The author skydives in memory of her mother.
By Maria Concepcion PanlilioWatching my mother die slowly is emotionally overpowering. I have to get out of the San Diego Hospice and release my misery elsewhere. I rush to my car, quickly jumping inside and hoisting myself in the driver’s seat. I drive away, letting destiny take me anywhere.
Unaware of my speed, I suddenly hear a siren, and behind me is the sheriff’s car with his red blue and yellow lights flashing. My heart starts pounding. Oh, no, not again, I scream internally.
I pull over onto the hard shoulder and shut the engine off. My hand shaking, I retrieve my car insurance and registration papers from the glove compartment and I wait. Cars zoom past my Celica GTS as it shakes in their wake. I take a deep breath and drop my head down, resting my forehead on the white knuckles that clutch the steering wheel.
What’s taking him so long? I glance up. My eyes are assailed by the glare of lights several yards in front of me. I see the cop approaching the driver of another car. "Oh, God, thank you," I murmur.
I feel the gravel sand crunch beneath my tires as I find myself pulling into the parking lot of the Otay Mesa Drop Zone. Whenever I come near this place, I am pulled in like a magnet. I stop longingly to watch the familiar activity around: the rigging of the canopies, the exuberant camaraderie, and the wonderful sight of parachutists dangling from their colorful canopies, some landing all over the place. I cannot help but feel nostalgic about this extreme and exciting sport that first hooked me years ago.
I leave my car at the parking lot and saunter toward the gathering of people who came to skydive, or simply to watch their family members or friends jump. People place their lives in the reliability of the parachute strapped on their back, knowing that if it fails to open, they’re history. For most people this sounds insane. Yet, a growing number of men and women of all ages continue to clamor for the adrenaline rush and thrill of skydiving. And for an elite group, it is a lifestyle. Like it was once for me.
Unaware of my speed, I suddenly hear a siren, and behind me is the sheriff’s car with his red blue and yellow lights flashing. My heart starts pounding. Oh, no, not again, I scream internally.
I pull over onto the hard shoulder and shut the engine off. My hand shaking, I retrieve my car insurance and registration papers from the glove compartment and I wait. Cars zoom past my Celica GTS as it shakes in their wake. I take a deep breath and drop my head down, resting my forehead on the white knuckles that clutch the steering wheel.
What’s taking him so long? I glance up. My eyes are assailed by the glare of lights several yards in front of me. I see the cop approaching the driver of another car. "Oh, God, thank you," I murmur.
* * *
I feel the gravel sand crunch beneath my tires as I find myself pulling into the parking lot of the Otay Mesa Drop Zone. Whenever I come near this place, I am pulled in like a magnet. I stop longingly to watch the familiar activity around: the rigging of the canopies, the exuberant camaraderie, and the wonderful sight of parachutists dangling from their colorful canopies, some landing all over the place. I cannot help but feel nostalgic about this extreme and exciting sport that first hooked me years ago.
I leave my car at the parking lot and saunter toward the gathering of people who came to skydive, or simply to watch their family members or friends jump. People place their lives in the reliability of the parachute strapped on their back, knowing that if it fails to open, they’re history. For most people this sounds insane. Yet, a growing number of men and women of all ages continue to clamor for the adrenaline rush and thrill of skydiving. And for an elite group, it is a lifestyle. Like it was once for me.
I claim my place on the grass lawn and visualize bailing out of a perfectly operational aircraft from 13,500 feet. The dreadful thought of my mother nearing death makes me want to sail into the clouds and then fall freely at the speed of terminal velocity.
It is hard not to want to jump again, but it is harder not to recall my recent skydiving mishap that I thought was going to prematurely terminate my license to live. I remember that very last moment just before my consciousness fluttered into oblivion. It was my mother’s voice screaming to me: You see? I told you you’re going to kill yourself one of these days.
Let me tell you about my mother's voice. It is soft, gentle, and always filled with affection. When she is displeased, it retains these qualities, but the strength in the timbre dominates, and you can almost feel it passing through stone walls.
In my youth, I was always fascinated by anything that soared gracefully in the sky: birds, planes, kites and imaginary angels. To simulate flying, I’d flap my arms and jump from my bedroom window, from atop the fence or from a tree in our backyard. None of these take-off points were high enough to cause bodily injury, but they were high enough to cause an improper landing that would later reveal itself on my knees as ugly bruises. Unfortunately, the sting from these bruises was not as intense as the pain my mother would inflict on my behind with a spanking board. Ah, yes, she didn’t do it often, but I had my share of spanking when I was young. And rightly so.
Why can’t you be more normal like your sisters? Mom would always admonish me. But I was a stubborn young girl. I kept doing things that traumatized my mother.
