The Awesomeness of Skydiving
Foreword: Skydiving is an awesome experience! Don't let this story scare you from one of the best experiences of your life! Please enjoy! =P
Anxiously crouched atop the end of a picnic table, his feet dangling from the side clad in an old pair of black leather boots. His boots...his favorite boots, had a two piece leather, steel reinforced toe worn through here and there from excessive wear-and-tear. His boots had nine pairs of grommeted eyelets, only laced up to the sixth set, his mangled, ragged boot laces double knotted at the frayed ends. His pants were almost as beat up as his boots, khaki cargos adorned with grass stains and dirt stains and old re-sewn rips and tears. One of his pockets was missing completely and another was duct taped shut-it's not like he used them anyway. It didn't matter to him what kind of shirt he wore-as long as it covered his shoulders and hung past the waistline, that's all that mattered. So there the Dalmatian sat, feeling the morning sun catch his black spots, heating them like little dark embers from a dying campfire. His left ear, which was completely black, was turned into the sun, making that entire side of his head comfortable and warm. His eyes reflected the same shade of sky blue from the building to his side, darting from the nearby field to the occasional passing car, then up to the sky, dappled white with puffy clouds. "What an awesome morning it is to be alive," he thought to himself and smiled, licking his cool, black nose with his velvety moist tongue. He had always dressed comfortably, his loosely-fitting clothes hiding a slim, toned, speckled Dalmatian body. He wasn't afraid to show it off, either, but not today-he had more important things to do besides lounging around with his shirt off.
He shifted his body on the table, grasping at the shoulder straps on his pack, pawing at the two three-ring assemblies, one on each shoulder-the smaller ring going through the largest ring, the smallest ring going through the larger ring-check! He followed his shoulder straps down further and grasped two handles-one a red rectangular pillow on his right and the other, a silver steel rectangular ring to his left, both fitting comfortably in his paws, and both connected to the rest of his gear by a series of cords and flexible metallic guide tubes. He looked down to his right and squeezed the red handle, then looked left at the silver one. He then gave the red handle another squeeze before grasping the metal handle with both paws and squeezing it-check! His paws then wandered further south, stopping this time at two heavy duty silver buckles, one at the top of each thigh, in the inner crook between the thigh and groin. He simply thumbed them and checked that any excess legstrap was neatly stored beneath the buckles-check!
Something in the distance caused his ears to perk. He looked up to see a small airplane, a Cesna 182, powering up, it's propeller quickly picking up speed as a small plume of exhaust caught in the airstream blew past the wings before disappearing into the crisp morning air. His tail started to twitch behind him, the only sign of excitement his body betrayed, except for his eyes, which were burning bright with confidence and anticipation. He stood up and did one last check, reaching behind him to the base of his pack and tapped the small tethered ball three times with his paw-check! He was all set! He slipped his goggles over his head and around his neck and looked behind him on the picnic table for his helmet. His helmet was matte black, graffitied with old stickers of different shapes, sizes, and colors-some more faded than others. With both paws he squeezed his ears into the hard shell, gripping it on the sides and shaking his head from left to right until it was seated comfortably before buckling the chinstrap at the base of his jaw. Hearing the small plane throttle up, he began to walk towards it as the pilot turned the craft to face the runway. His steps were light and quick, though it looked as if he were floating over the asphalt like something out of an overly dramatic movie. Reaching the airplane, he tapped the device on his left wrist and glanced at it before lowering his head, gripping the sides of the airplane door, and hoisting himself up and in, closing the door gently behind him.
"You all set?" the pilot yelled from over his shoulder, not pausing for a second as he taxied the aircraft to the runway.
"Yup," he returned, "are we going all the way to the top?"
"I made it 14 yesterday-new engine-so we'll get there," the pilot chuckled, making a 180 at the end of the runway.
"Awesome!" he said, and buckled his seat belt, facing away from the cockpit, crossing his legs and arms, and settling back to enjoy the ride.
The engine roared as the Cessna throttled up, quickly picking up speed as it bumped down the runway...50mph...60mph...65mph...the aircraft skipped once, twice, and they were up! The small 230HP airplane seemed to climb quickly-much faster than a plane that size should. They circled just east of the airport, gaining altitude with every pass. At 1,000ft he unbuckled his seat belt and leaned back again, using his pack as a surprisingly comfortable back pillow. Glancing out the window from his reclined position, the Dalmatian took casual note of cloud layers as the Cessna ascended high above them. At 12,000ft he gave his legs a big stretch and popped off his helmet to put his goggles on properly, before re-snapping his chin strap and adjusting his ears again as he did before. 13,000ft-he unlatched the door and opened it, feeling an instant temperature drop with an accompanied burst of loud, clean air that raked across his fur on his exposed face, neck, and arms. He crouched low with one paw on the co-pilot seat, the other on the deck of the airplane and leaned out, taking in the sight of the Earth below him.
