You might think it’s hard to get bored when you’re dropping vertically 13,000ft above our planet’s surface. But then, you’re not me, are you?
Sorry. Didn’t mean to be facetious.
It’s just that I’m here in midair, not ten seconds out of a Cessna Caravan at 14 grand. Since I’m not a) a whale or b) written by Douglas Adams, I realise – once stable in a mantis pos – that this is actually a bit, y’know, snoozeworthy after the first 30 times or so.
I was last off the plane. I like being last off, bit of an action hero thing: for a moment you can pretend the aircraft is on fire and the beautiful blonde with the dangerous secret on a USB key between her fantastically sculpted breasts is a thousand feet below you without a ‘chute, having been pushed out by the big guy with the maniacal laugh (who somehow finds time to do up his helmet strap on the exact edge of the door before jumping). You’ve got a five-second window to dive at her and save the day, to the strains of the James Bond theme intercut with a balding ‘plegic stroking a white cat.
(I would have said ‘stroking a pussy’, but there’s one too many double-entendres in that sentence already.)
Fuck me this is boring.
Did I bring my iPod? I could really handle a snap of Goldfrapp right now. No.
Bugger me. Remembered to switch on the Vigil (despite this being the first time I’ve used this particular device), checked the reserve pin, even bought a new alti today, but forgot my iPod? Bummer.
(Don’t be fooled by the small pocket on the chest strap; if you tried to listen to that you’d have some unpleasantly sharp surprises.)
12,000ft. Are we there yet?
I’m a few jumps into my qualified skydiving career, and I’m a tad disappointed that solo jumping is getting this old this fast. I can see the dropzone below all ranged out like the glorious arid plains of the majestic Serengeti, and all I can think about is the great hamburger Anne the coffee shop lady cooks up for lunch.
10,000ft. Are we at 4,000? We are not.
OK, let’s try a
OK that was almost
Are we at 4,000 yet?
She’s putting onions on them today. Usually you have to ask specially for onions. Whoo fucking hooooooo.
OK, let’s do a 360.
Are we at – OK, you seeing the pattern here?
I like clouds.
But the clouds are boring today.
What’s so interesting about fluffy white wet things? I ask you, WHAT – is – So – FUCKING – interesting? Dan the Weatherman on Nottinghamshire TV probably likes clouds, but ONLY BECAUSE HE’S NEVER BEEN BORED ENOUGH TO FUCKING FALL THROUGH ONE AT 120 MPH.
I remember a steppes tribesman years ago, asking me if the grazing was good in London that year. Now that was an interesting thing to say.
Still in the clouds. Hooooo
OK, it was interesting for a moment. Falling through clouds – let’s face it – has certain potential on a sunny Saturday. It’s not equivalent to, say, the weekly trip to Tesco. Or even the cinema.
But I’m still glancing at my altimeter like it’s on the wrist of a fucking 1930s civil servant at 4.55pm.
Another 360. Won’t be long now.
AT LAST! AT FUCKING LAST!!!
Reach around and pull the throwaway. And I’m ready to do something interesting again.
I’ve got to start FS coaching. Soon.