Many years later, my wish to fly like a bird would come true. And the memory of my first jump would never be obliterated from my mind.
It had been years ago, when Doug--an old boyfriend—invited me to an annual Skydiving Boogie--a huge event that usually attracts hundreds of amateur and professional skydivers from all over the country, Europe and Canada. When I asked Doug to describe the sensation of free-falling, he replied, "Why don’t you jump and find out for yourself?" I smiled and without hesitation I said, "Okay."
Because I had not taken any skydiving lesson, I could only jump tandem--the state-of-the art piggyback method where I would be harnessed to the belly of a Tandem Master.
The Boogie was teeming with Tandem Masters looking for gutsy would-be-first-timers. Doug referred Bill to me; supposedly one of the most reputable Tandem Masters around. I immediately felt a special bond with Bill; after all, he would be holding my life in his grasp for a while.
In addition to Bill’s instructions, I watched an introductory film for a quick lesson on the theory of skydiving, personal equipment, aircraft procedures, body positions, parachute opening, canopy steering, landing and emergency procedures.
Doug also hired Wayne, an aerial photographer, to videotape my entire experience, hopefully capturing the intrinsic excitement of my performance without any humiliating incident.
Dressed in a bulky jumpsuit, I climbed into the aircraft behind Bill and thirteen other skydivers. Cramped inside the Beechcraft King Air, I closed my eyes and saw visions of my body dangling from a tree like a rag doll. I began to doubt my sanity. This is not like jumping from my bedroom window. At 13,500 feet, the roar of the plane’s propeller rang in my ears. "It’s time," Bill said. He checked all the safety locks that attached us together and announced they were secure. We were ready to go. I began to feel the excitement of anticipating my first leap.
A door in the side of the plane swung open and a cold wind ripped through the cabin. My gut wrenched and my whole body rocked. The guy closest to the door knelt at the doorway then tumbled out. The big guy in front of us in a Star Trek outfit jammed up the small opening, his hands grabbing the sides. He was playfully screaming, refusing to jump. His friend pushed him with a finger and he was beamed out of the prop blast.
It was our turn. Now or never! With Bill strapped to my back and breathing hard in my ear, we waddled toward the gaping hole. I gripped the sides of the door and I wondered if they could ever pry my fingers off them. My toes hanging over the edge, I stared at the empty space leading to the twilight zone. The wind was rushing up at me, pushing my cheeks back. The primeval fear began to consume me and I thought my brain would short-circuit and explode. "Oh God!" I screamed.
"There’s no turning back now." Bill yelled. "Swing your leg out and jump!"
In a lightning speed mode, I mentally reviewed the fine points of doing a proper and flawless jump: a full-spread eagle form, arms and legs straight and spread widely, head back, with a backward arch at the waist, pushing outward, maintaining throughout, a stable, face-to-earth free-fall body position.
I made a sign of the cross, thrust my body forward and jumped our one-way ticket to earth. We stumbled straight into nothingness, and all the instructions I had reviewed in my head were scattered in the wind.
Almost instantly, an incredible euphoric sensation replaced my anxiety. With my arms spread wide like wings of an eagle, free-falling at a rate of 32 feet per second, I looked down at the panorama of colors below. I did not think of the hard ground that waited straight down for me. Instead, I soared with a sense of tranquility and quiet bliss, enjoying the sensation of experiencing the closest thing humanly possible to flying like a bird. The wind was roaring past my ears at about 120 miles per hour but all I could think of was that the mystery of the sky had been unveiled.
My childhood dream of flying had become a reality!
I was hamming at the camera; smiling, waving and giving Wayne the skydivers’ thumbs-up language. I yelled: "Look, Ma! I’m flying!"
After about forty-five seconds of free-fall, we pulled the ripcord, instantly jerking us upward. I craned my neck to look up, and there it was — our luminescent blue, white and yellow canopy blossoming heavenward, rippling gently in the breeze — like the wings of an angel protecting me. I noticed the total quiet and peace around me. I didn’t know whether to scream or say a prayer. I chose to scream — it was a manifestation of joy for being a part of an adventure that was bringing me so much thrill and satisfaction.
I thought I heard my mother’s voice yelling: You’re still not normal after all these years! If you do that again, I swear. . . !
That was the beginning of my fanatical obsession with skydiving. On my 55th jump, however, I thought I heard my Mom scold me for the last time. Fortunately for me, none of the severe cuts and bruises and torn ligaments left any physical imprint on my body to remind me of that mishap. But throughout the recovery process, my mother’s voice kept playing in my head like a broken record: Do you have a death wish? Didn’t I tell you? Now, are you going to listen to me?
