Hope, mud, and sunburn. The three essentials of every truly perfect British weekend, and I experienced them on this one.
Up at Langar with Warwick University’s staggeringly efficient Skydiving Club, and it’s been great. I was running on empty after the Strategy & Practice module, but somehow 7 days of 3hrs sleep a night was do-able. A couple of jumps to build my RAPS static line experience, late in the day after winds on Sat, and a legendary set of twists in my canopy – TWICE. Once due to my over-nonchalance at exit (“Hey, all this training can’t make THAT much of a difference; I think I’ll just gently push off the aircraft this time – oops) and once due to the slipstream itself (“Great exit! The plane really pissed up the bag though.”)
As befits a roomful of people doing rather extreme things all weekend, the party later is suitably magnificent: lasers and a sound system that wouldn’t disgrace a London club, while the room fills with costumes: men in pants, even the Klan and Nazis put in an appearance. (‘Inappropriate’ is the theme.) Even I dance. And it takes a lot for me to dance. I head back to the tent about 4am, and plenty of people are still dancing. (Apparently until 6.15am. The beauty of a remote location is that the dancefloor and bar only close when there are no remaining customers.)
I love skydiving. And I love skydiving culture, too. On the edge.