Skydiver from Paradise
A story based on actual events with a magical twist
The skydiving Instructor shouted: “Are you ready?”
“Yes, “I answered.
“GO!”
Sitting on the edge of the plane, I pushed myself forward and dived into the icy air. I was flying in free fall, with my back hollowed and arms stretched in the air-gliding pose. Fluffy clouds hovered far under me. The earth’s surface, 4000 feet below, was covered with the colorful patchwork of agricultural fields surrounding the modest airport area of Texel.
“1001, 1002, 1003.” I counted down loudly for my parachute to open. “1004?! Why does it take so long?” at that moment, the canopy unfolded. My wrist altimeter indicated a height of 3500 feet.
“Have you submitted the physician’s declaration stating you are physically and mentally fit? Please sign here,” asked the young Instructor while checking my dossier at Texel Paracentrum. She printed the liability waiver, and I signed it without reading it.
“OK, that’s it. Your parachute jumping class starts tomorrow at 7 am sharp.”
We met other participants in our class on a field near the hangar for extensive ground training the following day. Our group consisted of six German soldiers, me, and my adrenaline-seeking friend. At the end of the afternoon, we knew all the procedures by heart, enthusiastically repeating them aloud, eager to jump for the first time.
“Check if the parachute is square, symmetric, and flight straight,” I recalled the first instructions after the exit, looking up at the orange parachute hovering above me. The lines were severely twisted. “Shit! It looks like a macrame. Stay focused, and you will be just fine.” I started to spin around in the air while kicking vigorously with my legs to untangle the lines. “Nothing to worry about.” This routine technique, air-biking, was an effective corrective procedure we learned and practiced. Yet, when I gazed up again, the lines remained tangled, preventing the parachute from flying correctly. The altimeter read 3000 feet. “SHIT, It’s not good!.” I biked with the energy of a Tour de France cyclist but without making any progress.
“2500 feet,” I read on the altimeter on my wrist, and the fear entered my mind. “THINK!” As the emergency became a reality, my thoughts started to become more and more erratic.
Eight of us sat on the grass before the hangar early in the morning, waiting for clearance for the plane to take off. Despite the sunny and warm weather, it took several hours for the wind to calm down to 6m/s, the maximum windspeed allowed for the rookie parachute jumpers. At noon, we boarded the empty cargo cabin of a small Cessna 182.
“Sit in two rows of four, facing each other back. We jump in three sets: three, three, and two jumpers. Exit after GO signal.”The Instructor shouted. The airplane ascended into the sky, with its two engines roaring loudly. At 4000 feet, the Instructor slid the door open and called the first student to jump. I was the second to exit.
“If you cannot untangle the parachute, perform the reserve procedure. Remember that you have until 2000 feet,” the words from yesterday’s briefing replayed in my mind. “I CAN’T do it,” the desperate realization burned in my mind. The altimeter pointed at 2100 feet.
Then something unexpected happened.
I saw a skydiver in a bright blue jumpsuit gliding towards me, his parachute still in the harness. He looked handsome with a perfect smile, like for a Colgate advertisement. A few seconds later, our bodies collided in the air. He held me firmly with his left arm as I exclaimed in surprise:
“Who are you?” He silenced me with a passionate kiss, slipping something small into my pocket and pulling the cord, releasing the defective parachute into the air. We tumbled together at the speed of free fall, holding on to each other before separating mid-air. My emergency parachute deployed immediately, abruptly slowing me down. I was hovering at 1400 feet, and the skydiver disappeared from my view.
I descended slowly, peacefully drifting away from the airport and floating towards extensive grasslands, looking for a spot for a landing. “I am on 400 feet and need to land against the wind’s direction.” I thought out loud and turned accordingly. Upon reaching ten feet above the ground, I flared, reducing my speed to near zero, and landed softly on the bright green grass. I looked up, but the skydiver was nowhere to be seen. “What did he slip into my pocket?” I wondered and pulled out a tiny golden compass. The Paracentrum location was conveniently engraved on its back. Looking at the coordinates to return to the airport, I wondered who my incredible savior was. I grabbed the parachute fabric and headed to the skydiving center, following the compass for directions.
“How far is this damn airport?” I walked for several hours without encountering anyone or passing a house. The sun was setting when, finally, the control tower appeared in the distance.
I arrived at the airport in the twilight. Strangely, the front gate was open, yet no planes or people were anywhere. I headed to the hangar, noticing faint light behind the partially open sliding door. When I entered the building, a skydiver in a blue jumpsuit was folding a parachute. I recognized him immediately.”Thank you so much for saving me! Your skills are incredible! What’s your name?” I exclaimed in joy. The skydiver looked up and smiled broadly: “I’m Dante, welcome to Paradise.”
“Wake up! Bea.” Somebody was calling my name. With difficulty, I opened my eyes and saw the blue sky above me. My Instructor and another skydiver kneeled beside me, looking anxious. “Are you alright?”
“What happened?” I uttered in confusion.
“We thought you didn’t make it; you had a super bad landing, but your emergency maneuver was awesome,” he said in a low voice. ”Please remain still; a trauma helicopter is coming.”
I slowly reached into my left pocket and felt the round contours of the small compass.
“Do you believe in angels?” I asked.
