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| JUMP, DIVE AND WAIL: The author and her instructor in free fall (above) and back on terra firma (below right). |
| Jon Chapman/Skydive San Francisco |
THE SKY APPEARS particularly blue on this, the last day of my life. Or at least potentially the last day. I’m making my way through the hills of California’s wine country toward Cloverdale Airport, where I’ve signed up to hurl myself out of a perfectly good airplane.
On arrival, I see a skydiver floating toward the ground, rainbow parachute stretched taut above her. She screams to her friends on the ground, “Yo, this is dope!” then squeals as her tandem-jumping instructor lands them both.
I’m thinking it looks pretty simple when, in a wave of dust, a cardinal-red Mercury Sable station wagon with a Stanford ’99 license-plate frame barrels past the parking-lot gate. Behind the wheel is my host for the day, Carissa Zenorini, ’99, MA ’00. In April 2002, Carissa and her friend and housemate, Taissa Kuncio, ’00, purchased Absolute Adventures, a combination social club/travel outfitter whose trips range from salsa dance nights to spelunking to weekend ski excursions. The two women have revitalized the company, increasing its membership from 35 to 200 while also catering to the let’s-try-this-once-and-see-how-it-goes types like me.
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| Barbara Ries |
More skydivers wander over. First Zack and Jerry, both members, athletic men in their late 30s. Suddenly this feels like a real club—they know Carissa and each other; they tell stories about the houseboat trip last weekend. As more people pull up, Carissa introduces each one as if he or she is an old friend. Between introductions, she prepares our barbecue lunch (included in the price of the excursion, $120 to $165.) Out of the Sable come a full-size Weber kettle, plates, cups, cooler with drinks, hamburgers, fixings and, last but not least, fresh brownies.
“We try to make it homey,” Carissa says. The pair also refuses help from any of the attendees.
“This is their trip; it’s our job,” Tai explains to me later in an interview. “People wonder what they’re paying for going on a camping trip [with Absolute Adventures] when they could just do it on their own. It’s having everything planned for you. You arrive that night to dinner cooking and the tiki torches lit. You wake up in the morning and you have French toast with whipped cream and strawberries at your tent.” Of course, there are fringe benefits to the work. Both women get to do everything their customers do—hike the trail, eat the sushi, swim with the sharks.
Carissa is starting up the grill. I find it mildly disturbing that we are preparing to consume meat only to likely lose it in a matter of minutes. Carissa must sense this, because she encourages us not to eat until we’ve jumped. The Skydive San Francisco instructors (Absolute Adventures uses outfitters for activities the owners are not certified to lead) are busying around, gathering parachutes and setting up our training video. The eight first-time skydivers in my group are getting to know each other. About half are members, who pay either $20 or $60 each month to receive trip discounts. They tell us newbies—called “guests” by the company—about upcoming hiking, rock-climbing and white-water rafting trips. I’m almost tempted, but remember the dirt phobia that earned me the title of “cleanest camper” among my freshman dormmates.
I glance around for wedding rings and see none. One of my first suspicions upon hearing of Absolute Adventures—which appeals primarily to the 25-to-45 set—was that it would turn out to be a craftily disguised singles club. Tai and Carissa admit this is a common expectation and are accustomed to explaining themselves.
“We are not a singles club, but most of the members are single,” says Tai. “People start dating; it’s just natural if you meet someone at something you both enjoy.” But, she emphasizes, Absolute Adventures never fixes people up.
We are herded into a musty training room to watch the video that will supposedly prepare us for our death-defying experience. I feel bonded to these folks. We’ve chatted; I know everyone’s name; I’ve cracked semi-witty jokes. And of course there’s that whole insanity-loves-company thing, made obvious as we sit riveted by the tiny television people falling through the sky. But if anyone asked me the profession of the guy next to me, I wouldn’t have an answer. I decide to ask everyone, but stop after the first attempt. Zack politely tells me where he works and gives a five-word description of what he does, but I can tell I’ve stumbled upon some adventure-crowd faux pas. In fact, Tai says she and Carissa often don’t know what their members do for a living.
“They don’t want to talk about it,” she says. Members work hard all week, she explains, and this is their chance to forget about all that and have a good time. Or at least jump out of a plane in the name of fun.
One of the skydiving instructors pokes his head into the dim training room: “Who’s Summer?” The group cheers me on as I leave to suit up. Once I’m decked out in my bright yellow marshmallow outfit, instructor Ryan helps me into my harness and we head to the plane. Carissa follows us out, bubbly and excited. I say my farewells to Earth and climb aboard.
The engine is loud through the thin metal, and the four-passenger Cessna 182 is cramped. Our pilot jokes about doing a few barrel rolls to lighten the mood. And Ryan has a surprise for me. Since we have another, more experienced solo diver in the plane with us, we’re going to go up higher than a novice jumper typically would. Instead of 8,000 feet, we’ll jump from 10,000.
Fabulous.
At 6,000 feet the plane becomes noticeably colder, and I know we’re getting close. Minutes later, Ryan is strapping me to him. With each link, I feel my back jerked tighter against his stomach. This must be what the shoe feels like when it’s pulled onto your foot. Ryan is in total control; I’m jumping whether I like it or not, so I tell myself I’m going to enjoy the experience.
Of course, when the door opens, my good intentions jump out ahead of me. There is nothing to my right but the cold, hurricane-force wind, and something in my brainstem kicks in—“this is not normal!” Yet, for some reason, I keep following directions. Ryan has to yell for me to hear him now, and gives me the signal to go. I put my right foot out on the ledge of the plane, then wait. He counts, one, two, three, and throws us into the air. A cry worthy of a dog whistle escapes my lungs, and then, strangely, the feeling of falling has stopped. Instead, I feel like we’re flying; I completely forget that if this keeps up I’ll be flatter than California’s central valley, and wave my arms through the air. Then, just as suddenly, it’s quiet. The parachute has opened. For the next five minutes I float toward the ground, taking in the scenery as Ryan swirls us right, then left.
The landing zone gets larger below us, and Carissa comes into focus, clicking away on her camera. We land, not quite like ballerinas but managing to stay on our feet. The rest of the group looks to me wide-eyed for my reaction to the jump, and my smile is enough to break the tension. I relay the experience, using the word “awesome” more times than I have since junior high. As the others ask me questions and show me pictures they managed to capture on their digital cameras, I realize I truly have become a member of the group. No more “guest” label for me. I’d even consider more Absolute Adventures excursions—perhaps a caving expedition or a behind-the-scenes tour of Alcatraz. But if anyone asks me to go camping, I’m saying no.