Skydiving in Elsinore

[dedalus_1947]

“But what is your affair in Elsinore?
We’ll teach you to drink deep ere you depart”
(Hamlet to Horatio: Act 1, Scene 2, Line 174)

“Move up to the cargo door”, Chad shouted in my helmeted ear.

We were harnessed tightly together, front to back, with his helmet up close to my left ear.

“Just lift up, and I’ll push you forward”, he shouted.

The twenty-three tandem jumpers and skydivers on the cargo bench were also bumping and pushing themselves toward the open door. We were at 12,000 feet, and for the first time, I felt the cold air penetrate my clothes, and chill my body. The air rushing through the cargo hold was the only sound I heard as we inched closer to the door. The line of people in front of me was getting smaller. The skydivers on the opposite bench seemed to be moving faster than I was. There must have been some order in the way we were exiting the plane, but I couldn’t figure it out. I was concentrating on moving forward quickly. I did not want to be late to the hatch, delay our jump, and have to do it again, alone. As I got closer and closer to the doorway, all I could think was “Where are the people in front of me?” Suddenly, Matt, the skydiving cameraman and videographer, rose from the bench across from me, grabbed hold of the jump bar above the hatch, and gave us a thumbs up sign.

“Remember to smile” he shouted over the deafening wind, and then rolled out the hatch.

“Move to the door, now”, commanded Chad urgently.

I obeyed; I didn’t have time to hesitate or think. Thank God, none of the questions I had considered and tried to suppress as we ascended in the twin propeller plane came up at that moment: “How will the other jumpers do it? Will they freeze or panic? Can I avoid looking down from the hatch? Will I remember the instructions? Can I really just jump into air?”

“Get into position”, my tandem instructor shouted, as he pressed up against me.

I stood up, took hold of the chest straps, and knelt on my right knee in front of the empty space. Before I had time to think, look down, or hesitate, I heard, “One, two, now!” I brought my head back, leaned forward, and we were suddenly out of the cargo hatch, and falling away from the plane. 

 

Falling, tumbling, floating or flying? I honestly don’t know what sensation I felt when I went through that hatchway into the thin air of 12 thousand feet. The only thoughts going through my mind were “Don’t mess up. Make a good arch, and keep my legs back”. Chad and other skydiving instructors had been drilling and repeating these instructions for the last 30 minutes. “When we’re out of the plane, remember to arch your body, keeping your head and legs back. Let me stabilize the jump, and I’ll control the freefall”. I did not want to mess up. Chad was the specialist, and he needed my help to make a clean jump, clear the plane, and freefall. My job was to stay out of his way and let him do his.

Suddenly, I felt three hard blows on my left shoulder. That was the signal to release my chest straps and hold up my arms, even with my body. I had rehearsed this position many times during the orientation drills. It looks like a Superman-in-flight position, without fully extending ones arms. We were now far away from the plane, and in a stabilized freefall. In fact, we were flying at 120 miles an hour, swiftly descending from 12 thousand feet in the sky. Before I could assess my situation, Matt’s jump-suited body came out of nowhere and was floating in front of us. Two cameras (a digital and video camera) were mounted on his helmet, and he was gesturing at me to smile and wave. Those had been his clear instructions when he filmed the first sequences at the staging area, near the flight deck: “Keep your head up and smile. Don’t look down. Your friends and family do not want to see the top of your helmet”. I never took my eyes off of him and the camera (Boy, can I follow instructions!). I smiled, and mugged for the cameras, waving, and giving victory and thumbs up signs with my fingers. I never looked down, and I had no sensation of falling, flying, or movement. The only indication I had of speed and motion was the swift slapping of my left collar against my neck. The collars of my golf shirt had been tucked into my neck to avoid just this phenomenon. Somehow, my left collar had come undone, and it was flapping against my neck at 120 miles an hour. As irritating as the pain was, it served to keep me alert to what was going on, and to notice the incredible absence of speed or any sense of falling. 

