Jumping for joy

When I was a kid, I could fly in my dreams. They were just dreams, not real life. Still, I could fly and I loved it.

Oddly enough, my flights didn’t involve airplanes. It was just me, flying. Alone and jubilant. Free as a bird. Totally unfettered by anything that might weigh me down or tie me to the normal laws of physics. Gravity meant nothing in those dreams. Until it did.

Even today, long after those dreams have left me, I remember the disappointment I felt as my flights of fancy became shorter. Initially I could face into the wind, run a few steps, then leap into the air. I flew effortlessly past houses like those in my neighborhood. Past my school and friends gathered on the lawn there. But somewhere along the line I lost the ability to fly.

I still had remarkable abilities. I could jump enormous distances. I leapt so high and so far it was very much like flying, but it always become clear that I wasn’t truly flying. I was just jumping high and far. Always coming back to earth. I’d leap again. And again. The heights and distances getting lower and shorter until ultimately, I was no more magical in my dreams than I was in real life.

Disappointment is an important part of life. It tempers our reality to an extent we may or may not appreciate. Personally, I’ve found a way to live with a level of discouragement that keeps my feet on the ground, even as I continue to dream of bigger things.

In real life I’ve been flying since the late 1980s. Almost always in airplanes or seaplanes, although I’ve been fortunate enough to log a handful of hours in helicopters. I can honestly say as much as helicopters fascinate me, I fly them with about as much skill and finesse as the average chimpanzee. Which is to say, I’m pleased to have survived those forays into whirlybirdness.

Flying still fills me with a sense of awe. Even after all these years I have never become blasé about the moment the wheels get light and the wings take the load uphill. I’m acutely aware that I am nothing more than an average human being, well out of my element. On my own I have no business being thousands of feet in the air, cruising along at speeds my ground-bound counterparts can only dream of as they sit in traffic.

I cannot fly. But I can operate a vehicle that can fly. That’s as close as I’ll ever get to actually flying. And I’ll take that deal with a big ol’ smile and a heaping helping of thank you very much.

What I won’t do is step out of an airplane, or a helicopter, a hot air balloon, or a dirigible while in flight. The idea of turning a perfectly enjoyable flight into a potential emergency situation doesn’t appeal to me.

I have never dreamed of skydiving. Not once. In fact, I think I can say with absolute confidence that I will never, under any circumstances, develop an urge to throw myself into the void in the hopes of experiencing some sort of thrill as I plummet to the earth. There is nothing I can think of that would entice me to take that sort of risk with my life.

Of course, I take nothing away from those who love the sport and seek it out on a regular basis. There are skydive operators not far from me to the east and west. I’ve had friends take that literal plunge. There are writers, pilots, and thrill-seekers I admire who have done this very thing. Some plummet earthward at the speed of gravity as frequently as they can. They enthusiastically rave about how life-affirming the experience is. They tell me tales of the camaraderie developed between fellow jumpers. I believe them, too.

I just don’t want to be among them. Not on the way down, anyway.

I attribute this lack of enthusiasm for falling to a couple things. One, I’m afraid of heights. Really afraid. It’s irrational. I know that. But the discomfort with being more than 10 feet or so above the surface without a set of flight controls in my hands is very real indeed. That being the case, I suspect I would be the guy who freezes at the door. Or worse, wets his pants.

The second reason is rooted in a story my old friend and Tuskegee Airman Hiram Mann shared with me many years ago.

After the war the US Army left the Tuskegees in the European theater for a time — mostly because they weren’t sure what to do with a collection of black, battle-hardened officers back in the United States. Jim Crow was still in full swing in those days, a fact that all parties were painfully aware of.

While remaining in post-war Europe, the Tuskegees continued to fly. And as young men with lots of horsepower available and a seemingly never-ending fuel supply, they continued to dogfight to keep their skills sharp.

On one flight Hiram got a little more aggressive with his Mustang than he should have and found himself spinning toward the ground. While the P-51 was a capable fighter with an impressive devotion showered on it by pilots who flew them, intentional spins were not recommended. Hiram found this warning to be well founded, as the Mustang he was flying did not want to recover.

He fought the airplane for several thousand vertical feet, ultimately pulling it back to level flight with disturbingly little room to spare.

I asked him if he fought so hard and long because he believed so strongly in his ability to prevail. “No,” he said. “I’d never bailed out before. I was scared to death.”

When it comes to skydiving, I’m with Hiram.