What? Why don’t you go alone?
“Sure, I can go by myself. You can wait for me down here with the camera. But I need and want to have this experience in life. It’s always terrified me. Just yesterday we talked about when everything gets stuck in a rut and how we no longer test our limits. It was a very sad night for me.”
I know. He asks the concierge to set a time.
“Now, this morning, or in the afternoon, when you can see the sunset reflected on the surrounding snow?”
Now, I reply.
“So, will it be one person or two?”
Two, if we do it now. If I don’t have a chance to think about what I’m doing. If I don’t have time to open the box and let the demons out—fear of heights, of the unknown, of death, of life, of extreme feelings. Now or never.
“We have the option of twenty-minute, half-hour, and one-hour flights.”
Are there ten-minute flights?
No.
“Would you like to jump from one thousand three hundred and fifty or one thousand eight hundred meters?”
I’m already starting to back down. I didn’t need all this information. Of course I want the lowest possible jump.
“Darling, that makes no sense. I’m sure nothing will happen, but if it did, the danger is the same. Falling from twenty-one meters, or the equivalent of the seventh floor of a building, would have just the same consequences.”
The concierge laughs. I laugh to hide my feelings. How could I have been so na?ve to think that a measly five hundred meters would make any difference?
The concierge picks up the phone and talks to someone.
“There is only space available for jumps at one thousand three hundred and fifty meters.”
More absurd than my earlier fear is the relief I feel now. Oh, good!
The car will be at the hotel doorstep in ten minutes.
I STAND before the chasm with my husband and five or six other people, waiting for my turn. On the way up I thought about my children and the possibility of losing their parents … Then I realized we wouldn’t be jumping together.
We put on special thermal outfits and helmets. Why the helmet? So my skull will still be intact if I hit a rock and skip three thousand feet to the ground?
The helmet is mandatory.
Perfect. I put on the helmet—just like the ones worn by cyclists on the streets of Geneva. Completely stupid, but I won’t argue.
I look ahead; between us and the chasm is a snow-covered slope. I can stop the flight in the first second by landing there and walking back up. I don’t have to go all the way to the end.
I’ve never been afraid of flying. It’s always been a part of my life. But the thing is, when we’re in a plane, it doesn’t occur to us that it’s exactly the same as going paragliding. The only difference is that the metal cocoon feels like a shield and gives us the feeling that we’re protected. That’s it.
That’s it? In my meager understanding of the laws of aerodynamics, I suppose so.
I need to convince myself. I need a better argument.
This is a better argument; the airplane is made of metal. It’s extremely heavy. And it carries luggage, people, equipment, and tons of explosive fuel. The paraglider, in turn, is light, descends with the wind, and obeys the laws of nature like a leaf falling from a tree. It makes much more sense.
“Do you want to go first?”
Yes, I do. Because if something happens to me, you’ll know and can take care of our children. And you’ll feel guilty for the rest of your life for having this insane idea. I will be remembered as a companion for all seasons, one who always stood by her husband’s side, in sorrow and in joy, adventure and routine.
“We’re ready, madam.”
Are you the instructor? Aren’t you too young for this? I’d rather go with your boss. It’s my first time, after all.
“I’ve been jumping since I reached the age minimum of sixteen. I’ve been jumping for five years, not just here, but many different places around the world. Don’t worry, madam.”
His condescending tone annoys me. Old people and their fears should be respected. Besides, he must tell everybody that.
“Remember the instructions. And when we start to run, don’t stop. Let me take care of the rest.”
Instructions. As if we were now familiar with all of this, when the most they had the patience to explain was that the risk lies exactly in wanting to stop in the middle. And that, when we reach the ground, we should keep walking until we feel our feet firmly fixed.
My dream: feet on the ground. I go to my husband and ask him to go last, then he’ll have time to see what happens to me.
“Want to bring the camera?” asks the instructor.
The camera can be attached to an aluminum rod approximately two feet long. No, I do not. For starters, I’m not doing this to show other people. And even if I can overcome my panic, I’d be more worried about filming than admiring the scenery. I learned that with my dad when I was a teenager: we hiked the Matterhorn and I stopped every minute to take pictures until he fumed: “Do you think all this beauty and grandeur can fit in a little square of film? Record things in your heart. It’s more important than trying to show people what you’re experiencing.”
My flight partner, in all his wisdom of twenty-one years, begins attaching ropes to my body with big aluminum clips. The chair is attached to the glider; I will go in front, he in the back. I can still give up, but that’s no longer me. I am completely unresponsive.
The twenty-one-year-old veteran and the ringleader trade opinions about the wind as we get into position.
He also fastens himself to the chair. I can feel his breath on the back of my head. I look behind me and I don’t like what I see: a row of colored pieces of fabric stretches across the white snowy ground, each with a person tied to it. At the end of the row is my husband, also wearing a bicycle helmet. I guess he had no choice and will jump two or three minutes after me.
“We’re ready. Start running.”
I don’t move.
“Let’s go. Start running.”
I explain that I don’t want to keep twirling around in the sky. Let’s go down gently. Five minutes of flight is good for me.
“You can let me know while we’re flying. But, please, there’s a line. We have to jump now.”
As I no longer have free will, I follow orders. I start running toward the void.
“Faster.”
I go faster, my boots kicking snow in all directions. Actually, it’s not me who is running, but a robot who obeys voice commands. I start to scream—not from fear or excitement, but from instinct. I’ve gone back to being a cave woman, like the Cuban shaman said. We’re afraid of spiders and insects, and we scream in situations like this. We’ve always screamed.
Suddenly my feet lift off the ground, and I hold on to the belts securing me to the chair with all my might. I stop screaming. The instructor keeps running for a few more seconds and then immediately we’re no longer going in a straight line. The wind is controlling our lives.
I don’t open my eyes that first minute—I don’t want a concept of height, the mountains, the danger. I try to imagine that I’m at home in the kitchen, telling the kids a story about something that happened during our trip; maybe about the town, or maybe about the hotel room. I can’t tell them their father drank so much he fell down when we were headed back to the hotel. I can’t say I took a risk and went flying, because they’ll want to do it, too. Or, worse, they might try to fly alone and throw themselves from the top floor of our house.
Then I realize I’m being stupid; why be here with my eyes closed? No one made me jump. “I’ve been here for ten years and have never seen a single accident,” said the concierge.