 
Abruptly, Chad’s arm came across my line of vision as he reached to grab my left arm and bring it to my face. This was the signal indicating that we had reached the end of our freefall. I realized later, that the signal was actually meant to prompt me to look at the altimeter watch strapped to my left wrist. Had I looked, the dial of the altimeter would have read 6 thousand feet, but I was too stunned to do so. “It was too soon”, I lamented. When our instructors first described the freefall experience, they said it would last about 50 to 60 seconds (almost one minute). At first, that information filled me with dull terror. Can you imagine counting “one Mississippi, two Mississippi… sixty Mississippi” as you plummeted six thousand feet straight toward the ground? “I’ll die of fright before I open the chute” I thought in a panic. Now, the time had suddenly expired, and my flying freefall was coming to an end. I reached back with my right hand, felt the golf ball sized tab attached to the side of Chad’s parachute harness, and pulled the ripcord. I felt a hard thump, as though I’d hit the emergency brakes of a speeding freight train. Suddenly, I was no longer flying in a prone position. I was upright, standing on air. Our descent had come to a halt, and we were buoyant, floating along, with a winged canopy above us. For the first time during the whole experience, I took a luxuriously long breath and looked down. “Holy shit”, I thought, “I did it, I finally did it, BUT I FORGOT TO SAY ‘GERONIMO’!”

I was six or seven years old when my fascination with parachuting first materialized. I think it was in 1953 when my uncle and two aunts, Charlie, Espy and Liza, took me to the Starland movie theatre in Lincoln Heights to see Jumping Jacks. This was my first Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis movie, and I thought it was great. I have a clear memory of Martin and Lewis crying “Geronimo”, as they parachuted into the sky from a large military transport plane. I do not recall any other detail from the movie, but the images of young men floating to earth under large, half-sphere, white canopies fired my imagination. Charlie and I quickly incorporated the act of parachuting into our “pretend” games of war. We imagined that we were elite airborne paratroopers going out on a mission in Europe. We would climb an easily accessible tree in my grandfather’s back yard and pretend it was a cargo plane filled with soldiers. When it was time to jump, we would sling our toy rifles over our shoulders, and creep out onto the lowest hanging branch, positioning ourselves as if to bail out of the cargo door. “Geronimo” we would yell, and then leap into the make-believe void over France. The static lines would pull, the parachute release, and we imagined ourselves floating down to the ground. The only danger I could conceive of were the enemy troops that awaited our arrival on the ground. I never thought parachuting was dangerous; it was simply an extraordinary experience, performed by highly trained individuals.

The idea that I could actually parachute, or skydive, did not occur to me until 1982, when I was 36 years old, and the Dean of Students at Ritchie Valens Middle School. I met a teacher who happened to mention that she was taking skydiving classes, and getting ready to make her first jump. I was immediately intrigued. I’d never investigated the notion of civilian skydiving, assuming that it was strictly a military endeavor. Yet here was this small, slightly built young woman, telling me that she was preparing for a solo leap from an airplane. Although I was tempted to go along, when she invited me to watch, I decided to wait. I was in no hurry. Family affairs, and raising two small children, took most of my time, in those days, so I decided to let the matter go. Over time, the idea of skydiving would occasionally pop into my head, but the notion became more and more remote. In fact, as I got older, I became less inclined to invest the time, money, and sustained effort which skydiving required. I also recognized the possibility of injury. Jumping from a low hanging branch and pretending to float to earth, was not the same thing as hitting the ground in a quickly descending parachute. Slowly, the desire began to fade from my mind, along with other childhood memories and longings.

It was my counselor at Shangri-la Middle School who reignited my passion for parachuting, by introducing me to tandem skydiving. On a quiet afternoon in 2000, once students had been dismissed and the office transactions were ending, Marty invited Kandy, the Head Counselor, and me to view a videotape he was carrying in his hand. He was quite animated in his insistence that we had to see it, but he would give no hint as to what it was about. After a series of last minute phone call interruptions, we were finally able to pry Kandy away from her desk in the Counseling Office, and find an available television monitor in an empty classroom. Marty turned on the television, inserted the videotape, and studied our reactions as we saw the images on the screen. The video was a step by step visual progression of his tandem skydiving experience. There was Marty being interviewed by a cameraman in a hanger, on board a plane as it ascended to jumping elevation, leaping out of the airplane, freefalling through the air attached to an expert partner, and gliding to a landing on the ground. I was transfixed. This was marvelous, and the way Marty described it, it was easy, quick, and affordable. From that day forward, tandem skydiving became one of my six lifetime adventure goals (along with mule packing into the Sierras, shaving my head bald, running a marathon, climbing Mount Whitney, and completing the Rosarito-Ensendada bike ride). The only question in my mind was when? I had a firm determination, but no target date in mind.

