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The adrenalin rush from that first jump was the most amazing high I had ever experienced. “I just jumped out of a perfectly good airplane. Wow.” Totally narcissistic, instant gratification and it lasted the entire day into the night. I made a few deliveries on the way home and repacked the truck for Sunday deliveries. The best thing I had going for me was the ability to service the customers. They would call, the answering service would take the orders and I would be on it that day or within a day or so depending on when I was on the road picking up fresh spring water or in the area making deliveries. My customers were important even in the midst of the video production I never let it get out of control.
With work completed I had to venture across the Assawoman to the Beach; it was Saturday night. I went to where I knew live music I usually enjoyed would be present and the Angler Inn on the Bayside in downtown Ocean City didn’t fail me. I had a couple of tall Gin Rickeys, a refreshingly tart summer drink and stood off to the side and grooved with the music, not bothering anyone, simply enjoying the buzz. The crowd was much younger but I seriously enjoyed my own little world and hey, I had jumped out of an airplane that very day. And it felt good.
After two drinks it was time to leave and I edged through the crowd and across the dance floor, the only area where there were spaces between people. A fight broke out directly in my path. “I jumped out of an airplane,” was my only thought when I stepped between the two much younger men and pushed them apart. I pointed the one I faced toward a door. “You go that way, “I said all the while thinking, “I jumped out of an airplane.” The other jumped on my back—I crunched my shoulders and shook him off, turning to face him, pointing to an opposite exit. “You go that way,” I said, thinking, “I jumped out of an airplane.” They both left in their appointed directions. The fight was over and I went home. I did seven more static line jumps that summer at 40 bucks a pop, much more than I could afford but worth every penny.

Unable to develop a finished print because of the sound distortion and conflicting schedules in the summer created a conflict of stagnation in motion. I knew if we didn’t complete in a timely manner the project would die even though we had gotten as far as we did. As busy as the water business was, still there was always a money problem and the project was costing quite a bit out of pocket. I couldn’t start a new creative project with something unfinished on the table and the responsibility of producer that no one else wanted. When compiling the credits every person mentioned was someone I had dealt with.
I had dinner with a woman who told me she was raped by a local disc jockey and I didn’t understand what she was saying. I was overloaded with too much information. While we were having dinner a friend approached her and said that he had been skydiving. We both said that was something we would like to do some day. “Where?” I asked. “Georgetown, Delaware,” he answered. “Let’s go Saturday,” I told my date. “I don’t think so,” she said. “I’ve got to do this,” I answered. Not completing the tai-chi video was diminishing my spirit. We couldn’t schedule the time when the sound man, Professor and me could come together until the end of summer. Jumping out of an airplane, though I was afraid of heights, seemed logical and necessary—conquering a fear—doing something I could control that took courage other than punching out a DJ for whatever reason seemed idiotic. Other women had told me about being taken against their will and I never understood what they were saying or what I should or could do about it—none had taken legal action against their rapist. The drudgery of driving and handling large jugs of water was driving me into the ground.
I contacted the small airport in Georgetown and learned the cost and schedule and made an appointment for the following Saturday. I caught up on my deliveries throughout the week–bright and early drove north from Berlin to Georgetown. I paid $150 and began my training that consisted of jumping off a two foot high stool and extending my pelvis forward while holding my arms in an upward submissive position. After a couple of hours “training” I was shown where they packed the parachutes and outfitted with a helmet and earpiece and a parachute.
I climbed aboard a Piper Cub with a “Jump Master” and three other novices. I got to sit up front with the pilot since I was the largest of the group. The plane climbed to 3500 feet. The “Jump Master” opened the door and when we were above the patchwork of agriculture and forest and waterways, “Are you ready to Jump?” he screamed like a drill sergeant. “Yes, sir!” I answered. “Move to the hatch!” I pulled myself out of my cramped seat and moved to the open hatch of the plane. The blast of air brought reality and anxiety to a crescendo. “Climb out on the wing!” Without thinking I automatically grabbed the strut and climbed out onto the wing as I had been told would happen in training. “Let go!”
Whoosh. I forgot everything and tumbled for what seemed an eternity but I didn’t care. The static line tensed and the chute was dragged from the bag and after another eternity I was flying. I reached up for the handles and instructions came through the earpiece to pull on the right and tug on the left and the blood filled my entire body with life’s force and exhilaration as the ground came closer and the instructions were followed with faith that I was being told the right thing to do to not die. “Pull both handles!” Whump.