So, last week I reminisced
about the 25-year anniversary of moving to Hawaii, and that has spurred yet
another memory of that same era. The memory of the day my father tried to kill
me.
It was on the plane ride from
Los Angeles to Honolulu when Dad announced that when we landed in Hawaii, he
had arranged for some of us to go skydiving. I immediately pulled out my Bucket
List and showed him that my list was in fact totally void of such nonsense. If
I was going to do something that defied death, it was going to involve
overeating or bedsores from the longevity of a lifestyle of inactivity.
I had heard Dad speak of his desire
to skydive and knew it had been festering in his heart and soul for many years; but now
he had clearly gone bananas. (Or coconuts—pick your island poison.) I wasn't too
excited about Dad killing himself, but to involve me seemed completely
unnecessary.
On the north side of Oahu, in
a spacious, grassy field, stands a tiny hut, where Bubba and Buddy hang out all
day, drinking beer and admiring the makeshift airplane they have stolen
from some unsuspecting crop-duster. And they sit there waiting with a small
hope that fools like us will pull up and give them enough money for more beer.
So, we fools pull up, throw
some money at them, and they take us inside their tiny hut and explain that
we’ll be jumping “tandem” – meaning that one of them will be attached to me by
a thin cord that is tied to our waists. Apparently this is the loophole by
which they can legally send us up without any instruction.
Dad went up and jumped first,
while we all stayed on good ole’ terra firma and watched. As Dad floated gently
to the ground, I was ecstatic that I would not be left to provide for my family
at the tender age of seventeen. It was my turn to go, so I made the announcement
that I was going to now board the plane, unless someone wanted to just put a
bullet in my face now and save some cash. No takers.
I climbed aboard the plane,
looked at the man whose hands I was putting my life in, and choked back a tear.
There was one seat on the plane, and thankfully, it belonged to the pilot. I
took a seat on the wood floor, sat up against the side of the plane, and
wondered if any of my friends in California would come all the way to Hawaii
for my funeral, and what my mom would serve them. I should have gone over the
menu with her before getting on the plane, but it was too late now.
The plane
itself didn't seem all that sturdy, and as a paying customer, I was
of the opinion that I should be the one wearing the parachute, instead of the
“professional” jumping with me. I looked at the other men on the plane and
noticed I was the youngest person jumping. I wondered why the rest of them had
decided to do this. Surely their dads were not forcing them into it.
We reached the two-mile point,
and the instructor slid open the door to reveal nothing but blue. I couldn't see
the ground, the ocean – nothing. And I was seated, most unfortunately, right by
the door. The two other individuals on the plane decided not to jump. I now had
the power of the crowd on my side. I could have easily been turned, were it not
for the words of the instructor “Whether you jump or not, you still pay.” The
fear of confronting my father and telling him, “Hey, thanks for the $100 plane
ride, but I much, much prefer it here on the ground” overpowered my fear of
jumping, and I made the suddenly easy decision to throw myself out of a moving plane.
“Climb out the door and hang
onto the wing,” the guide instructed me.
“Pass,” I commented.
“Climb out, and I’ll climb
out after you.”
I got down on my hands and
knees and inched my way out the door, holding on to the wing. I clung to that
wing so tightly; I think a few of my fingernails are still attached. At this
point, I decided that wearing a mere tank top and 1988-length shorts was not
the smartest wardrobe selection for leaving the earth’s atmosphere. I was
freezing. The instructor came out, straddled over me and snapped the belt to
attach us at the waist.
“Let go of the wing, you’ll
swing between my legs.”
“What are my other options?”
I let go and swung between
his legs, looking again at the big blue space beneath me. I sat there swinging,
not knowing when he was going to jump, when I was going to fall, or when I was
going to wet my pants. Actually, I had a pretty good idea of when I was going
to wet my pants.
Suddenly, I was falling. I
felt my stomach fall all the way back to the earth and wait for me there, under
a palm tree. Somewhere around the falling rate of 90 mph my adrenaline kicked
in, and I started getting really excited. I felt immortal, like I had somehow,
in this single act, conquered life. Life, I was fairly sure, would never mess
with me again.
After several moments of free
falling, the parachute opened and the overpowering noise from the wind
disappeared. I was floating, peacefully, and I was in no hurry to land. All my
senses were alive and they were having a “come as you are” party. I was the
host. They loved me.
We got closer to the ground
and I heard the instructor yell “Uh-oh.” This is never a welcomed announcement,
but even less so when you are in such a vulnerable position.
“Uh-oh…start running –
there’s no wind.”
“Huh?”
“There’s no wind to slow us
down – we need wind to slow us down – we’re going to have to
hit the ground running.”
Apparently there needs to be
a strong wind to slow down the chute and land you gently on the ground. And we
had no such wind. I hadn't taken physics, but I didn't see
how “pre-running” was going to somehow store up a reserve of “running power” so
that when you hit the ground you were actually ahead of the game because, hey,
you were already running. But who was I to argue with Mr. Professional
Skydiving Dude Man? I started Fred Flinstone-ing in the air. It made no
difference. I hit the ground, landed on my face, and slid fifteen feet or so,
with an instructor on my back.
We got up off the ground,
shook off the dirt and … hugged. It’s
what dudes do, don’t you know. I then declared that I needed a drink, and the
instructor informed me there was a hose behind the shed. I walked behind the
shed to also find something the instructor failed to mention – a large crop of
your average, garden-variety marijuana, flourishing in the tropical Hawaiian
weather. That was very reassuring. My instructor may or may not
have been stoned, whilst I put my young life in his dude-ish hands.
So, nice try, Dad. But I’m
still here.