"You think you’re going to join us this time?" A very tall skydiver yells, pulling me out of my reveries and sending me back to earth. I’ve seen him here before. No woman could forget that California sun-kissed sculpted face, and that unruly, blonde hair. He must be one of the regulars.
I smile. "No, thank you. I’ll just watch."
All right," he says with a grin. "You don’t know what you’re missing!"
I remain sitting comfortably on the grass for a few minutes, watching jumpers land on their feet; one being dragged by his canopy instead of the other way around.
I turn my head to the right toward the manifest table. I check my wallet to review my cash. I hope they have jumpsuits available for my size. I get up and walk to sign up.
Handsome sees me at the manifest table. He flashes a toothy grin. Of course, he's got those perfect, pearly teeth.
"So you decided to join us after all," he says.
"Yes, I did."
"We have a tandem master on board. He’s quite good. You’ll like him."
"No, thanks. I jump solo.”
I catch the look of surprise. "Well . . . How about that?" he says. "How long have you been jumping?"
"A few years,"
"Cool!"
"But I haven’t jumped in a long while."
"What made you change your mind now?"
I ponder his question for a moment. Maybe he thinks it's because of him. How can I tell him that Í just want to hear my mother’s voice again, even if only in my head?
"For my mother," I say.
Author's note:
Having tasted human flight, I often find myself walking with my eyes to the sky where I have soared like a bird many times before.
My mother is gone now. When missing her becomes unbearable, I drive to the nearest drop zone, hoping to hear her say in feigned anger: You’re still not normal after all these years! If you do that again, I swear . . . It's the closest thing to feeling next to her again.
(I dedicate this article to Bill (who died after a skydiving accident), and to Doug (who introduced me to skydiving).
It is hard not to want to jump again, but it is harder not to recall my recent skydiving mishap that I thought was going to prematurely terminate my license to live. I remember that very last moment just before my consciousness fluttered into oblivion. It was my mother’s voice screaming to me: You see? I told you you’re going to kill yourself one of these days.
Let me tell you about my mother's voice. It is soft, gentle, and always filled with affection. When she is displeased, it retains these qualities, but the strength in the timbre dominates, and you can almost feel it passing through stone walls.
In my youth, I was always fascinated by anything that soared gracefully in the sky: birds, planes, kites and imaginary angels. To simulate flying, I’d flap my arms and jump from my bedroom window, from atop the fence or from a tree in our backyard. None of these take-off points were high enough to cause bodily injury, but they were high enough to cause an improper landing that would later reveal itself on my knees as ugly bruises. Unfortunately, the sting from these bruises was not as intense as the pain my mother would inflict on my behind with a spanking board. Ah, yes, she didn’t do it often, but I had my share of spanking when I was young. And rightly so.
Why can’t you be more normal like your sisters? Mom would always admonish me. But I was a stubborn young girl. I kept doing things that traumatized my mother.
Many years later, my wish to fly like a bird would come true. And the memory of my first jump would never be obliterated from my mind.
It had been years ago, when Doug--an old boyfriend—invited me to an annual Skydiving Boogie--a huge event that usually attracts hundreds of amateur and professional skydivers from all over the country, Europe and Canada. When I asked Doug to describe the sensation of free-falling, he replied, "Why don’t you jump and find out for yourself?" I smiled and without hesitation I said, "Okay."
Because I had not taken any skydiving lesson, I could only jump tandem--the state-of-the art piggyback method where I would be harnessed to the belly of a Tandem Master.
The Boogie was teeming with Tandem Masters looking for gutsy would-be-first-timers. Doug referred Bill to me; supposedly one of the most reputable Tandem Masters around. I immediately felt a special bond with Bill; after all, he would be holding my life in his grasp for a while.
In addition to Bill’s instructions, I watched an introductory film for a quick lesson on the theory of skydiving, personal equipment, aircraft procedures, body positions, parachute opening, canopy steering, landing and emergency procedures.
Doug also hired Wayne, an aerial photographer, to videotape my entire experience, hopefully capturing the intrinsic excitement of my performance without any humiliating incident.
Dressed in a bulky jumpsuit, I climbed into the aircraft behind Bill and thirteen other skydivers. Cramped inside the Beechcraft King Air, I closed my eyes and saw visions of my body dangling from a tree like a rag doll. I began to doubt my sanity. This is not like jumping from my bedroom window. At 13,500 feet, the roar of the plane’s propeller rang in my ears. "It’s time," Bill said. He checked all the safety locks that attached us together and announced they were secure. We were ready to go. I began to feel the excitement of anticipating my first leap.
