Countdown to Impact

The plane hums steadily, a familiar and comforting vibration that thrums through the metal hull. I sit near the open door, and the world beyond sprawls out—a plain of blues and greens. Below, the earth fans out like some vast, intricate map. I lean out a bit, my heart already quickening up with this feeling of thrill that never really goes away no matter how many jumps I've done. 

It is sweet, electric; a pulse in my veins. There is something rather magical about this view of the world from high up, a bird's-eye view that can connect the ordinary with the extraordinary. Rivers writhe like sinuous serpents, roads slash across a landscape razor-sharp, and fields stretch out in a patchwork quilt of shades of green and gold. 

I breathe deeply, the thin, icy-cold air filling my lungs, tinged with the metallic smell of the plane, and the promising freedom of the open sky. My fingers itch with the urge to remake this scene below me, to frame the serene beauty and the world's boundless expanses through the lens of my camera. 

I double-check my gear—a motion that is automatic but necessary. My mind is several steps ahead, already visualizing the perfect shots I'll capture as I plummet through the sky. 

It's time now, the jump master signals. I move toward the door with gusts of wind beckoning me to the world below. The sky opens now, and I let go, surrendering to the pull of gravity. 

As I leap, the rumbling of the plane's engine fades, replaced by the roaring winds and the sound of my heart thrumming in my chest. Now, the earth below starts to tilt and spin as my fingers tremble in advance for that perfect shot. 

I've always loved this view of the world. I grab my camera, the extension of my eye; the window to my soul. The kaleidoscope of colors, the hodgepodge of the earth below, and the rolling clouds—so near, one could almost reach out and touch them. With each shot, I line it up precisely and give all the details I loved the blend of art and adrenaline, just like a maestro conducting a symphony in freefall. There's nothing like taking pictures while flying.

At 5,000 feet, I reach for the ripcord, my gloved fingers finding it with the ease of routine. I give it a sharp tug and wait for the mechanical promise of safety to be fulfilled. But nothing happens. I frown, and yank it again, harder this time; still nothing. An icy tendril of dread begins to coil in my chest. 

4,500 feet. I grit my teeth and reach for the reserve chute, my mind a well-practiced mantra of calm. I'd be fine. I've never had to use the reserve chute, but I'd be fine. But as I yank on the handle, I feel the same terrifying void of response. No reassuring jolt, no billowing canopy above to halt my rapid plunge toward earth. Panic, a cold and foreign intruder, claws its way up my spine. 

"It’s not fair," I grumble; the wind takes the words. "The chances of losing both chutes are almost nil." Yet here I am, freefalling towards an inevitable, unthinkable demise. Never again, will I see the twinkle in my daughter's eyes as I tickle her relentlessly. I will not taste the sweet strawberries of Emma's favorite lip gloss on her lips, nor feel the warmth of her breath as she whispers sweet nothings to me in the dark. My ears won't hear my son's excited chatter as he shows me his latest Lego configuration. My nose will never again be graced with the aroma of my wife's homemade cookies.

I scream; the sound is stolen by the roaring gusts of wind around me. The cold fingers of fear wrap around my throat, strangling me until I could hardly breathe. But I steel my mind. My last thoughts should be of my family.

4,000 feet. My hands shake now, fumbling for the photos I always carried. Little squares of frozen time, each one a heartbeat of joy and love. I grasp them, the world blurring around me as the descent hums becoming a simple background to the vividness of my memories.

That summer's day in which the leaves beamed with an overspill of sunlight that seemed liquid gold, I remembered that my daughter, Lily, was no older than five. Her laughter echoed in peals as she ran after butterflies fluttering in the sunlit garden overgrown with flowers. I recalled how her auburn locks were haloed by curls, dancing in the light breeze. I captured her joy, immortalized in just one frame. 

3,500 feet. The ground reared up to meet me, an unforgiving canvas of brown and green. My breathing came out in shredded gasps as my mind became a frantic shutter clicking through the slides of my life. 

Winter afternoon, the air crisp and biting. Emma was wrapped in a scarf of deepest blue, with color rushing to her cheeks like the cold. We had spent all morning building a snowman, gloves touching while I molded the snow, our laughter mingling with the crystalline silence. I caught her smile, that secret smile that was just for me—a fleeting second of pure, unadulterated love. 

3,000 feet. I felt the pull of the earth, this undeniable force of reality encroaching on my reverie. Now, the wind was a howling beast, the sky a vast, uncaring expanse. 

It was a lazy afternoon. The scent of fresh-baked cookies wafted through the house. My son Jake sprawled on the floor, a puzzle spread out before him. I had knelt beside him and the warmth of the moment wrapped around us like a soft blanket. I snapped a picture of Jake's concentration, brow furrowed for the serious task of play. 

2,500 feet. The details of the ground below sharpen, each second a cruel reminder of my impending fate. But my fingers only tighten around the photos, the lifelines keeping me from madness. 

The night was starry; the sky seemed like an ocean of diamonds. We all laid down on the grass, with the cool earth beneath us and the universe above us. Lily had pointed out the constellations—astronomy was her new hobby at the time. Emma's hand found mine, and I had entwined our fingers. I had clicked a picture of that moment—the silhouette of us against the backdrop of eternity. 

2,000 feet. A countdown of my life—every second a beat of a relentless drum. My mind was a whirlpool of images, each one an echo of what I was about to lose. 

A birthday party: the room ringing with color and laughter. Jake's face was aglow as he blew out the eight candles; Lily was clapping her hands in delight. Emma had her arm slung over my waist, her head buried into my shoulder. There, in one scene, I had caught it all: love and joy. 

1,500 feet. Ground was no longer an abstract term. It was a rapidly approaching fact. My heart raced in my chest, a crazed, desperate rhythm. 

A family vacation, the beach stretching out in endless waves. The smell of salt and sunscreen, the cries of seagulls wheeling overhead. Lily and Jake were building sandcastles, their laughter mingling with the surf. I had snapped a picture of their creation, a fragile fortress against the tide.

1,000 feet. The cold fingers of my fear slacken. I'm going to die, but I won't alone. My family was here with me in spirit at least. My gaze flicked to the camera as I turn it back on. It was my unspeaking companion, the silent witness to my life. 

It had been a low-key evening with the fire crackling in the fireplace. We'd all sat there together, with the warmth of the flames like a close cocoon of comfort. I'd taken the picture of Emma's face illuminated only by firelight, her eyes reflecting the contentment that no words would ever be able to capture. 

500 feet. It all came down to this moment, this final act. My fingers wrap around the camera; my thumb finds the shutter release. 

A final memory, that most precious of all, was the day we had taken Lily home from the hospital, Emma holding her in her arms with such tenderness that it almost took my breath away. I had captured that moment in a picture, the first of many, all testaments to the love that would now fill our lives. 

100 feet. My world contracted to the lens as the viewfinder became a window into eternity. I framed the shot, the ground rushing up.

The shutter clicked. 

Darkness.