On Jumping From a Plane

A tiny Big Sur story

We spent that mid-April morning among seals and sea spray. The Pacific Ocean stretched as far as the eye could see, glimmering as we soared along the winding roads of Big Sur. I pulled our rental car over each time something caught our attention, be it a meadow of calla lilies, a sprawling redwood forest, rolling hills, or crashing waves. Waterfalls poured from the cliffside like cream from a spout, frothing among the rocks like a sea foam cappuccino.

My sisters and I preoccupied ourselves with nervous chatter as we entered the skydive center. The first plane took off as we strapped into our harnesses; we watched until it was a speck among the clouds, then invisible. My heart pounded as I squinted at the sky, waiting. Ten minutes later, vibrant bursts of color spattered the blue canvas as parachutes opened. The divers landed in the field with remarkable grace, like fairies.

We sat on the floor of the miniature plane as it ascended, faces pressed to its tiny windows. I exchanged smiles and encouraging words with each of my sisters while we distanced ourselves from the world. My ears rang as my guide approached the side door; I would be first to jump. I stood 15,000 feet above Earth, gaping at the plots of land that checkered it like patchwork. Before I could take a breath, I was no longer standing.

It felt less like falling than it did floating. The world swirled below me like fruit in a blender. If my parachute didn’t open, or my harness ripped, I’d splat like a bug and ruin the smoothie. Shockingly, that thought was far from my mind. Instead, I marveled at the ocean, the mountains, the cliffs that we explored just hours before. It was the world that I inhabited, but for the moment, I was an onlooker; an admirer. I reached my arms out, wind in my face, swimming, flying, until my parachute opened.

I steered towards reality. As the world grew closer, I could make out cars crawling like ants and people like fleas. A splash of yellow and a splash of pink erupted above me. I exhaled a sigh of relief.

Three fleas landed safely. They cheered, hugged, and laughed at the absurdity of it, because—after all—they were only fleas. It was a sensation that carried them through the afternoon, an adrenaline that left them feeling giddy. The sensation was fleeting, as most are; it was soon overshadowed by the looming importance of their own existence and the stressors that threatened it. They eventually forgot that they were fleas. But, for the day, they floated above the world, watching it swirl like a smoothie in a blender.