In the years that passed, I found it surprising how few people shared my excitement and interest in skydiving. Whenever I mentioned it to friends and family, they expressed indifference to the idea or concern for my mental capacity. The only people who took me seriously were Kathy and Prisa. Kathy recognized and accepted my sincere interest in this endeavor, even though she worried about it. Prisa was clearly opposed to my idea, but instead of fighting it, she provided practical advice and considerations, hoping that logical thinking would dissuade me from actually going through with my plans. Prisa suggested benchmarks in preparing for my leap of passion. If I was serious about skydiving, she pointed out; I should first try bungee jumping. She told me that Magic Mountain, the Valencia theme park, had such a thrill ride, and it would provide a good test to my resolve. After all she asked me, what did free fall feel like? Prisa reasoned that if I could withstand a mind chilling, bungee freefall, then skydiving might be possible. I thought it was good advice, and an exciting proposition. However, I did not get around to taking it for another two years.

I finally contrived to go bungee jumping in May of 2002, when I promised that year’s graduating class that I would do it on Grad Night. Keeping my word became one of the big events of the evening, and numerous students gathered to watch. As time approached for my jump, I became more and more nervous about how I would react. In retrospect, I am glad that Ed, a Physical Education Teacher who was also there as a chaperone, agreed to join me. His tall, strong, and self-assured manner gave me confidence. We were strapped and cinched together, side to side, with interlocking arms, in a straight-jacket harness. Once tightly secured, we were hoisted from a towering crane, feet first, to a height of 100 feet and suspended momentarily in the air. “Oh my God” I gulped, staring facedown at the grass field below, and the spectators along the surrounding perimeter fence. I suppressed my rising panic, squeezed Ed’s arm to reassure myself that we were still connected, and held my breath. When the ride operator shouted, “Now!” on the public address system, I pulled the ripcord that held us. “Aaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh” Ed cried out, as we dropped head first. I emitted no sounds because my throat was locked in fear. At the exact moment I felt like bursting, when I thought we would hit the ground, WE TOOK OFF. Our vertical drop suddenly changed to a horizontal lift off, and we seemed to be flying. Swooping over the assembled spectators, and looking down, I felt like a bird. I stayed elated long after the swooping arches became smaller and smaller. It had been a great experience, and the momentary fear and panic had only heightened my awareness of the flying sensation. As they unhooked us, and we were brought to an upright position, I felt much more confident about tandem skydiving.

Floating in my parachute, I looked out at the panoramic sweep of the Elsinore Valley with the lake situated in the middle. For the first time all day, I noticed how sunny, bright, and calm it was. Now that I had stopped plummeting toward the ground, I was able to appreciate this gorgeous view, and how peaceful and still everything had become.

“How are you doing?” Chad said into my right ear, interrupting my wonderment.

“Fine”, I replied, marveling that we could talk, and hear each other clearly.

Until this moment, our world had been one of wind, noise, and velocity. Now there was absolute stillness as we floated along, in upright positions.

“Let me swing over to the left and you can see the ocean”, Chad said.

His voice was normal and conversational, and I could hear every word. He banked the parachute in a wide arc toward the west and I saw the pale blue of the Pacific Ocean over the Ortega Mountains. San Clemente Island was visible in the horizon, so I knew San Juan Capistrano was out there somewhere.

“It is so peaceful” I said in amazement.

“Yeah, today is perfect for skydiving”, Chad added.

“This is the best part of the experience. When I’m alone, I’ll sometimes pull the cord at 12, 000 feet and spend the entire time gliding around in the sky”.

Even though it was now easy to speak, there was really nothing I wanted to say. I just looked out at the world below as we floated along.

“Would you like to steer?” Chad asked.

“Sure” I replied, not really wanting to.

He told me to look up at the stirrups that were hanging above us from the winged parachute.

He held one in each hand. Chad explained that when he yanked on the right handle, the parachute wing banked in that direction, and when he pulled on the left, it banked to the left. He had me take the stirrups and perform the maneuver. It was a strange sensation, feeling the parachute respond to my commands. This was not the parachuting I had anticipated.

“Look, you can see the Big Bear fire over the mountains”, Chad said, when we evened out.

“Cool”, I responded.

“Do you want to try some spins?” Chad asked.

“Sure”, I again replied.

