Going Solo

I only have 30 seconds before I smack the ground at the speed of an Audi on the German autobahn. It’s my first ever skydive and I’m petrified. With a static line exit, the canopy should have deployed automatically on leaving the aircraft. Mine, however, resembles a cannonball rather than the colorful silky plumage of a bird in flight.

Freshly divorced at 34, after ten years in an abusive relationship, the skydive would prove I could survive on my own, a ritual to say goodbye to the powerless victim, that would accept every ‘I’m sorry, I love you, I won’t do it again.’ I’d envisioned this descent as my graduation, a clear promise to myself to never again be someone’s prey. But a death dive? I hadn’t expected that.

Alone in the sky, high above Lancashire’s green pastures, expletives burn my lips and remorse chokes my airways. The view is the same as peeking out a porthole on a plane but there is no seat, no trolley with refreshments, no pilot guiding us to safety. I’m tumbling to my end, wearing borrowed coveralls and a bright red helmet. 

The Fleetwood Skydiving fuselage above me shrinks. Overwhelmed with fear, I chastise myself for abandoning a perfectly safe airplane.

            Below I see gray, clusters of streets, miniature houses and a peaceful, medley of rape fields the size of thumbnails. As the world nears, I regret not paying more attention to the four hours of classroom training. Descending to earth, hefty Dr Marten boots first. I am carrying an unbearable burden. Everywhere I go, my ever-present traumas cling to me. Knowing my days are finite, I want another chance to live freely. I wish I had left when he first knocked me down.

That time, I believed his apology. When he lost himself amidst rage, my courage cowered. When he bellowed and roared, I froze. When his fists punched holes in the walls, I dutifully plastered over them. When he squeezed my throat, instead of leaving him, I covered up the evidence, both physical and emotional. Then I hid it from all, even those most intimate to me, and entombed myself in humiliation. I blame him for the first time he hurt me but I am accountable for the rest.

            I need more time, so I can be different. I am not finished here yet. Speeding to earth, blood floods my brain, blurring my vision. I can’t think straight. I swear like a fishmonger at Grimsby docks. Then I take a measured, purposeful inhale, and notice two selves emerging. One panics, the other calmly watches. 

            Come on Heidi, pull yourself together.

            “I’m gonna die.”

            Halting my panic, I slap myself hard across the cheek. The strike jerks me out from my hysteria. My two selves merge. Recalling the lessons, I look downwards, arch my back, and raise my arms and legs above me. This adjustment slows my free-fall. 

            Trying to breathe is like sticking my head out of the window on the motorway. Flashbacks from my marriage flicker before me. The violence. The familiar terror. A rerun of my darkest moments play in my mind. This is not the first time I’ve confronted the Grim Reaper.

My instincts smother all distractions, silencing the rush of air. In this stillness, I pause. Time is suspended. Thoughts cease. Somewhere in the quiet space, I am able to hear the inner voice of my heart saying, ‘let the past go, move on’. Self-pity and guilt drop away and I inflate with an acute need to survive.

            You can do this.

            I close my mouth, tilt my forehead into the gale, tuck my chin. Inhaling deeply through my nose, my lungs balloon. Each molecule of oxygen gently heals my battered heart. I cannot give up. 

            Looking up, I see the material still tangled in a heavy ball. Underneath, the ropes are twisted like plaited bread. I dangle like a child on a playground swing with its chains wound round each other. I grab the straps and attempt to unknot them. My skinny biceps aren’t strong enough to separate the cords. I thrust to the right... no momentum.

            Find your power.

            If I want to make it, I need to find a way. My pulse quickens. Jaw clenches. My dry tongue glues to my palate. I keep my shoulders square as I grip the ropes with both hands. The rhythmic, steady throb of my carotid artery counts me in. I cross my right thigh over my left, winding my lower body as much as I can. Then I sweep my leg clockwise, swaying out in front, to the side, then back with the strength and gait of a principal ballerina, letting the propulsion lead my entire being. My chest whips round. I pivot 360’ and untwist one notch. 

Ignited with hope, I repeat the exaggerated fouetté turns. Seven full, mid-air rotations unweave the binds above me. On the last spin, they release, the umbrella unfurls. I am jolted up and out of my anguish.

I sigh with relief and slump into my harness, forgetting for a second that I’m still falling. 

            The fresh breeze tastes like salt. I look up to see the long arm of Blackpool North Pier stretching into the deep. Seagulls glide the warm drafts; white foam waves etch dark shadows on the sandy shore. ‘Crap, I’m drifting out to sea!’

            What did they say about changing direction?

            I clutch the right ring and tug. The chute tenses on one side, catches a light gust and veers inshore. I see the landing place in the distance but it’s too far to reach. I should be approaching against the wind to control my touchdown, but a tailwind propels me onward. High-voltage pylons below me hum with electricity. Coming in quick, I swivel to the left and just miss them. A border collie runs beside a large, murky pond, yelping at two ducks and then barking at me. The mallards fly off. I manage to avoid the water and steer towards a farmer’s plot, but my entry is too fast. 

            I yank the plastic toggles on each collarbone, just like we were taught that morning. The back edge of my chute dips down and buffers like a sail. My descent decelerates but it’s too late. My feet hit the turf, peddling like Fred Flintstone on speed, but my torso has more forward motion. I face plant into the soft mud and collapse spread-eagled amongst the heathers and honeysuckles, tasting the wet grass. 

Back on this planet, I lay there, grateful for the miracle of existing. An intense surge of compassion washes through me. I bow to Gaia, kiss the meadow like the pope and relish the sensation of gravity hugging me.