Forget about Life with a capital "L." Think about how long a second lasts. Wonder if you were a child long enough. Crave something. Swallow the butterflies that tickle your throat. You're going skydiving.
Gear up. Know that in any other situation you'd feel quite ridiculous wearing head-to-toe, Day-Glo orange nylon. Check your rig. Touch the pressure of your chute packed tightly beneath one curved pin that grins up at you. Grin back. Listen to the click of metal clips locking around your thighs, the whirr of nylon straps pulled and tightened across your chest, and the roar of a single engine Cessna plane filling your ears. Wink at the pilot and climb in. The plane spirals toward a destination known as "Ten Grand." Several thousand feet above the patchwork of Sluggett Farms in Brentwood Bay, nothing looks real. It's all blurred by space and split seconds that you'll soon consume.
The pilot signals. Brace yourself. The door swings open, the plane hiccups, and the cabin fills with screaming wind. The Jump Master signals. You're up. You crouch in the open doorway, grip your fingers around the strut below the wing, and ease yourself outside the plane. Inch toward the wing tip. When there's nowhere left to plant them, let your feet flap in the wind as you hang from your fingertips. You let go, arch your back, and yell... anything.
Freefall. Your body curls away from the earth. The wind is cold on your face. Your cheeks streak with renegade tears. There's a gentle pressure where the wind splits around your belly. Press your palms into gravity. It's an open-ended prayer. You spin circles. Somersault. Check your altimeter. Seven thousand feet have passed. You've swallowed each split of a second and washed it down with a fraction of space. You've embodied gravity, refused insanity, but mostly you've realized it feels good sometimes not to have your feet planted so firmly on the ground.
Pull. The pin pops and your parachute plucks you from your plummet. This is the serenity of silence. Horizon stretches full circle around you. Below, the waters of Saanich Inlet and Finlayson Arm wink with the wrinkles of sunshine. And Senanus, the Island, seems more enchanting than ever.
The landing field beckons from the middle of Sluggett Farms. Avoid Sluggett's cornfield. Avoid the dugout and the cluster of trees with an eagle's nest. Experience the inertia of things growing around you as you get closer and closer to landing. Your feet touch. The parachute crumples. You smile.
So forget about Life with a capital "L." Begin each day by looking out the window towards the sky and checking the force of the wind against your skin. Define yourself against blue skies. Blue is a good colour for you. Measure time by the pace your heart sets after you've jumped from a plane and landed on your feet. Time seems a little quicker now, and your feet, on the ground, are twice as stable as before.


By Jaimie Smith-Windsor