Free fallin'

Men's Fitness, Sept, 2003 by Allan Donnelly

A SOLID SLAP ON the shoulder courtesy of the man strapped to my back--Sgt. 1st class Paul Rafferty of the U.S. Army's Golden Knights--awakens me from my nausea and, along with the now-gaping hole on the left side of the airplane on which I'm a passenger, reaffirms the fact that I'm not dreaming.

We're 13,000 feet above the ground. Like a scene from a James Bond flick, two men wearing black jumpsuits exit the aircraft, stepping onto the foot rail that lines the plane's port side and disappearing into the wild blue yonder.

Another tap on the shoulder. It's my turn to fly.

I work my way over to the plane's edge--remembering to breathe, trying not to hyperventilate--and swing my feet out over the void. Cold, crisp, deafening air rushes violently against my legs and face. I look down, and my stomach hits the back of my throat before deciding to settle around my Adam's apple. One more tap on the shoulder signals it's time to exit. One, two, three. I lean forward, tuck my legs into my chest ... and we're off.

THE ASSIGNMENT

I'm afraid of heights. Have been for quite some time now. Don't know exactly how or when it started, I wasn't born with it: My dad once had to stop me from jumping into my older brother's arms from a tree branch some 30 feet off the ground. I was 5. I'm now 28, so there's a lot of gray area in between.

Considering the variety of phobias out there, I feel fairly comfortable with mine. Officially, it's called acrophobia. You're up high, you fall, you get hurt. Makes sense. And it made perfect sense to do everything in my power to avoid putting my fear to the test.

But today's different because Jerry Kindela, editor in chief at MEN'S FITNESS, decided it was my turn to see some action. I didn't have much say in the matter. When you've been on staff less than a Fear and your boss approaches you as "the perfect guy for this job," it's like being offered a business proposition by Tony Soprano. In either case, refusing is not a wise career move. Even when the question turned out to be, "How'd you like to go skydiving with the U.S. Army?"

Sure, boss, sign me up.

"You'll fly to Fort Bragg in North Carolina to meet with the Golden Knights, the Army's elite skydiving team. You'll eat with 'em, train with 'em, and then they'll throw your ass out of a plane."

Can't think of anything I'd rather do, Jerry.

SO THAT WAS IT. In two minutes, I'd signed my life away. Sure, it got me a pat on the back from the head honcho and some respect from the fellas around the office, but so does bringing in a dozen bagels.

1030 HOURS: INSTRUCTION

My tandem jump falls on a Thursday, my second day at Fort Bragg, which gives me 24 hours to get to know my hosts and, more important, find out what I'm in for. Three facts stick out in my mind.

* I've got a better chance of being struck by lightning than having my chute fail to open.

* On the slim chance the main parachute fails to open--one of the Knights informs me that his main chute has done so three or four times out of 12,000 jumps--an auxiliary chute lies in wait.

* The last time a main chute failed to open was three days ago, so the odds of it happening again are even less than my ultraslim chance of getting struck by lightning.

FOR SOME REASON, none of this makes what I'm about to do any easier. We arrive at the Raeford drop zone and, after introductions to the crew, I'm whisked into a small video room for preflight instruction. Topics covered:

* How many pounds the backpack-type apparatus, complete with pulleys and straps that wrap snugly across my shoulders and waist, can hold. (Up to 1,000.)

* How many times I'll rock back and forth before leaning forward and letting my tandem partner huff our attached bodies out of the plane. (Three.)

* How fast we'll be moving at the time of the jump. (120 mph.)

* The shape I should try to maneuver my body into once we're free falling. (A "U.")

The only shapes on my mind, however, are the various mammalian pancakes made by Wile E. Coyote after falling off assorted dills during his quest for the Roadrunner.

1100 HOURS: AIRTIME

WE'RE IN THE AIR for about 10 minutes when one of the Knights slides over to the left of the plane and opens a window about twice the size of my laptop screen. It takes me a few, but eventually I muster up enough courage to shimmy over to the window and stick my head out for a preview of what's to come.

BAD IDEA. Trees look like blades of grass; cars on the rural Carolina roads resemble MicroMachines. I tentatively reach my hand out to feel the cold air, which feels a lot like reaching your hand out the window of a speeding car. The difference, of course, is that I'm nowhere near ground level.

"HOW HIGH are we?" I manage to croak. Sgt. Rafferty checks the altitude. "About 4,000 feet," he answers, a knowing grin stretching across his face. "Not even halfway."

I OFFER A LAME smirk in return and, swallowing harder than a White House intern, decide it's time to move away from the sliding door and back within Rafferty's general vicinity--in case anything should happen to go awry.