It wasn’t the thought of plummeting toward Earth at 120 mph that had my mind racing. Nor was it the rapid climb to altitude or the sight of the small airstrip shrinking below us as the seconds ticked away. No, my thoughts remained unshakably consumed by a more disturbing notion — that of willingly stepping off the edge into sheer nothingness.

Nonetheless, the vibe in the stripped-down Beechcraft’s noisy hull so far had been eerily sanguine. The butterflies in my stomach began stirring only when the jumpmaster slid open the fuselage door, exposing our safe cocoon to the blare and rush of thin air. The white “go light” on the plane’s rear bulkhead flashed, signaling the OK to exit. 

Cue the heart palpitations.

The line of experienced jumpers to my left methodically inched toward the door and disappeared, one by one into the void. My tandem instructor and I would jump last. In a matter of seconds, torturous anticipation would finally meet its welcome end and fear would be quashed.

I had long put off this moment because, like most normal members of the human family, I found the idea of skydiving terrifying. I never understood the desire to hurl one’s self from an airplane 2 miles above the ground. Humans must be the only species that deliberately takes risks for amusement.

A pilot friend recently illustrated this paradox: “I think it is nuts,” he said of skydiving. “But given the opportunity to do so, I’m certain I would abandon sound and proven machinery for free fall.”

In search of a good story, I called the people at Erda-based Skydive Utah and was invited to take a tandem jump this season. Though the organization is the oldest and most experienced in the state, I was hesitant. I convinced myself that it was not an innate, driving desire, but merely a story idea from my editor — one that I could take or leave. Still, it lurked constantly in the back of my mind.

As summer wore on, the idea crept back to the forefront. People began asking when I planned to jump, and I feared they somehow knew I was stalling. Then there were the sightings — people in Skydive Utah t-shirts in restaurants, on the road, in the beef jerky store. I was finally convinced to plan my jump when I met skydiver Liz Venning in the checkout line at a gas station. She relayed my contact info to Skydive Utah videographer and media guy Douglas ‘Spot’ Spotted Eagle, who called me soon after.

Spot met me at the drop zone the morning of my jump. A retired journalist, technical writer, musician and producer, the 46-year-old jack of all trades lives a life that can only understatedly be termed “extreme variety.” He has been skydiving for just over two years, but has nearly 1,300 jumps under his belt. As somebody who had already accomplished much of what I plan to, I felt an immediate kinship. 

After watching a brief training video and signing my life away, Spot showed me around and philosophized about the rush that stems in part from the serious responsibility of jumping: “How many other situations in life do you have complete control over?” he asked.

The hangar was bustling with air addicts, each exuding a unique self assuredness — no doubt the result of repeatedly facing down the very fear I was anxious to quell. Spot reassured me that everything would run smoothly, and that the jump would fundamentally change me.

He introduced me to tandem instructor Kyle, whose hands my life would literally be in shortly, and Chris, the videographer, who would be filming my jump. Kyle helped me harness up, and after a short wait we climbed with 10 other jumpers into the company’s King Air 90. During the short flight, Kyle and Chris coolly and systematically prepared for the jump. Each step in the process seemed timed down to the second. Aside from some last-minute instruction from Kyle, few words were spoken in the cabin.

At around 13,000 feet, the jumpmaster opened the plexiglass door.

“You ready, man?” Kyle asked, as the other jumpers had exited.

I’m not sure I answered him. The last solo jumper fell away as we approached the platform. Chris climbed out and hung on the exterior of the fuselage to film me. By the time my feet hung halfway over the platform’s edge, any fear or anxiety was gone. I was more than ready, and I craved the release.  

Chris fell away and Kyle and I did a front flip out of the plane before easing into a belly-down position in free fall. There was no sense of falling or the associated stomach churning, as the ground was too distant for my brain to gauge our position. The only sensations were a hard wind and freedom, and I was so taken by both that our canopy deployment at around 5,500 feet caught me by surprise.

With the hard wind gone, the air was quiet enough that Kyle and I could speak to each other as we drifted downward. He handed me the parachute straps for a while to give me a sense of how the canopy is steered, and we got a few nice spins in before approaching the landing area.  

As we touched down, two things that Spot told me earlier came to mind: First, that it would be a few minutes before I’d be able to speak coherently. And second, that whatever the motivation for skydiving, nobody is the same after they do it.

It would take several hours to fully collect my thoughts, and the adrenaline rush kept me awake most of that night. As I eagerly showed off the images from Chris’ helmet cam, I realized that my impetus for jumping might have been more intrinsic than I thought. The high has yet to fully wear off, and the satisfaction of having made the jump is sweeter than I can describe.

Clint Thomsen is a Stansbury Park resident who grew up climbing mountains, wandering desert paths and exploring Utah’s wilds. He may be contacted via his Web site at ww.bonnevillemariner.com.