And no.
Neither do you.
Everything is going to be fine.
‘All set, then, Ollie?’ Ted asks me as I clamber into the open side doorway of the plane – which wouldn’t be able to fit more than a dozen people in it, if it was set up for passenger flights.
Ted is square of jaw, square of head and square of outlook. Everything about him screams solid and dependable. It’s this that persuaded me to go through with the jump, once the initial rush had worn off. If he hadn’t exuded such an air of competence and enthusiasm about the whole damn thing, I would have probably bottled it by now. But Ted has been there – over the course of two hastily arranged days – to keep my courage from faltering too much.
I’m slightly annoyed I’m not gay, to be honest. Ted would make a wonderful husband.
‘Yep!’ I say to the husband material with a grin. ‘I’m good to go!’
Just look at the thumbs-up I’m giving, would you?
Look how proud and erect it is!
Not a trace of nerves. Not a bit of shake. It’s the thumbs-up of a man who is confident he’s made the right decision – and knows that chucking himself out of this plane today will mark a new and exciting chapter of his life. A leaf will be turned over here at this airfield. Of that you can be sure.
Onwards and upwards!
Fifteen minutes later, my arse is trying to take bites out of the side of the plane.
I’m terrified.
I’m scared to death.
You were absolutely right – this was a stupid, stupid idea.
Everything is resolutely not going to be fine.
I got vertigo just leaning out over the side of a car park, what the hell made me think I could come all the way up here, without being consumed by an ocean of extreme terror?
Look how small everything is!
Look! Look at that bloody field! It looks like a postage stamp!
And I’m going to throw myself at it, am I?
What the bloody hell was I thinking?
My arse is now attempting to affix itself like a limpet to the part of the plane bulkhead that it hasn’t already eaten.
If it wasn’t for the bright-yellow jumpsuit, it would probably succeed. You wouldn’t be able to prise me away. I’d become half man, half barnacle.
It’s one thing to feel calm and confident about a parachute jump when you’re on the ground – it’s quite another when you’re five thousand feet in the air. When you’re five thousand feet in the air, all logic is thrown to the same wind that’s buffeting the wings of the plane like an angry elephant.
Fuck Ted and his square head.
It’s his fault I’m up here – about to evacuate the contents of my bowels as I contemplate the horror that is to come.
‘How are you doing?’ Ted the bastard asks me, probably sensing that I’ve gone from considering him husband material to wanting to rip his face off for making me come up here.
‘I’m shitting a fucking brick, Ted. How are you doing?’
Ted laughs. Even his laugh sounds square, and ever so upright. You could probably lay the foundations of a house on top of it.
‘You’ll be absolutely fine,’ he tells me, echoing my own thought process, when I was still on terra firma, and not in firm terror.
I nod. ‘Yes, I know I will, Ted, because I’m not fucking jumping!’
He pats me on the shoulder. ‘Yes, you are! You’ll love it!’
This time I shake my head. ‘No, Ted. I will not love it. I don’t mean to be disparaging about your line of work – but you’re mental. And everyone else who does this is mental. I was mental for thinking I could do it too!’
Ted doesn’t seem offended by this. In fact, he just laughs again. I get the impression I’m not the first person to start cursing him and everything he stands for when they’re on the brink of throwing themselves out of his twin-prop.
He looks at a large and fiendishly complicated watch on his arm. ‘Come on, Ollie! It’s time to do this!’
‘No.’
‘Yes!’
‘No.’
‘Yes!’
‘No, Ted. No. No. Bad Ted. Bad Ted!’
Ted doesn’t reply, but starts to gently push me towards the plane exit, which has just been pulled wide open by one of his assistants. Did I say assistants? I meant evil minions.
‘Fuck off, Ted!’ I wail. ‘I can’t do this, Ted! I won’t do this, Ted!’
Hark at me, eh? A while back I couldn’t say no to a camp Scotsman with a waxing strip, and here I am telling a square-jawed paratrooper called Ted to fuck off.
