Skydiving in Sonoma County: Confessions of a not-so-free bird

At 12,000 feet over Cloverdale, the airplane door opened and the moment of truth arrived.

My instructor nudged me toward the yawning abyss, both of us strapped together for my first-ever parachute jump.

The world below was dinky, with cars that looked like ants, and vineyards and fields turned into a patchwork of green and browns. Like any normal person, I froze.

But let’s back up for a minute, and let me explain. The flight up in the cramped little plane had provided time to take in the views from an unaccustomed vantage point as we climbed high above familiar landmarks - Geyser Peak and Mount St. Helena - and farther off, Mount Tam and Mount Diablo. Clear Lake came into view along with the gleaming Pacific Ocean.

The 25-minute flight to the drop zone had also provided time to think of what I was about to do: Jump from a functioning airplane to risk life and limb in pursuit of a thrill, albeit with only a 1-in-500,000 chance of not making it out alive.

The odds are favorable, yet the idea of free-falling toward the ground at 120 miles per hour and relying on a folded fabric to open correctly and bring me safely back to earth had given me great pause in weeks prior.

The idea was planted by my wife and stepson, both of whom wanted to mark their birthday month with the novelty of a parachute jump.

I’d more or less talked myself into doing it too, after conducting a little research and asking a lot of people if they’d ever gone skydiving.

But just days before our planned jump in Cloverdale, news broke of a rare tandem parachute fatal incident in Lake Tahoe that killed a 43-year-old instructor and a 21-year-old German tourist. Then a neighbor told me about someone who had injured their leg in a parachute landing.

The universe seemed to be telling me not to do it.

Even my younger brother warned me away, suggesting I at least wait a few more years before trying it. Of course he works as a safety specialist trying to minimize worker mishaps in dangerous occupations involving things like oil rigs and hazardous spills.

My indecision was a curious thing. I’ve done far riskier things, but at a younger age. I rode a motorcycle for many years and over 60,000 miles, and have gone on probably 100 Scuba dives including at night - and with sharks. I hitchhiked across the country three times. Heck, I ride a bicycle every other day on Sonoma County roads.

But this seemed different; a risk I was unaccustomed to, that didn’t necessarily outweigh the reward.

Years before I even went up in a plane to do a story on a group of people with AIDS who were parachuting for the first time. They had dubbed themselves the “What the Hell Have You Got to Lose Club.” But that was before advances in medicine vastly extended the lives of HIV-positive individuals.

I didn’t get the chance to jump with them that day, although I wanted to. The urge faded eventually.

Now I felt like death-defying exploits might no longer be on my bucket list. Had I crossed the line and become a conservative old fogy at age 63?

I joked that if something went wrong I wouldn’t need to deal with sickness in old age, or long-term care insurance.

On the morning we set out for the NorCal Skydiving Center I was still beset with uncertainty. My doubts had given my wife Virginia some second thoughts of her own, but she committed to do it.

Her son Matthew, who had suggested the adventure in the first place, confessed at the last minute to a fear of heights that he was trying to overcome.

Only his girlfriend RaeLynn - who had gone skydiving four times before - seemed sure of what she was about to do.

I told them I would not be partaking.

Watched video

As we watched the mandatory video about the inherent dangers of skydiving, and they signed and initialed multiple pages of legalese releasing the company from liability in the event of death, major or minor injury, I felt even more comfortable with my decision.

Then I walked with them to the plane, watched them take off, only to appear later as small dots in the sky, floating down, landing without problems, exchanging hugs and high-fives and sharing their exhilaration.

While I had been waiting for them, I had been talking to other parachutists.

“Bliss is on the other side of your greatest fears,” Scott Azarnoff, a 36-year-old from Concord with 120 jumps under his belt told me.

James Halliday, a Napa printer and a former church missionary with 5,000 jumps to his credit, said as soon as he took up parachuting he discovered “the Church of the Open Door.”

“The experience sets your mind free on a level you can’t get any other way,” he said.

That’s when I came around to deciding I was going to do it, even though my foot dragging meant I would have to wait until the afternoon to accommodate the jumpers ahead of me.

Maybe I’d taken a little too long and the winds might pick up and make it a little trickier for my jump, I thought. But my instructor and the owner of the company, Tyler Wareham - the man I would be strapped to and with whom I would share a parachute - inspired confidence with more than 10,000 jumps to his credit.

I also knew too that there was a reserve parachute programmed to open automatically in the event the first one failed to deploy.

We squished into the small, stripped-down Cessna 182 plane with another tandem pair, the four of us and the pilot, whom I noticed also had on a parachute.

Halfway up, Tyler asked me how I was doing. I answered that it was too late to turn back, then asked if anyone ever had changed their mind once aloft. He held up two fingers to indicate how many people had declined to jump at that point.

I could understand the church part of this skydiving. I began to invoke a few deities myself and ask the almighty for forgiveness for risking my existence for a mere adrenaline rush.

“Two minutes” someone said indicating the time to the jump. I put on my goggles. The plane cut back its engine as we arrived at the drop zone. It became eerily quiet.

Tyler opened the door and the wind began to rush in. He had me scoot on my butt and swing my legs through the opening.

There was no opportunity to hesitate with him slowly pushing behind me and both of us tied together. I was on the edge of leaping into the blue unknown - to minor glory, or oblivion.

My mind really had no idea how to prepare for and absorb what was coming next.

We barrel-rolled as we fell out of the plane and I yelled and laughed crazily as we plummeted toward earth, my arms outstretched.

Sense of relief

We streaked straight down for close to a minute before I felt the sudden pull of the parachute breaking our fall, slowing us to a glide and bringing me back to a sense of normalcy - and relief.

Still we were 5,000 feet up, looking down at the airport with teeny toy planes and a board game of a runway.

But this was a gentle descent and I had already seen enough landings to know we were probably not going to end up in the middle of the nearby freeway, or the Russian River.

For some reason, I started singing “Volare” to go along with the feeling of elation, knowing that the greatest danger was over and it was time to enjoy the ride.

Tyler advised me he would be making some normal sharp turns on the approach to the landing zone.

I waived to the spectators as we made our final fast swoops. Within seconds, with a soft plunk executed by my experienced pilot, we were back on the good earth.

I embraced my wife, son and his girlfriend. They asked how I felt:

“You did it. Was it awesome? How do you feel Mr. Mason?”

“Quite amazing. Oh, man,” I replied. “I’m so happy to be alive.”