Tethered to a Parachute, I Could Have Drowned
A near-accident in a beautiful place
On my fiftieth birthday, Scott took me to Cancun to celebrate. We’d been dating a year, and both needed a break from our fatiguing professions.
Cancun is a playground. People are about at all hours, enjoying early coffee on the beach, lunches en plein air, and dining and dancing deep into the starry night. Luxury hotels maintain responsive staff and pond-sized swimming pools. Hole-in-the-wall restaurants serve delicious specialties, including the best lobster anywhere.
The focal point of Cancun, however, is the cerulean water and its associated pursuits. Visitors can select from a long list of activities, ranging from marinating in tanning oil under an all-day sun, to cenote (natural groundwater pool) swims, to shark encounters. Ubiquitous grass-topped kiosks make it easy to book fishing excursions, rent snorkeling, sailing and skin diving equipment, or register for a parasailing adventure. I was excited at the idea of turning fifty in this hub of gastronomy, leisure and beauty.
Scott and I spent the first couple of days under a beach umbrella, observing parasailing and debating whether or not we’d ever try it. The system seemed simple enough. The crew harnessed the parachute to the customer, walkie-talkied readiness to the boat, and assisted with lift-off. The ride itself was brief, a couple of back-and-forths high in the sky, before descending to the waiting beach crew.
Scott couldn’t swim, so he wasn’t interested. With over a decade of lifeguarding and swim teaching experience, I could swim. But I wasn’t wild about heights.
However, it was my fiftieth year, and I wanted to do something memorable. I rallied my courage and signed up for the last run of the day. Soon, I was harnessed in, with two sturdy carabiners holding me to my little “seat” of nylon supports and cords, smiling into the camera as Scott clicked away.
The crew maneuvered the parachute behind me, so it would catch the wind. As I rose, I relaxed into it, thinking how gentle the updraft was, and how secure I felt. I glided at about fifteen feet, over deep crystalline water as I watched white stingrays skimming just below the surface. As I got farther from shore, I gripped the lines, steeling myself for the ascent to come.
Which didn’t happen.
When I heard shouting behind me, I checked over my shoulder. The yells came from the onshore crew, gesturing for the boat pilot’s attention. A few of them had even started running into the water. When I focused on the boat, I saw the driver’s back to the shore. In that moment, I knew he didn’t realize I was attached and dropping toward the sea.
As a lifeguard, swimming safety was familiar to me. But no emergency had ever centered on me. To this day, I don’t know why I didn’t scream or tug at the lines to alert the pilot. I think I just went into automatic rescue mode from my life-saving training.
With the boat captain still unaware, I began to plan. I told myself I could float on my back if I went into the ocean. But I also knew I was tethered to fabric that could become a sea-anchor, pulling me to a watery death.
Quickly, I began to examine how to detach from the harness if I entered the water. I checked the location of the boat, knowing that once free, I’d need to swim away from the parachute and toward the boat. I also understood that people onshore saw what was happening and would get to me as soon as possible. If I was trapped underwater, I’d just have to hold my breath the best I could and wait.
Just as my feet touched the waves and I prepped to release the carabiners, the pilot saw me, gave a mighty yell, and jerked the boat throttle to Full. I rocked back in my tethers and shot straight up, like I was in an express elevator blasting to the hundredth floor. It was a queasy, dizzying ride. I kept my eyes closed and my hands clenched on the lines until I leveled off. Once there, I gulped some uneven breaths and dared to open my eyes.
To a sense of awe.
In stark contrast to my abrupt lift-off, I now floated peacefully above the earth. With nothing securing me but a single cord — surrounded by limitless ocean, unending sky, and sun dancing on scalloped water — it was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. My whole self expanded to encompass a poetic, glorious, timeless, rose-gilded stillness.
The pilot gave me an extra long ride, probably out of sheepishness. I rode the updrafts as long as he let me, drinking in the sublime magnificence.
In due course, I landed gently on two feet in soft sand, with my body and soul still intact. The beach crew patted my back and laughed with relief. Scott wouldn’t stop hugging me.
What I take from my parasailing exploit now is not fear— there was no fear — but rather how tenuous some moments can be, how we come through them, and how there can often be a pay-off of miraculous wonder.
I might’ve had a scramble in the water, a few moments of insecurity, maybe even a rescue. But we all take risks. We all must. Maybe before acting, we just need to pause an extra moment to weigh our options. And then go ahead and take that chance.
Kris Heim is a baby-boomer with a past: teacher, gardener, writer, crafter, traveler. She recently downsized by half and is trying to organize the mess.