As he looked down his heart began to race-it wasn't out of nervousness nor fear, but of sheer exhilaration--it was almost time! Below him, through partial cloud layers that looked like the white, foamy part of a wave as it crashed upon the beach, he could see the river-a snake made of the smoothest glass, winding and meandering its way around groves of scraggly green trees and greener manicured farm fields and tiny specks of houses and buildings for as far as the eye could see. In the distance to his left he could see the mountains, ominous and gray with soft highlights of sunlight hitting jutting features that followed the ridgeline, the very tips of which were haloed by a soft ring of cottony cumulonimbus clouds. Up ahead he could make out the airstrip, the faint lines of the runway bordered partially on one side by the small hangar and the much smaller office building, next to which was the picnic table he was sitting at just minutes ago, though he couldn't see it at that altitude. He sighed, feeling the sharp whip of the wind cut past his black nose and around the corners of his goggles. Life seemed so much simpler from above the clouds.
The airspeed suddenly dropped off as the pilot cut back on the throttle, slowing the aircraft to a mere 60mph or so and he looked down to see that they were just then coming over top of the airstrip. He looked straight ahead past the propeller, then out beyond the wing, then back past the tail-all clear! He then looked up at the pilot whose head was half cocked, awaiting any last second instructions, and gave him a thumbs up. The pilot acknowledged the gesture with a thumbs up of his own, and with that the dalmatian somersaulted out of the open door, curled up into a tight ball, and began falling towards the Earth, seeing blue, then green, then blue, then green before opening up, his arms and legs wide, and settling down in a gentle arch. He quickly lowered a knee, spinning him around in tight circles, taking in the scenery as he screamed downward, still accelerating. Leaning forward he brought one arm in front of him and let the other trail slightly behind him, doing the same with his legs, and began to fly in a head-down position, making him accelerate even more, spinning slowly left then right and feeling the wind rush over his body like an inverted waterfall of air, occasionally looking up (well, looking down, actually) and seeing the earth slowly getting larger and larger, closer and closer. He glanced at his left wrist and watched his altimeter countdown rapidly: 4,500...4,000...3,500...3,000 feet.... He tucked his head in and straightened out his legs, rolling him onto his back, then to his chest and waved his paws twice over his head before reaching back to the bottom of his rig with one paw while simultaneously performing a mirrored action with his other paw above his shoulder and deployed his pilot chute. He arched hard for a couple seconds before feeling the familiar jolt of his canopy opening above him.
He had slowed considerably, but something didn't feel quite right. He glanced up over his shoulder to see a fully formed canopy, but caught a glimpse of something odd toward the middle. He focused on what he found to be a glimmer of sunlight poking through both layers of the zero porosity fabric-a hole! The tear was about the size of a basketball and growing larger, making the canopy buck and bobble as he descended toward the ground, beginning to pick up speed again. Without giving it a second thought he had looked down at his handles like he'd practiced on the ground a million times before and immediately went to cut away his malfunctioning chute and deploy his reserve: "look red, grab red, look silver, pull red, grab silver, pull silver" he thought to himself, his actions as fluid as his thoughts! It seemed like an eternity from when his main was cut away until he once again felt the jolt of a deployed canopy over his head and looked up to see that it was a picture-perfect opening. He gave his reserve a quick control check to ensure that it responded properly, and immediately began his landing pattern-he was already at 800ft and, by sheer luck, just upwind of his target landing area. He normally swooped in to land, skimming the ground at over 40mph, but this landing had to be done by the book-he didn't need anything else to go wrong on this jump. He made a right-hand landing pattern, purposefully overshooting his target to land as close to the building as he could to avoid a long walk back. He could see out of the top of his field of vision as he touched down all of his jumping buddies running out to meet him on the grass.
"What happened?" one yelled as he removed his helmet and goggles.
"Had a hole the size of a beach ball!" the dalmatian chuckled, trying to mask the shaking in his voice.
"No shit?!" his friend replied. "How high did you cut away?"
"Low! I pulled at about two and a half, so I'd rather not think about it!"
His buddy laughed, "well get outta your gear so we can go hunt your main down!"
"I saw it floating down toward the tree line at the end of the runway, it should be easy to spot."
After only about a half hour of searching, the dalmatian returned to the hangar with his main canopy draped over both shoulders and threw it lazily into a corner on top of his rig, jump boots and t-shirt. He sauntered back over to the picnic table where he sat earlier that morning. By that time, the sun had engulfed the entire table, heating it so that when he lay down upon it, it was like a warm blanket against his black and white spotted back, the heat melting deep into his muscles. The late morning sunlight played upon his chiseled chest and abs, wrapping his body in a warm, comfortable, soft glow. He put his shades on his face and stretched his arms behind his head and quietly fell asleep. A sly grin slowly crept across the dalmatian's face as he drifted off into dreamland. It was impossible to tell, but one could only speculate that his dreams had returned him to the sky as they usually did...only in his dreams, a parachute was a purely optional piece of equipment.