Wake up yesterday at the crack of dawn to drive T to St-Jérôme for his 8 am appointment with adventure. It’s the big day, the day where T jumps out of the plane with fingers crossed.

We get there without incident, and since it’s such an ungodly hour, T’s one of only two jumpers in the day’s first flight, so the master jumper if I want to jump too. I look down at my high-heel boots and inappropriate apparel, and promptly say “Hell yeah!!!”

Minutes later we’re in flight suits, using a wooden contraption to practice getting out of the plane. One foot on the wing, one in the plane, bend over and hold onto your harness, don’t look down. They’ve gotta be shitting me. I’m trying to imagine what this will be like at 12000 feet, icy wind screaming through me. Still, none of it hits home. T has had all week to realize what’s going on (and indeed slept very badly the night before), but to me this is still all very theoretical. I’m cool as a cucumber. This isn’t really happening. I’m not really doing this.

Remember to arch your back when we freefall. Yeah, ok, sure.

Then, six of us (two instructors, three jumpers and one pilot) squeeze into the tiny Cessna and take off. When I say squeeze, I mean squeeze. There is more space in my car than in that plane. I’m sitting between my instructor’s legs, unable to move, looking at the beautiful fall scenery. Getting smaller and smaller.

Finally, they open the door to this tiny can, and the first jumper, who’s going solo, steps out onto the bar, and one second he’s there, says goodbye, and in the next moment he’s immediately sucked off the wing and recedes instantly into nothingness.

I think, Ok, so that was the freakiest thing I’ve ever seen.

T and his instructor jump as mine and I are busy with the difficult business of turning around in the sardine can, and getting into position. No time to think, we’re on. Sure enough, it’s so windy that I can’t get my foot solidly onto the jump bar. At last I give it my everything, as my instructor jumps, pushing me along.

I don’t arch my back.

We tumble end over end, falling at 200 kmh towards the ground. I see the plane, the ground, the plane, the ground. I realize we’re tumbling, splay my arms out and arch my back. We stabilize, but are still screaming towards the ground at an insane speed. The wind is violently pushing the skin on my face back. My ears pop most painfully. 7000 feet in 35 seconds.

The chute opens and immediately, the storm ends. All is quiet and beautiful. We make a few turns for fun, but basically just drift down, watching the autumn colors. We land sitting down, skidding rapidly to a stop on our butts.

An hour later, I’m back in Montreal, having breakfast, still not quite believing what just happened.