Progress, people. Progress.
Ted stops pushing me. ‘Look, Ollie. I can’t make you do this. It’s your decision.’
‘Yes, Ted! It is! I’m glad you’ve seen the light! Now, tell me where the nearest big, thick seatbelt is, please. I wish to strap myself in until we reach the ground.’
‘But Ollie . . . I’ve read your stories on Actual Life. I know what kind of guy you are. I know what you’ve been through,’ Ted says, ever so earnestly. ‘And doing this thing . . . this one thing . . . I think it really will be a great way for you to move on from Samantha once and for all . . . and move on from all the neuroses and doubts that have been holding you back your entire life.’
I’m gobsmacked.
Then I waggle a pointy finger at Ted. ‘Now, look here, you. You’re just supposed to be the square-jawed ex-paratrooper who wants to throw me out of a plane, not a source of emotional strength in times of severe adversity! That’s not your bloody job!’
Ted nods sagely. ‘You get to know a lot about people when they come up here, and the door is wide open, Ollie. Trust me on that.’
Oh, for crying out loud. Profound wisdom at five thousand feet is just about the most unbearable thing I think I’ve ever experienced.
But Ted the square-jawed ex-paratrooper (and now wise life guru, it appears) has hit the nail on the bloody head, hasn’t he?
This is more than just a parachute jump – it’s a symbolic turning of the page.
If I don’t go through with it, can I really move past the things that have been holding me back? Can I really get over Sam, and all the other heartbreaks I’ve had, and find a better way to live my life? If I don’t chuck myself out of that wide-open door, will I ever be the man I want to be?
The logical and right answer to this question is – of course I bloody well can.
The ability to jump out of a plane at five thousand feet has absolutely no bearing on one’s capacity to live a more fulfilled and happy life. Anyone who thinks otherwise is bleedin’ crackers.
So, why am I now shuffling towards the wide-open door, with my heart in my throat?
If I could answer that question, I could probably unlock the secrets of the universe.
As I reach the open door, I look down on the patchwork of quaint English countryside, and the fear skyrockets again.
Turn around, you galumphing great cretin. This isn’t worth it!
Yes, it is!
No, it isn’t! You have nothing to prove!
Yes, I do!
To who? All those people down there? To Ted with the square jaw? Do you really think doing this idiotic jump will make a blind bit of difference? This isn’t a bloody movie. Especially not one directed by Richard Curtis. There isn’t a happy ending waiting for you out there! Who are you doing this for?!
Me! I’m doing it for me! Not for any of them, not for anybody else . . . just me!
Why?
Because . . . Because I want to do something that doesn’t have a bloody why, that’s why!
‘Er, Ollie? Are you okay?’ Ted shouts at me. ‘Only you’ve started babbling incomprehensibly to yourself!’
‘Yeah . . . I know! I’m just trying to work up a bit of courage!’
‘Oh, okay. Only you looked like you were having some sort of mental breakdown!’
I give Ted a long, hard look. ‘Story of my life, mate,’ I tell him as he clips th
e line that runs from the back of my chute pack to the one that’s fastened to the interior of the plane’s fuselage. Once I do jump, that line will make sure my parachute springs open as soon as I’m out.
‘You ready?’ Ted shouts again. ‘We’re over the jump zone!’
‘I’m not sure! Should I say something? Or maybe pray a little?’
‘Are you religious?’
‘No, but it probably can’t hurt, can it?’
Ted shrugs unhelpfully.
I stare out at the wide blue sky and green fields below, trying to think of something meaningful to say to myself. Surely, this is a moment that deserves a meaningful speech, after all that I’ve been through. A heartfelt plea to whatever god may be watching, possibly. Something that sums up all of my wishes and desires from this point forward. Something profound. Something elegant. Something memorable.
. . .
Er . . .
. . .
Um . . .
