Freefall.

Nothing can prepare you for the shocking moment of crystalline clarity at the tipping point, leaning out into the void and beginning a free fall at 10,000 ft.

Despite my early training as a Brownie Guide, and a life-long propensity to embark on spontaneous and not always advisable ventures, ‘preparedness’ is a skill that continues to evade me. I am perpetually crashing through life with an optimistic over-reliance on the belief that ‘it be reet’, as they say Up North.

And so it was when a marketing email from Macmillan Cancer Care dropped into my inbox offering an early-bird discount to anyone wishing to register for a fundraising Sky Dive. Never one to pass up a bargain, I swiftly, and without a second thought, signed on the dotted line, pledging confidently to raise the minimum sponsorship. Moments later, in an uncharacteristic bout of calm reflection, it dawned on me just exactly what I had done, and a bolt of ice-cold dread struck through my body. Thanks to a very short little span of attention however, it was only a fleeting sensation, and I soon forgot all about it. ‘Oh, it’s ages away. I’ll worry about that later. Tra-la-laaa..!’ *Continues crashing blindly*

Nine weeks later, as I signed medical disclaimers, and absent-mindedly viewed the online safety video, the same ice cold dread began to creep back into my veins. I indulgently permitted myself an occasional ponder on the possibility that this latest folly might be my last. My children asked if I’d made a will…

In conversation on the topic, my boss casually dropped in the word ‘entanglement’ more than once. He’d been researching the risks of jumping out of an aeroplane, and also helpfully asked how much it would cost to have me thrown out without a parachute, so perhaps he was the wrong person to be talking to for reassurance.

I was also a few notes short of the minimum pledge, and had to spin some last-minute social media posts to drum up support. It seems that the prospect of seeing photographs of a petrified crazy lady, hurtling through the skies was enough to shake down a few pockets. That, and the assured knowledge, (from personal experience for many), that Macmillan Cancer Support nurses do an amazing job of assisting people in their hour of greatest need. Just in time, I rounded up more than enough sponsorship from a circle of wonderfully generous friends and family, all strangely confident in me, so I couldn’t let them down, and, as Peter Pan said; ‘To die would be an awfully big adventure’. So on the eve of the jump, I made my peace with the world, and set about the most important part of my mental and physical preparation for the day: What to wear. The answer was obvious: Sequinned trousers, of course!

I rose early the following morning to eat a sensible sky-diver breakfast (hoping not to see it again) assembled what I thought to be a suitable parachutist’s picnic (modest, but heavy on the tea and biscuits), and girded my loins. Thanks goes to both my sister and my best friend for their helpful suggestions, both concerning the fact that I should consider packing Tena Lady. For the record, I am a long way off the leaky years, thank you very much! But figuratively speaking, I pulled on my Big Girl Pants and was finally ready to take on the biggest challenge I had ever faced for Macmillan. This time it was a mental challenge, (‘bloody mental’, to quote one of my sponsors) and one that was to test my courage to its limit.

While packing my picnic I thought about who was packing my parachute, what colour it would be, and how likely it was to ‘entangle’.

My check-in time (I liked that term, it put me in a holiday mood) was 10am on Sunday 14th May, at SkydiveGB, a parachuting club just outside Bridlington. Having mistakenly believed that the roads would be clear, we had to do some serious last minute Colin McRae rallying down leafy spring-green lanes, a blur of blue-belled hedgerows racing past, to get there before my final call for departure was announced. In the event this provided a much needed (but unnecessary) distraction from mounting heart-palpitating anxiety, and gave us both a belly warming kick of adrenalin which carried me through the doors to the awaiting young hostess at the check-in desk.

Low cloud and fog meant that the 8am flight was still delayed which was good for me, because three other green ‘Macmillan tees’ were in the queue to go up, also wearing facial expressions like mine, to match the fret from the sea. Brave smiles that emphatically said, ‘Yass, bring it ON! Woo-hoo, high five!’ with a feint quiver about the corners of the mouth that actually screamed ‘Feck! What WAS I thinking? OMFG We’re all gonna DIE!!’.

I was also lucky enough to have a brilliant little support team with me when my partner (and now East Yorkshire rally driving champion), was joined by his parents, (mum halfway through chemo) and as the cloud lifted we sat together in the sunshine of the al fresco departure lounge chattering about this and that. It provided a comforting distraction as the first three teams were called up in turn for their flights, and the countdown to mine began. I watched in disbelief as each of them boarded the little Air Van, and I waved my arms encouragingly as they rattled past us along the grassy runway to disappear into the blue nothingness above. Eventually I counted them all back in, tiny specks growing larger and eventually swooping gracefully down to us, minus aircraft and looking at once ruffled and ecstatic.