This time, I should have said no. Watching from the ground, I had seen some of the earlier tandem skydivers trying this maneuver. It looked like their parachutes had been punctured, and they were spiraling to the ground, in tight, twirling, death spins. When Chad started us spinning, I felt I was 7 years old again, twirling in the Mad Hatter’s Teacup Ride in Disneyland. I felt a swelling of nausea and dizziness, and the desire to throw up overwhelmed me.

“That’s good”, I finally said, to stop this disorienting maneuver.

“How are we doing?” Chad asked as the spinning stopped.

“Fine”, I lied.

The horizon was back in balance, but my earlier euphoria had dissipated with the whirling turmoil in my stomach. The glamour of this event suddenly dimmed, and all I wanted to do was land without getting sick.

I’m not sure when I decided to use my 60^th birthday as the final reason to go skydiving. The thought just came to me last year, and it made sense. Turning 60 years of age would put me on the threshold of a new phase in my life. The next few years would see my transition from work to retirement, from one way of life to another. It seemed fitting to use the occasion to try something special, something I’d always wanted to do. So, one day, I told Kathy that I wanted to do two things for my birthday: invite family and close friends to a party at our home, and go skydiving. She agreed to handle the party, but said that I’d have to take care of the skydiving alone. Making an appointment to skydive at Lake Elsinore was easy. I researched local skydiving operations on the internet, chose one in Lake Elsinore, and called to reserve a date. The hard part was visualizing how this event would play out and end. As the date approached, I became more and more nervous about taking this step alone, and started feeling a need for security and support. I finally decided to invite other people to join me in this endeavor. My immediate family expressed mixed feelings on the idea. Tony was supportive of my plan, but unavailable on the date. Prisa was opposed to the whole idea, and refused to be a part of it (although she would later enlist her high school and her students to pray for my safe landing). Kathy was not pleased with my intention, nor attracted to the hotel accommodations at Lake Elsinore, but she was willing to accompany me on the jump. I received the most encouraging response from my friends, the Three Amigos . All three of my high school friends immediately agreed to join me in Elsinore, as my boosters, entourage, and ground support, but none wanted to skydive. Their wholehearted willingness to share in the event brought me sudden peace of mind and a sense of safety. I had not realized, until then, how scary the prospect of jumping out of an airplane, alone, could be. With the presence of these old high school friends, skydiving would not be the only thing on my mind; skydiving would now be a reason (albeit, an important one for me) for us to get together and party. John suggested that we rent hotel rooms in Elsinore for the weekend, and then go exploring nearby Temecula and the Indian casino. Greg agreed, and set out making all the necessary reservations, and scouting the nearby points of interest. Jim also planned to be there, until a business trip forced him to cancel. Even though he was missed, Jim’s absence was aptly filled by John’s wife Kathy, who decided to come along. She is a retired airline stewardess, who loves flying, and could not pass up the opportunity to watch and learn about tandem skydiving.

Greg and I were the first to arrive at the Quality Inn in Elsinore on the Friday afternoon before the jump. When John called to say that he and Kathy would be arriving later, we decided to get an early start on our own Happy Hour. It was while standing in the checkout line at Seven-Eleven, with a six pack of Newcastle Ale in my hand that Prisa called to tell me not to worry; she had taken care of everything. Prisa is an English teacher at a Los Angeles Catholic high school. She had evidently shared her concerns about my safety with all of her classes. The students responded by making my safe landing on Saturday a priority in their classroom prayers, and announcing it as a school-wide intention on the public address system that morning. The news was both humorous and reassuring. It is always good to be prayed for, and I’ve learned that prayer is one of the few things that always helps (it’s even better than aspirin). We were finishing our second beer when John and Kathy arrived. Once they settled in, we left to find the skydiving facility before going to dinner. The Skydive Elsinore grounds are located at the eastern end of Lake Elsinore. We found it at sunset, and parked to explore the offices and facilities. However, instead of relaxing me, and putting me at ease, the abandoned buildings, chained and locked airplanes, and darkening skies only heightened the mystery of what was to come. There were no answers to be found here, just more questions. After taking some photos, we drove off and ate dinner at a nearby Mexican restaurant. When we returned to the hotel, Kathy excused herself, and Greg, John and I spent the rest of the evening over a couple of bottles of wine, talking, laughing, and avoiding the topic of my impending leap.