A door in the side of the plane swung open and a cold wind ripped through the cabin. My gut wrenched and my whole body rocked. The guy closest to the door knelt at the doorway then tumbled out. The big guy in front of us in a Star Trek outfit jammed up the small opening, his hands grabbing the sides. He was playfully screaming, refusing to jump. His friend pushed him with a finger and he was beamed out of the prop blast.
It was our turn. Now or never! With Bill strapped to my back and breathing hard in my ear, we waddled toward the gaping hole. I gripped the sides of the door and I wondered if they could ever pry my fingers off them. My toes hanging over the edge, I stared at the empty space leading to the twilight zone. The wind was rushing up at me, pushing my cheeks back. The primeval fear began to consume me and I thought my brain would short-circuit and explode. "Oh God!" I screamed.
"There’s no turning back now." Bill yelled. "Swing your leg out and jump!"
In a lightning speed mode, I mentally reviewed the fine points of doing a proper and flawless jump: a full-spread eagle form, arms and legs straight and spread widely, head back, with a backward arch at the waist, pushing outward, maintaining throughout, a stable, face-to-earth free-fall body position.
I made a sign of the cross, thrust my body forward and jumped our one-way ticket to earth. We stumbled straight into nothingness, and all the instructions I had reviewed in my head were scattered in the wind.
Almost instantly, an incredible euphoric sensation replaced my anxiety. With my arms spread wide like wings of an eagle, free-falling at a rate of 32 feet per second, I looked down at the panorama of colors below. I did not think of the hard ground that waited straight down for me. Instead, I soared with a sense of tranquility and quiet bliss, enjoying the sensation of experiencing the closest thing humanly possible to flying like a bird. The wind was roaring past my ears at about 120 miles per hour but all I could think of was that the mystery of the sky had been unveiled.
My childhood dream of flying had become a reality!
I was hamming at the camera; smiling, waving and giving Wayne the skydivers’ thumbs-up language. I yelled: "Look, Ma! I’m flying!"
I thought I heard my mother’s voice yelling: You’re still not normal after all these years! If you do that again, I swear. . . !
That was the beginning of my fanatical obsession with skydiving. On my 55th jump, however, I thought I heard my Mom scold me for the last time. Fortunately for me, none of the severe cuts and bruises and torn ligaments left any physical imprint on my body to remind me of that mishap. But throughout the recovery process, my mother’s voice kept playing in my head like a broken record: Do you have a death wish? Didn’t I tell you? Now, are you going to listen to me?
* * *
"You think you’re going to join us this time?" A very tall skydiver yells, pulling me out of my reveries and sending me back to earth. I’ve seen him here before. No woman could forget that California sun-kissed sculpted face, and that unruly, blonde hair. He must be one of the regulars.
I smile. "No, thank you. I’ll just watch."
All right," he says with a grin. "You don’t know what you’re missing!"
I remain sitting comfortably on the grass for a few minutes, watching jumpers land on their feet; one being dragged by his canopy instead of the other way around.
I turn my head to the right toward the manifest table. I check my wallet to review my cash. I hope they have jumpsuits available for my size. I get up and walk to sign up.
Handsome sees me at the manifest table. He flashes a toothy grin. Of course, he's got those perfect, pearly teeth.
"So you decided to join us after all," he says.
"Yes, I did."
"We have a tandem master on board. He’s quite good. You’ll like him."
"No, thanks. I jump solo.”
I catch the look of surprise. "Well . . . How about that?" he says. "How long have you been jumping?"
"A few years,"
"Cool!"
"But I haven’t jumped in a long while."
"What made you change your mind now?"
I ponder his question for a moment. Maybe he thinks it's because of him. How can I tell him that Í just want to hear my mother’s voice again, even if only in my head?
"For my mother," I say.
~~* * *~~~
Author's note:
Having tasted human flight, I often find myself walking with my eyes to the sky where I have soared like a bird many times before.
My mother is gone now. When missing her becomes unbearable, I drive to the nearest drop zone, hoping to hear her say in feigned anger: You’re still not normal after all these years! If you do that again, I swear . . . It's the closest thing to feeling next to her again.
(I dedicate this article to Bill (who died after a skydiving accident), and to Doug (who introduced me to skydiving).
© Copyright 2006 writeartista (UN: mariapanlilio at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
I think I've read all the different versions of this skydiving article. It amazes me how you can combine two stories in one and make it work (for me, at least). The last time we talked about this, you told me you were going to experiment on combining these contrasting stories; well, I think you pulled it off.
ReplyDeleteI think I've read all the different versions of this skydiving article. It amazes me how you can combine two stories in one and make it work (for me, at least). The last time we talked about this, you told me you were going to experiment on combining these contrasting stories; well, I think you pulled it off.
ReplyDelete