. . .
‘Ollie! It’s time to jump!’ Ted wails at me.
‘Yes! Yes! I know!’
. . .
Ah . . .
. . .
Ah, to hell with it.
‘I just want an easy fucking life!’ I scream, and chuck myself out of the plane.
My most humble apologies for not coming up with something more profound or life changing. You know . . . the kind of thing you can take away into your day-to-day life, and tell all of your friends about smugly when they ask why you’ve got that smile on your face.
Unfortunately, I’m wearing a bright-yellow jumpsuit that makes me look like an ambulatory banana, I enjoy masturbating in front of wild animals, am unintentionally racist when attempting an Italian accent, and like to have conversations with imaginary antipodean elephants.
Am I really the person you want to be getting profound or life-changing advice from?
Go buy a motivational poster. Or get drunk.
Or get drunk and then look at a motivational poster. Probably one with a nice big mountain on it.
‘Aaaaaarrrrrgggh!’ I screech as I leave the plane at an extreme rate of knots.
My mind goes blank as gravity starts to do its terrible and inexorable job.
I feel the parachute pack yank backwards as the line goes taut for a moment, before the chute is unfurled in a glorious blossom of life-saving silky green material.
My breath is taken from me as the air fills the parachute, and my descent towards the patchwork fields below is arrested from a terminal velocity to something much more gentle, and survivable.
This gives my brain a chance to regain its faculties, which I suppose must be a good thing.
Wisely deciding that I am still highly discombobulated by the jump, it goes into autopilot for me, remembering everything Ted told me to do, during those two long, hard days of instruction.
I have hold of the control lines before I even realise what I’m doing. These things are pretty vital, given that without them I’d have no control over the parachute at all, and would probably float off over the English Channel.
They’re pretty simple to operate, thankfully. A tug on one sends you to the left, a tug on the other sends you right. Both together slows you down. Simple.
‘How are you doing?’ Ted’s voice crackles at me through the headset, which I’d forgotten all about until this moment.
‘Jesus!’ I scream in shock.
‘No, it’s just Ted,’ he replies.
Frankly, I’ll take the definitely corporeal Ted over the possibly non-existent Jesus any day of the week, given the circumstances.
I look up to my left and see Ted descending at roughly the same speed as me, in his jet-black jumpsuit and charcoal-grey parachute. He looks about 247 per cent cooler than me. I am in a bright-yellow jumpsuit, and my parachute is equally bright green, so I look like something that’s just escaped from the Mardi Gras.
‘Sorry,’ I reply, sheepishly. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Good. Control lines okay? You’ve got control of the parachute, like we practised?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘It’s all coming back to me.’
‘Excellent stuff. Well, we’ll start to turn ourselves towards the landing zone, then. Can you see it?’
I look down . . . and down . . . to see the airfield below us, with the large red circle that I’m supposed to aim for clearly visible on the grass. ‘Yeah. I see it.’
‘Good. How are you feeling?’
Oh blimey.
How am I feeling? I hadn’t given it much thought, until Ted asked me the question.
I guess . . . I guess I feel calm.
Which is ridiculous.
I should not feel calm. I should feel on the verge of a heart attack. I have just thrown myself out of a plane, and the only thing between me and certain death is a few yards of thin parachute material. Panic should have set in long ago.
But you know what? I actually feel quite relaxed. There’s something very soothing about drifting through the sky on a crisp, sunny September morning. I didn’t expect to feel like this at all.
I tell Ted as much.
‘Yep. Not surprised,’ he says. ‘People think this is all about the rush of the jump . . . but that’s only part of it. Floating along like this, just you and the wind – that’s as big a part of the fun for me.’
I see Ted swing his parachute away from me somewhat. ‘I tell you what, Ollie. I’ll leave you alone for a bit. You look like you’ve got everything under control, so I’ll let you enjoy the peace and quiet. I’ll speak to you when we get on the ground. Just talk if you get into any problems, though.’
