-Edgar Allen Poe, The Imp of the Perverse
I have a strange fear of heights. I discovered this at a young age, when visiting Colorado with my parents. We were crossing the Royal Gorge Bridge near Cañon City, a 1260 foot suspension span that sits 1053 feet above the Arkansas River, when my dad turned around and found me climbing the railing. I remember this vividly, the sudden and nearly uncontrollable urge to fly. The empty space below me was hypnotizing. I wanted to feel the wind against my face, the weightlessness of the fall. Mortality meant nothing to me in that moment...flying almost felt natural.
The laws of gravity spell out a different story, however. Without the aid of a parachute, squirrel suit, or a fantastic pair of condor wings, I most certainly would've gone splat over the rocks below. No more Brian. This is a bizarre form of acrophobia that plagues a fraction of its sufferers. Not necessarily labeled as an acute "phobia," it is still categorized as such. Each time I approach a high precipice, I experience it. Through a series of disciplined relaxation techniques and meditation, I've learned to control it.
Since high school, my only viable solution of releasing this urge was to experience the thrill of skydiving. After my 18th birthday, I started calling signs on the side of the road advertising classes and lessons. I would collect brochures. I became obsessed. Unfortunately, money always got in the way. As soon as I had enough saved up, I would need to dip into it for emergencies. My car needed fixed. College applications sucked me dry. Classroom books and studio supplies dominated my expenses. And then, during my freshman year of college, a few of my design friends and I decided to plan a skydiving excursion near Cincinnati. The week before we were to go, my grandma passed. Without hesitation, I bailed on the trip and headed back to Youngstown instead to attend the funeral and help my family transition her possessions.
Years later, when I was about to turn 30, my girlfriend asked me what I wanted for my birthday.
"Skydiving," I responded.
"...Not a chance," was her curt reply.
I know now that she was not being cold-hearted or despondent, she was just worried about me. Again and again, she would ask me the same question, upon which I always gave the same response. Redundancy did not change her mind. Hardly the thrill-seeker, she was equally afraid of seeing me take a risk that would in any way shape or form put my life in danger. So instead, she bought me jacket.
Two years later, a good friend surprised me on my 32nd birthday with two tickets to go skydiving down by Wooster, Ohio. Ecstatic, we scheduled the jump for mid-August, two weeks after my birthday. The days couldn't go by soon enough.
We arrived at the airstrip on a hot, muggy, Sunday morning and immediately signed our release papers before heading into a small, air-conditioned trailer for training. It was here we would receive our jumping equipment and get a rundown of what was soon to follow. Literally, 45 minutes later, we were boarding the plane and straddling our seats before taking off into the bright, azure sky. As we climbed higher and higher, the humid moisture in the air dissipated and soon we were circling a chilly 13,000 feet above the cornfields of central Ohio. With my instructor assuring me that we were efficiently strapped together in tandem, my turn to jump suddenly arrived. Finding myself at the threshold of the door, the empty void of air expanding below me, I tilted my head back, peered wide-eyed into the blinding sun, and lept.
I can only describe the sensation as one described it to me; "As if being suspended upon a column of air, the sensation of falling being replaced by that of flying - the thrilling, addicting effect of terminal velocity."
I fell 13,000 feet and I celebrated every last inch of it. Overwhelmed with excitement, I laughed and cheered the entire four minute trip down, finally knowing full well what it must be like to fly. This was one of the top experiences of my entire life and I hope to soon repeat it, as I'm certain I will...perhaps this time, with the Cascade Mountains overlooking my descent.
The laws of gravity spell out a different story, however. Without the aid of a parachute, squirrel suit, or a fantastic pair of condor wings, I most certainly would've gone splat over the rocks below. No more Brian. This is a bizarre form of acrophobia that plagues a fraction of its sufferers. Not necessarily labeled as an acute "phobia," it is still categorized as such. Each time I approach a high precipice, I experience it. Through a series of disciplined relaxation techniques and meditation, I've learned to control it.Since high school, my only viable solution of releasing this urge was to experience the thrill of skydiving. After my 18th birthday, I started calling signs on the side of the road advertising classes and lessons. I would collect brochures. I became obsessed. Unfortunately, money always got in the way. As soon as I had enough saved up, I would need to dip into it for emergencies. My car needed fixed. College applications sucked me dry. Classroom books and studio supplies dominated my expenses. And then, during my freshman year of college, a few of my design friends and I decided to plan a skydiving excursion near Cincinnati. The week before we were to go, my grandma passed. Without hesitation, I bailed on the trip and headed back to Youngstown instead to attend the funeral and help my family transition her possessions.
Years later, when I was about to turn 30, my girlfriend asked me what I wanted for my birthday."Skydiving," I responded.
"...Not a chance," was her curt reply.
I know now that she was not being cold-hearted or despondent, she was just worried about me. Again and again, she would ask me the same question, upon which I always gave the same response. Redundancy did not change her mind. Hardly the thrill-seeker, she was equally afraid of seeing me take a risk that would in any way shape or form put my life in danger. So instead, she bought me jacket.
Two years later, a good friend surprised me on my 32nd birthday with two tickets to go skydiving down by Wooster, Ohio. Ecstatic, we scheduled the jump for mid-August, two weeks after my birthday. The days couldn't go by soon enough.
We arrived at the airstrip on a hot, muggy, Sunday morning and immediately signed our release papers before heading into a small, air-conditioned trailer for training. It was here we would receive our jumping equipment and get a rundown of what was soon to follow. Literally, 45 minutes later, we were boarding the plane and straddling our seats before taking off into the bright, azure sky. As we climbed higher and higher, the humid moisture in the air dissipated and soon we were circling a chilly 13,000 feet above the cornfields of central Ohio. With my instructor assuring me that we were efficiently strapped together in tandem, my turn to jump suddenly arrived. Finding myself at the threshold of the door, the empty void of air expanding below me, I tilted my head back, peered wide-eyed into the blinding sun, and lept.
I can only describe the sensation as one described it to me; "As if being suspended upon a column of air, the sensation of falling being replaced by that of flying - the thrilling, addicting effect of terminal velocity."I fell 13,000 feet and I celebrated every last inch of it. Overwhelmed with excitement, I laughed and cheered the entire four minute trip down, finally knowing full well what it must be like to fly. This was one of the top experiences of my entire life and I hope to soon repeat it, as I'm certain I will...perhaps this time, with the Cascade Mountains overlooking my descent.
No comments:
Post a Comment