I’ve been scared many times in my life, without ever having risked imminent injury or death. I’m talking about the fear one feels when facing or doing something for the first time: the first day of high school, the first day of college, the first day of Air Force basic training, and my first day as a teacher. Some may call it nervousness, anxiety, or performance jitters, but it’s really fear. As the eldest child in a family of six, I experienced a lot of “firsts” in my life, and they never came easy. As a youngster, I would deny these feelings, and put on a brave face for my parents and siblings. As I grew older I came to the knowledge that I would always survive these events, and even enjoy some of them, but the process of initiation was painful. I still pretend that these occasions are tolerable, but without denying the level of fear they engender. At this stage of my life, I know when I’m afraid; and I’m able to gauge its degree of rationality. Some of my fears are patently irrational: every parent walking up to me in the morning is not hostile; and every teacher entering my office does not come with a complaint or a problem. Up until this moment, I had been able to joke, kid, and speak enthusiastically about skydiving to my wife, children, family, and friends. However, when I woke up on the Saturday morning of my airplane jump, a little hung over, I was scared, and the fear was not irrational. On that clear, crisp, and cold morning, I truly appreciated the calming companionship of John and Greg. John came by my room at 7:30 and we walked quietly to the hospitality breakfast together. We talked about the waffle machine and how to use it. Greg joined us shortly, and we sat and ate together until it was time to leave. All of our interactions became more and more subdued, and we found ourselves joking and laughing less and less.

The Skydive Elsinore offices were bustling with energy, loud talk, and laughter when we walked up to the counter at 8 o’clock. It was crowded with young people who looked older than 18, but acted like 12 year olds. Such a high level of excitement and gaiety seemed artificial that early in the morning. It was only later that I realized that most of the frivolity was coming from guests and friends who came as spectators; the skydivers were the quiet ones.

“You all skydiving today?” asked Cody, a bubbly, blonde young man, from behind the counter.

“He is” chimed in John and Greg in unison, as they both pointed at me.

“Anyone want to join him as a co-pilot?” Cody responded.

Greg went even paler behind his graying beard, as he shook his head and said “No thanks”. I think the prospect of flying in the frail-looking, twin propeller airplane we inspected the night before caused him to shudder, as he refused the offer. John, the veteran soldier, immediately said “Sure, why not!” How could he pass up an airplane ride in a Super Twin Otter, for only $14.00? Although Greg passed on the plane ride, he did volunteer to keep me company in a small adjoining briefing room, to view the liability videotape presentation. This was an incredibly candid monologue on the dangers of skydiving, which I had to hear before signing a legal document waiving my rights to sue. The waiver released Skydive Elsinore from all legal and financial liabilities in case of my injury or death. There was not much laughter or levity in that confined room. We are sometimes aware of the reassuring influence that old friends have on us in moments of high stress or anguish. One or more of my friends have always managed to be present at some of the most painful moments of my life - the funerals of my father and mother-in-law, Mary. This was one moment when I was both aware and thankful that Greg and John were around to keep me company. They helped me bear the next two and a half hours, which were an endless period of growing nervousness and tedium, interrupted by three spikes of activity and excitement: the landing of the first group of tandem skydivers, the training orientation, and meeting my videographer and tandem partner.

John’s wife, Kathy, alerted me to the landing of the first wave of skydivers. From the minute the airplane left the tarmac loaded with 23 skydivers, she had been on her feet, tracking its flight. Kathy provided a continuous report of its ascending journey, and then shrieked with delight when she spotted the parachutes popping open. Her joyful exclamations culminated as the winged canopies glided overhead, and the tandem teams slid to a landing on the soft grass, with their legs up, in a sitting position. Her enthusiasm helped to reawaken my desire to skydive, and I now had a clear picture of how my landing would occur.

The long, nervous incubation period finally came to an end when a tandem instructor gathered up the 5 member jumping party that would go up next. This group consisted of me, twin sisters, and a young married couple. The training was unnervingly brief. It consisted of five verbal instructions which we never thoroughly practiced: 1) when it’s time to jump, take hold of your chest straps and put your right knee down in front of the cargo bay; 2) when leaving the plane, arch your body, keeping your head and legs back; 3) three hard blows on the left shoulder is the signal to release the chest straps, extend the arms into a flying position, keeping your head up and smiling for the camera; 4) the instructor grabbing your left wrist is the signal to end freefall, and prompts you to reach back with the right hand, find the golf ball sized ripcord on the hip of the instructor, and pull hard; and 5) when approaching the ground, bring your legs up, keeping them straight out in front of you, and land on your butt.

