Two weekends ago, my family and our church pastor (whose always up for anything) went skydiving. We all jumped out at the same time, holding hands and singing the best version of ‘I Believe I Can Fly’ you’ve ever heard.
Oh, I wish.
We did get dressed up in those fashionable baggy onsie suits.
We did feel the wind blowing through our hair at a thousand knots per second.
Pretty much, you crawl inside the circular tube, lay down on a net floor that’s over a three thousand horse powered fan, and when they switch the green botton – yeeehhaa!
It’s the skydiving experience without the 15,000 ft drop.
It’s the feeling of ‘flight’ without the heart attack of wondering if your parachute is going to open.
It’s been six years since I skydived for my 18th and two minutes in this thing reminded me of how much I loved it. I don’t have any photos of us defying gravity (those you had to pay extra for), but I know I was grinning for freakled cheek to freakled cheek.