‘Okay, Ted. Thanks very much.’
What a guy.
Seriously, why am I not gay?
I watch Ted pull away from me to a distance of about a hundred feet.
Then I spend the next minute or so doing something that does not come easily to me – absolutely nothing.
My brain goes back into autopilot, steering me in the right direction over the landing zone, in a series of gentle, falling loops – leaving the rest of me to do very little, other than look out at the green countryside below, and blue sky above.
Later, there will be time for reflection. Later, I will think long and hard about how I felt during the parachute jump – but for now, there’s nothing. No internal monologues, no external anxieties. Just Ollie Sweet and his parachute, descending towards the earth at a speed that shouldn’t break anything once he reaches it.
It’s quite fabulous.
It’s a real pity it only lasts a few brief minutes. I could stay up here all day. I have no idea why birds are so bloody bad tempered all the time. This is immensely relaxing.
Ted comes back on the mic again, asking me if I’m prepared for the landing.
‘Yes, I’m ready,’ I tell him as I watch the ground coming closer and closer.
My voice is steady, and there’s a calm confidence about it that sounds quite alien to me. It also sounds marvellous, though. Something quite profound appears to have occurred in these few minutes in the sky. And though I will spend quite a lot of time in the near future thinking about what that profound thing was . . . I’ll never come up with a satisfactory answer.
Some things just aren’t meant to be examined and fretted over until they make sense. Some things are just meant to happen. Some things are just meant to be.
It’s high time I learned that, and accepted it, for that matter.
The ground is getting very close now. So close that I can see the faces of the expectant crowd again, all watching the last few moments of my descent, with a mixture of delight and apprehension. I can see Erica standing slightly forward of everyone else, her hand shielding her eyes as she watches me descend.
This is the hardest bit of the jump, and the part Ted spent the most time teaching me in our training sessions. Landing a solo parachute isn’t something even experienced skydivers take lightly.
As I get within a few feet of the ground, I pull do
wn hard on the control lines, which arrests the speed of the parachute to a near walking pace. Now I’m drifting towards the ground, more or less right towards the centre of the red circle.
As I do this, I bring my legs together, slightly bent, and cross my arms over my chest. My feet hit the grass at a comfortable speed, and I immediately bend my knees even more, and shift my body weight so I collapse into a half roll, which prevents any injury occurring.
The landing is pretty much perfect.
Time to be smug!
I stand up as the crowd starts to cheer and clap my landing.
I feel a fist pump is appropriate at this juncture. I’ve never really felt that I’ve done anything in my life that could justify a fist pump before, but surely making your first successful parachute jump qualifies, doesn’t it?
I don’t really care. I’m doing a fist pump, anyway.
At this point I should be gathering in my chute, but I’m too damn busy being smug and pumping my fist like I’m doing an emergency tyre change.
Smug – I think you’ll find – is an emotional state that never gets you anywhere good in life.
Because I’m being smug, fist pumping, and also waving at the crowd, I am not noticing that my parachute is beginning to fill with air again as the breeze catches it. This makes it billow out, and fly right over my head, in the direction of the crowd.
In a split second I go from smug, fist-pumping champion of parachutes, to stumbling idiot, being dragged along by thirty square feet of bright-green material.
‘Ollie!’ Ted exclaims from his own perfect landing position a few yards away. ‘Pull the cutaway!’
The cutaway is the handle you yank when you want to release your parachute in an emergency – for occasions such as this one.
I scrabble at the handle on the right-hand side of my chest, desperately trying to pull it before the parachute launches me into the air again.
Luckily, the wind isn’t quite strong enough to do that, but it is more than strong enough to propel the parachute at the crowd, with me right behind it.
And who’s standing at the head of crowd? Poor old Erica.
This is how Ollie Sweet’s life functions.
If he’s going to be propelled towards a crowd of people, he is going to head straight at the worst person possible.
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