after all the whining.  Those fucking tourist kid
whiners and their grabby little hands and their fat little...which brings me to my apology.  Uh, sorry there, guy. 

It's important to note here that I didn't Think About Jumping Out of A Fucking Plane pretty much the whole way up. 
I actually didn't think about it when the door opened and two number twos jumped out after teaching me how to do a really
cool fist bump.  I didn't think about it when Richard, my parachute, told me to duck-walk as far forward as I could, go on
there, get really close to the front, no, closer, really close, now turn right and put your foot out like I told you, right there past
mine and don't forget to arch and we'll go on three ok? 

Dan took a moment on the way home to discuss "that hilarious look of fear on your face when you were halfway out of the
door", and I'd just like to say that's a total lie, and if any sort of expression crossed my face up there, it was the sort of stoic,
"well, how about that" face John Wayne might have made when getting fucked in the ass by an elephant.  Stoic is what I am,
it's in my blood.  I should have been one of those three hundred guys, right, those spartan fuckers, that's how I roll.  I pity the
fool more stoic than me.  So, the Not Thinking About It thing, it turned out that was like this really cool mental prank I was
pulling on myself, you know, like if I was three other guys sharing a dorm room with me and we got together one night and
said "hey, what if we made this guy save up all his reluctance to jump out of a fucking plane and probably die and just, you
know, poured it on him at the last minute?" and the other two would go "hey, that's a great idea, but instead of all that psyche
crap, how about a bucket of honey and some dirt?"  I'd like to take this moment to share with you what I was thinking as I
stepped out past Richard's foot, which was out in the goddamn open air 10,532 feet above the goddamn planet, and I like to
think you'd be thinking the same thing if you'd been Not Thinking About It all day.  It goes like this:  "Wait, what?  We are doing fucking what?"

CityofSand.com: We didn't get a three count, it's some kind of in-joke.     

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