Why Nerds Should Never Skydive

First of all, they worry about the money. That’s the first thing that popped into my head when my cousin Jared asked me if I wanted to go. YES! Of course I wanted to go skydiving! It would be the adventure of a lifetime, something you could brag about afterward. But…three hundred dollars?

“I don’t think it would be good stewardship,” I told Dad on the phone. “Think of all those poor starving children in Africa.”

Nerds always worry about the poor starving children in Africa. It makes them difficult people to live with.

“You’d better go so you can get it out of your system,” Dad said. “You’ll always want to until you do.”

Dad knows about these things. For years, he had a secret longing to buy a pistol, but could never think of any good reason for a nonresistant Mennonite pastor to own one. Finally, at age forty-something, he bought one. The pistol sits in the gun closet, among the rifles and the shotguns and the BB guns, untouched,  but Dad’s longing for a pistol is gone.

Our group of eight young people traveled from Virginia to a small runway in North Carolina, where the entire skydiving operation consisted of one pilot, one instructor, a two-passenger plane with its back seat removed, and a general handyman who strapped us into our suits. Upon arrival, we were asked to fill out information and sign papers–a lot of papers. Yes, I am over twenty-one. No, I will not hold this company liable for accident or injury. Yes, I understand that I am about to engage in a dangerous activity which could cause my death.

I was scornful of the hype. Nerds are always scornful about something because they Know Stuff. For instance, they know that maybe twenty people in the U.S. die of skydiving in a year’s time, while something like 34,000 die of traffic accidents. They know there is a 1 out of 100,000 percent chance that if you jump out of a plane with a parachute strapped to your back, you will die, but a much greater 1 out of 6,000 percent chance that if you ride in a vehicle, you will die.

Why don’t they have us signing papers at the car lots? Yes, I am over sixteen. No, I will not hold this car dealership liable for accident or injury. Yes, I understand that I am about to engage in a dangerous activity which could cause my death.

When it was my turn to jump, I sat on the floor behind the pilot seat with my arms clasped around my knees, facing the orange-suited instructor with his legs stretched out in front of him. The trees changed below us as the plane rose, first the size of shrubs, then the size of those little frost-covered trees you put beside a miniature train set, and finally nothing but a dark green shade against the browns and lighter greens.

“When we reach ten thousand feet, you’ll sit like this,” the instructor said—shouted, above the roar of the engine— “beside the door, facing the back of the plane.” He demonstrated. “Then, when I’m behind you, and we’re strapped together, I’ll give the word, and you’ll swing your feet over and out of the plane and onto that little step out there. Understand?”

I nodded and stared out the window at clear blue sky and the smudged mass of green below. I understood that my only job, a simple one, would be to get my feet out of that door and onto the little step. The instructor, strapped to me, would do all the difficult work of jumping and of pulling the parachute cord at just the right height in the drop.

I wondered if I would die. Now that I was here, in the sky, thousands of feet above the earth, death seemed more imminent. People will think this was a pretty stupid way to go, jumping out of a plane, I thought, and that possibility worried me more than the actual death.

Nerds are like that. They worry inordinately over what people might think.

At ten thousand feet, I sat beside the door as directed, and the instructor sat behind me and strapped us together. Wind whipped past the now-open door of the plane, and I wondered how I would ever get my feet through that wind onto that tiny little step.

“Now!” the instructor said.

I swung my feet sideways.

I had been correct. I missed the step.

Nerds always miss the step.

We were falling–falling–falling—wind slapping our faces–at 120 mph. I had expected an unbearable thrill in my stomach—the world’s highest roller coaster ride—but this was only wind. The equivalent of traveling down the highway on a motorcycle, without helmet or windshield, at an indiscreet speed. I felt a slight jerk as the instructor pulled the cord, and suddenly we were floating towards earth. The fall, they had told me, would last about 60 seconds.

That’s all? I thought. That’s it? Whatever happened to the adrenaline rush I had expected? I had barely been scared. I knew all the others had had an adrenaline rush. I had been too busy concentrating on getting my feet on that step.

This always happens to nerds. They don’t feel the thrills they are supposed to fill; they are brave at all the wrong moments and awkward at all the right ones.

Six minutes of floating gently to earth and my skydive would be done. There goes my three hundred dollars, I thought. I imagined the money floating gently upward as I drifted gently downward. This has to be the most expensive six minutes I’ve ever lived.

“Isn’t this beautiful?” asked the instructor.

“Yes,” I said. Rolling green hills, patches of field, the dark green of the trees–I thought to myself that I’d seen the same thing many times while coming down in a plane–but I didn’t mention that.

Nerds always have thoughts such as this, which, thankfully, they are nerdish enough not to mention.

The instructor did a spin with me, a dizzying circle in the air. “Let’s do another one,” I said, wanting to get the most out of my money. Afterwards, I wished I hadn’t, because it gave me a headache.

Nerds always get headaches at all the wrong times.

I watched the green rise, the trees grow larger, the tiny square of the hangar become a building, and the tiny stick figures beside it change to people, looking up. We were getting close—“Put your feet up,” the instructor said, and we slid to a landing on the grass.

“How was it?” they all asked.

“How’d you like it?”

“Wasn’t it awesome?”

“It was great,” I said. “Yeah, it was awesome.”

In my mind, I classified it not so much as awesome, but as an Interesting Experience. The best part came afterwards, when people made flattering comments. Especially the forty-year-old men.

“So, I heard you went skydiving,” they’d say. “How’d you like it?”

“A schoolteacher who skydives on the side, huh?”

“Maybe now I can convince my wife to let me go.”

Jared was pumped about skydiving and made immediate plans for another trip. As for me, I’m saving my money for something really exciting. I don’t know—maybe I’ll hitchhike across the country or bungee jump into the sea.