Before I could really internalize these actions, Matt, my videographer, and Chad, my tandem partner, introduced themselves and gave me their own orientation. All I can remember was my hope that these veterans would guide me through the sequence of actions, because if they were counting on my retaining a fraction of these verbal instructions, we were in trouble. Chad took me into the Parachute Room to choose a helmet and hitch me into a tandem harness as he continued repeating the 5 key actions of the jump. When I was finally geared up, Matt took me out to the Ready Room for a video interview. At this point, he invited John and Greg into the picture for a group photo before guiding me out toward the tarmac, and then the plane. Much to my relief, when my tandem team learned that John was riding shot gun on the flight, they kept us together and included him in all of the next activities. Since John would be in the plane, he was hitched into a parachute of his own, and given an even shorter orientation (jump and pull). We were the first to board, and I would be the last to jump. I sat close enough to the cockpit to see him, and make eye contact with him, throughout the takeoff, ascent, and leveling off. John actually looked like an authentic bush pilot. Except for the sandals (which no one could see on board), he wore a white golf cap, sun glasses, and a headset which, along with his grey haired, gnarled visage, made him look like a veteran aviator. Seeing John nearby kept me calm as we ascended to 6,000 feet. At that elevation, Chad directed me to move sideways on the bench so he could begin strapping me to his parachute harness. By the time we reached 12,000 feet, my back harness was hitched tightly to Chad, and I was looking down a long line of helmeted skydivers, waiting for the signal to move. Suddenly, Chad shouted into my ear, and we started moving along the bench toward the glowing cargo hatch.

“Okay, show me what you do when we come in for a landing”, Chad said, as we floated aloft, descending slowly southward, back toward the facilities. Happy to be doing something to take my mind off of my stomach; I kept my legs stiff, and raised them up to my waist.

“That’s perfect”, Chad reassured me. “We’ll be coming around to the landing site soon, and I’ll lay us right on the grass”.
I took a deep breath of relief. The ground was getting closer and closer, and things were moving faster now. Except for my nagging upset stomach, this had been a fantastic ride that was coming to an end. We swung around the skydiving facilities, and then lined up to swoop in over the trees, aiming for the green landing patch. From the ground, you can hear the rustling approach of the parachutes as they sweep over the trees, however, from the air, the approach is silent.

“Okay, legs up” commanded Chad.

I grabbed hold of my chest straps and brought my legs up, as we passed the trees, and landed on the grass, finally sliding to a stop.

“Whoa”, I breathed. 

 

We were down, and it was done. I was a little shaky and disoriented as Chad began unhooking me, but I was glad to feel the solid ground beneath me. Matt was right there, photographing my actions. He had landed earlier, so he could record our landing, and take these last remaining photos of the experience. I mugged with Chad one last time, and then began walking slowly back to the staging area. As I reached the grass, I noticed that the Twin Otter had returned to its moorings, and John, still wearing his parachute, was disembarking, looking in my direction. We met up at the tarmac. I put one arm around him and said, “John, thank God you were there. We did it, partner!” We walked arm in arm for awhile, until John remembered that he needed to leave the parachute with the plane, and we split up. Greg and Kathy were cheering as I approached them at the edge of the staging area.

The full impact of the experience did not dawn on me until an hour later. Before that moment, I was still feeling the ill effects of the spinning parachute, and hadn’t expressed myself. In that state, I had called Kathy and Prisa to tell them I was fine. I had reviewed the DVD and digital pictures of the tandem jump with Greg, John, and Kathy back at the hotel. I had also seconded Greg’s idea of further celebration and agreed to go to the Pechanga Resort Casino in Temecula for a drink. It wasn’t until I sat in the lounge chair in the Casino, with a huge, violet-hued cylinder rising from the center of the bar, that it finally hit me. I raised my tall Bloody Mary glass and said, “May I have your attention, please”. When Kathy, John, and Greg raised their glasses, I finally exclaimed what I felt, “Woowhoo, I did it!”

 

Comments

Skydiver!

[(Anonymous)]

You get more interesting as I read your essays. I really didn't know you were so adventurous! Why you are writing now makes all the sense in the world!

TRH

Skydiving

[(Anonymous)]

Tony,

"Can I really just jump into the air?" priceless!

"Boy, can I follow instructions!" made me laugh out loud!

"Six lifetime adventure goals" marvelous!

TRH