The question of my sequinned trousers was momentarily debated among the safety staff. It was concluded that, despite the very real possibility that there may not be a single sequin left after my 120 mph hurtle from space, most of them being embedded in the visor of my tandem instructor, I should be permitted to wear them anyway! They were a jolly crew with a calm casual air about them that belied, I hoped, a professional and serious intent. I even had my sequinned thigh stroked flirtatiously by a lady instructor, and we all chortled hilariously as the instructor that was assigned to me made fast and loose with the gallows humour. Introducing himself as Simon, he was, encouragingly, dressed, as was I, all in pink, including his helmet (stop it!) and he decided that we should, of course, use the hot pink parachute too, which made me do a little terra firma jump for joy, and helped to settle my nerves as he checked and double checked my harness, although my whole body had begun to tremble perceptibly.

The little plane’s engine coughed and spluttered to life and it trundled in a loop towards us as we stood on the edge of the runway. It’s wing swooped over our heads as, holding onto my harness, Simon walked me to the door like Anne Boleyn’s executioner. We climbed into the tiny vibrating fuselage followed by the two other tandem jumpers, their instructors and the thigh-stroker (was she a safety officer?), and we wedged ourselves together like a surreal airborne conga. The take off was smoother than expected, with more hilarious black jokes about the pilot being really rubbish at his job, and suddenly we were climbing, soaring up into a superb blue arc of sky. The landscape dropped away like my mother’s Liberty patchwork quilt settling on the bed. Squares of vivid yellow Oilseed, green striped sprouts of barley, dotted copses of miniature trees like a model railway, and the intense deep ocean blue of the sea, crinkle cut at the edges with all the familiar caved coves of chalk that I have explored by foot and fin. Suddenly the secret corners were rudely revealed, exposed in a spectacular flat lay of intricacies I had never appreciated until now. RSPB Bempton was easy to spot now, way, way below us, a glittering halo haze of tiny specks, half a million brilliant white backs of foraging seabirds feeding their young. Flying free. As I was soon to be.

Except, I wasn’t thinking about that. As the altimeters on everyone’s wrists wavered around 10,000 ft I was suddenly conscious that I had forgotten EVERYTHING outlined in the safety briefing. I squeezed the bent up knees of Simon as he instructed me to tuck my toes under the gear of the instructor in front of me. I was folded neatly like a Peruvian llama sacrifice, ready to meet my fate. The door was suddenly flung open by the thigh-stroker and she beamed a wonderful, joyous smile at me before grasping the grab rail on the outside of the plane and swinging herself out to stand momentarily on the precipice before disappearing. While the others plopped out of the door after her, one after the other, I took in big gulps of breath and for a second I think I completely zoned out, only coming to as Simon hoisted me up into his lap and skooched us towards the door, the air was a deafening barrage. He held out his arm like a falconer, filming our every move on a Go Pro camera, and after executing a little wave to the folks back home, I remembered just in time to tip my head back under his chin as we gently tipped forward. My legs curled briefly under the belly of the nice, safe, rational little aeroplane which suddenly disappeared from sight as we tumbled into oblivion. There was no going back, no ‘can we stop now? I don’t like it’.

That tipping point took me, for a fraction of a second, to a very dark place. A sharply focussed awful understanding of a deliberate, desperate commitment to death, the darkly fascinating issue I have had cause to muse on for many years, but only now can begin to imagine.

Next came the bit where the earth rapidly rotated around us for a couple of agonising revolutions. I hadn’t anticipated this, and wondered if Simon would remember to do ‘the sky diving bit’ like you see on the telly, where we make like starfish and grin at the camera with our thumbs up. It soon came however, and the world settled firmly beneath us for a few more seconds of free fall. I was able to catch my breath then, put my lips back in place, look around me, and hold out my arms to embrace the amazing resistance of the air as we cut through it.

Then all too soon, whoosh, up went the shoot and we soared again, blood rushing to my feet as my legs flung out like the dingle-dangle scarecrow’s, great whoops of joy escaping my flapping lips. The Go Pro video also shows me clapping my hands and swearing, which I think is permitted in the circumstances.

I was handed the controls of the parachute and encouraged to pull the cord hard to swing first right, then left, but my arms were jelly and, determined to show me a good time, Simon yanked them down hard, wheeling us wildly in loop de loops and dives that elicited more whoops and screams that could apparently be heard by spectators, miles away on the ground.

The airfield came in to focus and we meandered with the wind, me with my arms outstretched pretending to fly, before we cut a graceful arc into the wind over the heads of my awaiting support team. Their arms waved, upturned smiling faces suddenly recognisable, it was all so beautiful I didn’t know if I wanted to land or swoop back up again, but my legs instinctively tucked up in readiness for the touchdown and we alighted like a pair of graceful cranes into the arms of ground crew members who attended straight away to our beautiful pink life-saving parachute.

Overwhelmed with gratitude, I couldn’t quite believe how lucky I was and just how good it felt, to be alive, to have experienced such an extraordinary and profound sensation, and to have been given that rare and unique opportunity. There were hugs, tears, and an urgent need to re-arrange my wild hair which had become a knotted mass of vertical strands, as if I’d faced a massive explosion. I glanced down to find that not one single sequin was out of place, and my feet were swishing once again through buttercups and the greenest of green grass.

In the end, I raised £750 which will go directly to Macmillan Cancer Care. Thank you so much if you were one of my sponsors. Your donation made me do a little happy dance.