Airborne

One
The air is thick with sweat and morbid anticipation.
So begins a love-hate tango with the forces of nature (Please oh God let it
rain, no, no, can’t have that oh, too much wind…)
as preparations for the jump grind into motion.
I sit, cold concrete floor cramping my legs and half dream,
mumbling drunkedly, yet spring to life in Pavlovian response to
barked out orders: Fit Up! (Good, sky is clear, oh shit oh shit…)
And soon enough we are old-men-bent, waddling like
turkeys under the crushing weight of our chutes towards uncertainty.

Two
I read somewhere that Chinook Indians are its namesake, but
there is nothing noble or stealthy about this machinated monstrosity
hunkering down from the sky, asserting its place in our
world with its size and gaping maw. Whining and roaring like some
of us are in our hearts it tries its best to stop us.
Obedient, self-denying soldiers that we are let its voice drown our screams.
The wind blasts the ground from under our feet (we push on)
and the blades burn in our ears (we push on) and dust blinds us
(we push on) and our hearts beat in our brains (we push… in)

Three
I am alone in the red and metal, jutting edges and warning signs,
spitting in the logic of the men that surround me, pressed in at every
corner and lost as I am within myself. Seeing nothing, feeling
nothing and certainly hearing nothing I wonder how I can possibly sense
the jumpmaster’s angled arms as he calls: Stand Up! Hook Up! rightleftright-
-rightleftright helmet capewell chest strap reserve snap ripcord leg strap backtie
static line clear hooked up rightleftrightleftrightleft GO rightleft GO rightleft
GO rightleft and I’m standing at the abyss no I don’t want to die and suddenly:
A calm washes over, clear and bright as arctic air and I whisper Thank You God

ONETHOUSANDTWOTHOUSANDTHREETHOUSAND
Check. A bubble of freedom surrounds me and I am deaf not because there
is too much but because there is nothing but sun and sky. Impossible
blasphemy for Man to fly yet, yet! Here I am. I turn, angling gracefully,
turkey turned osprey, growing in my gut the feeling of kept promises.
This is the feeling of being alive and treasuring it,
triumphant in it, I gaze down. Pure elation turns quickly to mixed
dread as the ground rushes to hold me and I prepare
automatically, reflexively, angling my feet in
invitation to the concrete.

Two Hundred
The number of feet of sky between me and ground that passes in an
instant. WAM and I am lying, stunned but stable, once more a mere
mortal looking up at a fading dream. And in the seconds that pass
before I pick myself and my parachute up and run to
safety I think: that must be what dying feels like. Being alive -
that is walking head down day-to-day, sleeping, muttering,
doing without questioning. And I know deep within myself that despite
what I think or feel, I do not fear death. When it’s my turn to leave
the Chinook of life I will jump – and fly, forever.